The air was thick with excitement as Oleksandr and Samorix made their way down the grand hall of the castle, heading toward the stables. The sun cast a warm golden light over the stone walls, making the dust in the air dance like golden flecks of fire. Servants scurried about, carrying the last of the ceremonial decorations and preparing the procession outside. The heavy scent of incense, mixed with the fragrant aroma of roasting meats and baked bread, lingered in the air, drifting from the kitchens into the courtyard.
The streets of the city were already teeming with life. Crowds of townsfolk, dressed in their best clothes—rough-spun tunics and linen dresses, with woolen cloaks thrown over their shoulders against the cool mountain breeze—lined the cobbled roads. They stood on either side, craning their necks to catch a glimpse of the royal procession. The young and old alike seemed to buzz with anticipation, their voices a steady murmur, a sea of faces watching the spectacle unfold. Children ran alongside the streets, laughing and shouting, chasing after the brightly colored flags that fluttered in the breeze. The bright reds, blues, and yellows of the banners danced in the sunlight, marking the grandeur of the event, the wedding of a princess to a man of uncommon origin.
Oleksandr, now fully suited in ceremonial armor, his boots clinking as he walked, couldn’t help but feel a twinge of wonder at the sight of the bustling city. It was vibrant, alive with the pulse of history, of people, of the promises made by kings and common men alike.
Samorix was already waiting at the stables, his mount standing patiently by his side. The Scotsman wore his ceremonial garb with his usual air of confidence, his kilt flowing in the breeze, silver sporran swaying as he spoke with the stable hand. He grinned at Oleksandr as he approached, a gleam in his eye. “Ye know,” Samorix said, his voice gruff but soft with a touch of reverence, “there's one more thing before we go. Consider it a wedding gift from an old friend.” Oleksandr raised an eyebrow, watching as he disappeared into the stables. He then reemerged, pulling a lead.
Out stepped a majestic black stallion. Oleksandr choked on his breath.
“Deago…?” His voice was barely a whisper, thick with disbelief. His hands shook slightly as he stepped forward, his boots clicking softly against the stones, his gaze never leaving the magnificent beast. Deago whinnied, a sound that felt like a greeting, a reunion long awaited. The horse trotted over to him, its powerful legs eating up the distance between them. Oleksandr’s heart swelled in his chest as he extended his hand, the very one that had once led the stallion through the battlefields, now shaking with emotion. The horse’s nose nudged against him, recognizing him as the master who had once cared for him through thick and thin.
But Oleksandr was nearly overwhelmed by the flood of feelings that rushed over him—relief, joy, and a heavy wave of sorrow. His mind replayed the moment when he had sent Deago into the wild, so many countries away, thinking the horse would be better off retired and free, away from the dangers of battle, away from the chaos of the lives of men. He had never imagined he’d see the animal again. Tears welled in his eyes, unbidden.
“You... How?” He choked out, his throat tight.
Samorix stepped up beside him, his face softening in understanding. “I found him, lad. Found him wanderin' all the way back to yer homestead, near the gates. He’s been searching for you, ever since ye sent him off. Don’t know how, but there he was—waitin’ for ye, like he knew you’d come back.”
Oleksandr reached out, running his hand gently along Deago’s thick black mane. The horse stood still, nuzzling his arm, the bond between them as strong as it had ever been. “He came all the way back...”
Samorix gave him a nod, a knowing smile on his weathered face. “Aye, he did. Seems the beast knew a thing or two about loyalty. Just like his master.”
Oleksandr's eyes burned as he fought back the emotions threatening to spill over. This was no ordinary animal. Deago was a part of him, a living piece of his past and his journey. The stallion had carried him through countless battles, had been with him when there was no one else, when he was lost and alone in the wilderness. All the way from they day he first saw the city of Constantinople. And now, against all odds, here he was once more. "I... I thought he was gone for good," Oleksandr whispered hoarsely, his fingers running down the animal’s neck.
“He’s never forgotten you,” Samorix said softly, clapping him on the shoulder. “Never.” The two stood there for a long moment, Oleksandr with his hand on Deago’s powerful neck, his heart full to bursting. He hadn’t realized how much he’d missed the creature—how much he’d missed this part of himself, this bond with something wild and true.
