Vilk rose early.

  The night had been long, his sleep shallow and restless.

  He had spent the last hours lying in silence, listening to the distant sounds of the house — noises too easy to mistake for something more than mere drafts.

  He ate a simple meal, pulled on his cloak, and stepped into the courtyard, where Jan was already waiting. The nobleman, as always neat and composed, wore a kuntush befitting his station — richly embroidered but not ostentatious, formal yet functional. At his side hung a karabela, a fine piece of craftsmanship, a quiet reminder of his standing in the city.

  — Time to see what your new role looks like, — Jan said, handing Vilk the