Finally, he stepped back and wiped his eyes quickly, clearing his throat. “Thank you, Samorix. You... you’ve done more for me than anyone else.”
The Scotsman gave him a wink, his voice gruff but warm. “I just thought you ought to have a proper wedding gift, lad. Now, go ahead and get married.” He chuckled, his eye twinkling. Deago snorted, eager to ride with his master once more, his hooves stamping lightly against the cobbled ground.
The sound of the procession began to grow louder as the gates of the castle were swung wide open. Oleksandr mounted his stallion, settling the weight of the armor on his shoulders. Samorix followed suit, swinging himself up with ease, and they rode out into the streets of the city. The clatter of hooves against stone echoed through the narrow alleyways as the procession began, the rhythmic sound blending with the rising hum of the crowd.
As they passed through the bustling streets, people cheered, their faces filled with wonder at the sight of the royal entourage. Flags bearing the emblem of the royal family flapped in the wind. The townsfolk had come from all corners of the kingdom to witness this grand event, the marriage of the princess to the former Varangian guard. It was a story that would echo through the generations, one of triumph and destiny.
The streets were lined with banners of royal colors, bright crimson and gold, hanging from the windows of stone houses, and flowers had been scattered over the cobbled path, strewn in preparation for the procession. The air was thick with the scent of herbs and flowers, mingling with the smoke of fires burning in the distance.
As they neared the grand cathedral, Oleksandr’s heart beat louder in his chest, his excitement growing with each passing step. The church was adorned with intricate mosaics and gold-painted domes that shimmered in the sun’s rays. Above the arched doorway stood the iconic image of Christ, his outstretched hands welcoming all who entered.
The gates of the cathedral stood open, the heavy wooden doors creaking on their hinges as the procession drew closer. The sounds of chanting echoed from within, the voices of priests and monks filling the air with solemn hymns. The horses came to a slow halt before the grand steps of the cathedral, their breath misting in the cool air. A pair of young squires rushed forward to take the reins as Oleksandr and Samorix dismounted, their boots hitting the stone with a firm thud. The crowd hushed slightly, murmuring in anticipation as the towering Varangian stepped forward, his heavy cloak billowing behind him. Oleksandr adjusted his belt, his hands steady despite the weight of the moment. The great wooden doors of the cathedral stood open before him, spilling the warm glow of candlelight onto the threshold, where priests in ornate robes stood waiting with solemn expressions.
Samorix clapped a firm hand on his shoulder, offering him a knowing grin before the two strode forward. The scent of incense and wax filled the air, mingling with the distant perfume of fresh flowers that lined the entryway. Inside, the cathedral was a vast cavern of gold and shadow, its domed ceiling glittering with mosaics of saints and angels, their watchful eyes gazing down upon all who entered. The echoes of chanting monks drifted through the halls, their voices weaving an ancient song of blessing and reverence.
As Oleksandr stepped inside, he was immediately greeted by a gathering of the kingdom’s highest-ranking men—nobles, generals, and esteemed courtiers, all clad in their finest silks and furs. Their eyes appraised him with a mix of admiration and scrutiny, for today, he was not just a warrior, but a man stepping fully into the realm of nobility. Some offered curt nods of respect, others clasped his forearm in the manner of warriors, while a few made hushed comments about how well he had been polished up for the occasion. The Metropolitan, an elderly man draped in gold-threaded vestments, approached with a serene expression, raising a hand in blessing.
“You stand before God and your people, Sir Oleksandr. May you walk forward with a steady heart,” he intoned, his deep voice carrying through the sacred space.
The cathedral slowly filled as the ceremony’s hour neared, the rustling of garments and hushed whispers mixing with the soft echo of chanting. The nobles took their seats along the front rows, while the common folk peered in from the back, eager to witness the rare spectacle of a royal wedding. Oleksandr stood near the altar, shifting his weight slightly, his hands clasped behind his back. The incense burned thick in the air, curling like ghostly tendrils toward the vaulted ceiling. He exhaled slowly, steadying himself.
As he glanced around the grand cathedral, taking in the gilded icons and flickering candlelight, a strange sensation prickled at the back of his mind—an unshakable feeling that he was being watched. His gaze drifted upward, drawn by some unseen force, and there, perched upon the high stone windowsill, sat a striking white cat with piercing blue eyes. It stared down at him with an intensity that sent a shiver through his spine, its stillness almost unnatural amid the murmurs and movement below. For a long moment, Oleksandr simply stared back, his breath catching in his chest. Those eyes—so familiar, so knowing. Then, the cat blinked slowly, as if in silent acknowledgment, before curling its tail neatly around its paws, watching him closely.
As Oleksandr steadied himself, his sharp eyes caught movement near the grand entrance. A group of guards took their stations, their polished armor gleaming under the flickering candlelight. Among them stood Ivan, now clad in the regalia of his new rank as captain of the guards. He carried himself with a quiet confidence, his stance firm yet relaxed. Their eyes met across the church, and for a brief moment, the tension in Oleksandr’s chest eased. Ivan gave him a subtle nod—one of respect, of brotherhood. Then, with a knowing smirk, he winked, turning his gaze back towards the church.
Oleksandr instinctively straightened his posture as the distant sound of carriage wheels and the murmur of an expectant crowd signaled the arrival of the bridal procession. His heart thudded a little harder in his chest. He stole a glance at Samorix, the old warrior standing tall beside him, his single eye keen and watchful. Then, he turned his attention to the great doors as they creaked open, and a hush fell over the gathered nobility. The golden glow of the sun spilled into the grand hall, silhouetting the figures stepping inside. First, the princess's ladies-in-waiting glided forth, their long, flowing gowns trailing behind them, each adorned with intricate embroidery and delicate floral wreaths in their hair. The scent of lavender and rosemary drifted through the air as they passed, a whisper of old traditions and the blessings of a new union. Their presence was a vision of grace and nobility, a prelude to the arrival of the bride herself. Next, came His Majesty.
The king moved with slow, deliberate steps, his powerful frame clad in a cloak of deep crimson, trimmed with ermine. His arm was entwined with that of his daughter, and the sight of her stole his breath.
She was radiant, a vision of regal grace draped in the finest silks and brocades of her homeland. Her gown was a masterpiece of the region’s craftsmanship, its ivory fabric embroidered with delicate golden and red thread, forming intricate patterns of folk patterns, vines, and flowers that shimmered with each measured step. The sleeves flowed like rippling water, lined with soft fur at the cuffs, while a golden girdle cinched the fabric at her waist, the filigree links glinting with embedded pearls. Her hands, clad in gloves of the finest lace, clutched a bouquet of her own home-grown red roses. Her face was veiled, a sheer gossamer shroud cascading from a bejeweled headdress that rested upon her brow. Coins of gold and silver hung from the headdress, glinting like tiny stars and clinking with each step she took. Beneath the veil, Oleksandr could just make out the faint outline of her features—the delicate curve of her cheek, the soft shadow of her red lips. The air was thick with the scent of incense and crushed myrrh, mingling with the faint perfume of the flowers woven into her long, dark tresses. She moved with a solemn dignity, her every step measured, poised, regal, though there was no hiding the light shaking of her hands. Behind her, her godparents followed, bearing a treasure greater than gold—baby Thekkur, swaddled in silken wrappings, his tiny form cradled gently in their arms.
"Look at me, brother," Oleksandr thought, his eyes fixed ahead. "Look at my bride." The sight of her, radiant even through the delicate veil that draped her face like morning mist over a sacred statue, sent him spiraling back in time. Back to that fateful day when he had first arrived in Montenegro, dust-covered and bone-weary, a foreign sword in a foreign land. She had stood at a distance, shrouded in mystery, her gaze cast downward beneath the veil—but something in him had stirred with unrelenting force. That pull. That ache to uncover who she was. To unravel the enigma. It had never been just curiosity—it had been fate.
This book is hosted on another platform. Read the official version and support the author's work.
He remembered the dreams. Vague at first, half-whispers in the dark of night, barely understood. But always, her voice was there—soft, beckoning, wrapped in a velvet shadow. "Meet me in Montenegro." Over and over, like the tolling of a distant bell. He had thought them the last murmurs of a grief-maddened mind. But now, standing here in the breathless stillness of the sacred hall, he understood. It hadn’t been madness. It had been prophecy.
His hand drifted upward without thought, fingers brushing the ruby charm that hung from his earring. A supernatural tether, woven across time and realms, had bound their fates before they ever touched hands. It was not coincidence. It was intervention. A blessing. A divine orchestration written in dreams and sealed in blood. Everything had led to this moment. The pain. The battles. The long miles across snow and fire. And through it all, Thekkur’s spirit had guided him—not as a ghost chained to grief, but as a guardian leading him toward something far greater than vengeance. Toward home. Toward love. Toward her.
And through her, he discovered not only love—but the very truth of who he was. Vidosavka had been the thread that unraveled every secret wound, every ancient knot in his soul. Through her, he had uncovered his lineage—the brutal past of his mother, the cruel truth of Oddvarr, the father who had damned them all. He had faced that past, torn it from the shadows, and avenged Ruslana. In doing so, he had earned more than vengeance. He had earned clarity, peace, closure. The heirloom blade, once resting at Oddvarr's side, had found its rightful hand at last. It had always been meant for him, had fate been kinder.
But more than revenge or relics, she gave him peace. Vidosavka, his delicate bride, filled the hollow places in him that war and loss had carved open. Through her, the ache that had lingered since Thekkur’s death eased, if only slightly. In her arms, he found not only a queen but a balm. And in the small swaddled form of their son, the boy named after his fallen soulmate, he found a kind of joy he had never known could exist. The cycle had not ended, it had been reborn. This was not merely the end of a long road. It was the beginning of something sacred. Something his brother had helped forge from the other side of the veil.
The priest's solemn voice brought him back to the present. He looked down at his princess, her eyes locked on his, full of love and trust. He reached out and gently took her hand. The priest’s voice echoed through the stone walls of the cathedral, reverent and weighty with ancient rite. With his long white beard swaying as he spoke, he lifted the Gospel in one hand and extended the other over the couple with solemn authority.
“By the grace of the All-Holy Trinity, who hath ordained the sacred bond of wedlock since the days of Adam and Eve, I do now call upon thee, Oleksandr of Siberia, sworn sword of the realm, chosen by heaven and anointed by providence—do you take this woman, Vidosavka, Princess of Montenegro, to be thy lawfully wedded wife? To cherish her in honor, to cleave unto her in times of plenty and in want, to shield her in danger, to guard and guide her, in health and in hardship, in peace and in peril, until the end of thy days, and beyond the veil into the everlasting kingdom-"
Before the priest could speak again, he reached into the folds of his tunic and withdrew a small ring, its band a rich gold, embedded with jewels of different rich colors. Looking into her face, he spoke.
“I, Oleksandr of Siberia, son of no name, take thee, Vidosavka, She-Raven of Montenegro, dream-walker and heart-keeper, to be my wife. For no legion of men, nor ocean wide, nor chain of iron nor oath of kings could bar the road I walk to you. I have wandered the edge of the world, and found no peace, no warmth, no home — save the light within your eyes. My steps are yours, my sword is yours, my breath, my blood, my name — all yours. For I am no longer a man adrift, but a man come home.” He slid the ring onto her finger, his calloused hands trembling as he held hers — small, soft, and sacred — like he was touching something holy.
The priest’s gaze shifted to Savka. Clearing his throat, he intoned in measured cadence:
“Do you, Vidosavka of the royal line, child of noble blood and chosen of the Most High, take this man—Oleksandr of Siberia, warrior of valor and seeker of thine own heart—to be your husband? Will you honor him, obey him, and stand steadfast beside him in weal and woe, in battle’s roar and in peace’s soft embrace, until the last ember of thy days is spent?”
As the priest finished his question, one of her handmaidens stepped forward, silent as snowfall, bearing a small velvet cushion embroidered with gold thread. Upon it gleamed a torc. Thick and masterfully wrought, it shimmered with intricate knotwork and symbols from an age long faded. The gold was warm in the candlelight, heavy with both metal and meaning. Oleksandr’s brow rose, a wry smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. Of course she had chosen this. She knew him so well.
With trembling fingers and the grace of a queen, Savka lifted the torc from its resting place. In her small hands it looked weighty, almost too much — and yet she bore it with reverence. Then, eyes shining, she spoke:
“I, Vidosavka, maiden of Montenegro’s throne, do take thee, Oleksandr, my heart’s chosen guardian, as my husband. Here by God’s light and before all witness, I pledge my fidelity: to be thy shield in storm, thy solace in despair, and thy equal in spirit though humility be my cloak. As the moon guides the tides, so shall my love guide my soul, unyielding, unbroken, until the gates of paradise receive us both.” With that, she raised the torc, and with hands delicate yet determined, she fastened it around his neck. A collar of gold for the wild son of Siberia. A symbol not of bondage, but of belonging. The priest raised his arms once more, his voice echoing like a drumbeat across the sacred hall.
“By the will of Almighty God and the bonds set forth by our forefathers, let this union be sealed in heaven and on earth. Let it be known—before saint and sovereign, before flame and stone—that her father, King Dragoje, sovereign of this land, does now relinquish his sacred charge.” He turned slightly, addressing both the congregation and the heavens above. “As it was once the king’s right and burden to guard this daughter of his house, so now does he pass that duty to her husband. From this day forth, let Oleksandr be her shield and her law, her harbor and her keeper. Let no man claim authority over her save he who now stands at her side, in God’s light and by royal will.”
The old priest’s eyes swept the gathered crowd, sharp despite his age. “If any soul here believes this union to be unjust, unrighteous, or unworthy, let him speak now or forever hold his tongue in silence before God.” A breathless hush fell over the cathedral. Oleksandr's eyes, cold and piercing, scanned the chamber from beneath his brow. At his side, Samorix subtly shifted, one hand resting casually on the pommel of his sword, the other hanging loose, ready. Neither man moved more than an inch, but the message was as clear as iron drawn. No one spoke. No one dared. And so the silence became holy.
The priest, his hands lowering in a final gesture of blessing, spoke with gravitas that filled the great hall. “With God and the king of this land as your witnesses, you may kiss your bride.”
The congregation held its breath, a murmur of anticipation rippling through the air, but the moment was theirs, alone. Oleksandr's hands, tender in this sacred hour, reached for the delicate veil that shrouded Vidosavka’s face. He lifted it gently, exposing her flushed, tear-brimmed gaze. Her eyes, shining with joy and the weight of a thousand unspoken promises, met his, and for a heartbeat the world around them ceased to exist. Her lips parted, a breath escaping her, and in that silent exchange, they both knew — this was the moment. The moment where all the struggles, the sacrifices, the miles of blood-soaked earth, had led them here, together.
Overcome with pride and joy, Oleksandr swept his arms around her, pulling her close. Her slender frame, small and delicate in his embrace, felt like the most precious thing in all the world. He lifted her to his height, his lips crashing against hers in a kiss so fierce, so full of everything he was, that it seemed to shake the very stones of the cathedral. The room erupted in a collective exhale, a cheer that thundered, but it was distant to them.
Without breaking the kiss, Oleksandr let one strong arm slip behind her back, the other beneath her legs — and with effortless strength, he lifted Vidosavka into the air, cradling her against his chest like a prize claimed in battle. Her fingers clutched his collar, her face buried against his neck, laughing softly through tears. Oleksandr beamed — truly, fully smiled — and it was a sight the crowd had never seen before. The warrior’s face, carved by cold years and cruel war, softened into something almost divine.
Around them, the cathedral erupted in celebration. Voices rang out—cheers, blessings, and ancient toasts:
“Many years!”
“Good health!”
“May sons and daughters spring from your house like olives upon the tree!”
“Fertility and fortune to the bride and groom!”
The maidens cast handfuls of flowers, leaves, and fragrant herbs from their woven baskets, the air filling with the scent of lavender, sage, and blooming myrtle. Petals rained down like a summer storm, catching in Vidosavka’s hair and in the folds of Oleksandr’s cloak.
Samorix let out a roar that could have shaken the rafters, slamming his fist — still wrapped around the hilt of his blade — against his chestplate with a resounding clang. “BY THE RED BEARDS OF THE GODS, THAT’S HOW YE WED A WOMAN!” He bellowed in his thick Highland tongue, letting loose a chorus of hoots and laughter that rolled through the crowd like thunder. Children clapped. Old women wept. Men raised horns of wine and cheered until their throats ran dry. And Oleksandr, carrying his bride through the haze of incense and falling petals, felt as if he were standing not upon stone — but upon stars.
As the roar of celebration thundered around him, Oleksandr paused at the threshold of the great cathedral, just beneath the archway where shadow met sunlight. He leaned slightly toward Samorix, his voice low and edged with the calm of a man who trusts few but loves deeply. “Keep watch of the boy,” he murmured, tilting his chin toward the royal godparents — where, swaddled in silks, their infant son dozed in peaceful innocence, cradled in the woman’s arms.
Samorix’s eye snapped to the child. Without a word, he gave a single firm nod. He turned immediately, stepping beside the godparents, broad frame casting a shadow over them like a shield of old. Oleksandr met his friend’s gaze one last time and nodded a warrior’s thank-you, silent and deep.
Then his eyes found the king.
The old monarch stood near the altar, flanked by nobility and priests, but alone in bearing. Their eyes met. A nod passed between them. One of earned respect. Of a father giving away more than a daughter. He was trusting him with the thing that mattered most to him, his only family, his baby girl. The king’s face remained stone, but at the corners of his eyes, a flicker of sadness bloomed behind the thin veil of a bittersweet smile. With the weight of his bride in his arms and a hundred eyes upon his back, Oleksandr turned.
The grand cathedral doors groaned open, and Oleksandr stepped forth into the crisp kiss of spring air, the weight of his bride held firmly in his arms. The sunlight struck his flaxen hair a halo, and for a moment, he looked not merely like a warrior — but a myth risen from stone and story. The streets outside the holy walls surged with life.
A sea of townsfolk, packed shoulder to shoulder, erupted in a rapture of applause and joyous shouting as they caught sight of the newlyweds. Bells rang out from towers above. Bards plucked at lyres and beat tambourines, piping flutes and bowing fiddles with wild abandon. Flowers rained from balconies, and dancers spun through the crowd in dizzying spirals, scattering petals beneath Oleksandr’s boots as he strode forward. Deago awaited at the base of the steps, garlanded with vines, eating flowers and leaves off the ground, the beast majestic and serene despite the chaos around him. Oleksandr approached, steady and assured, never loosening his grip on Savka. In a single smooth motion, he swung himself into the saddle, lifting her with him, settling her gently into the crook of his arm. Still he held her, as if to let go would break some spell.
The people pressed in, faces radiant with awe and affection. Calloused hands reached out to touch his boots, her dress, the horse’s reins, desperate to bless the union, or be blessed by it. “Joy to the warrior!” They cried. “Health to the princess!” “Many sons! Strong as their sire, fair as their mother!” “Long life! Long love!”
Savka, nestled against his chest, flushed with joy, laughing as she waved to the crowd. Children handed her wildflowers, and she took each one with a smile, collecting them like treasures in her lap. Her veil was gone now, and her face glowed with youth, beauty, and the soft disbelief of dreams made real. They rode slow, regal through the winding streets, the old stones echoing with music and cheer. Every corner brought fresh handfuls of blossoms hurled in their path, a thousand petals rising like colored snow. From windows above, women tossed garlands and herbs, and old men bowed their heads in blessing.
Oleksandr tightened his grip around her, her slight form warm and soft against his chest. "You are their darling, it seems," he murmured in her ear. "The princess of everyone's hearts. Never has Montenegro seen a more beautiful bride." She turned her head, her eyes shining.
"Or a more handsome groom, you mean." The townspeople still chanted and applaused, flowers, and gifts being heaped upon them. "You are their prince." Oleksandr straightened in the saddle, his chin rising just a touch, his broad shoulders squaring. Prince. Not by blood. Not by birth. But by strength, by loyalty, by love — and by the will of the people and the blessing of the king. A prince.
And so they rode on, beneath garlands of spring and skies split with song, the crowd’s rejoicing a tide that carried them forward through streets strewn with blossoms and joy. Oleksandr, with his bride in his arms and sunlight on his brow, felt as though God had carved this moment for him alone — a summit earned by blood, by fire, by love. It felt, in his heart, as though all the long roads of his life had led to this — to her, to them, to now. But fate, ever turning, was not finished. For though this felt like the mountaintop, it was not the end of his story.
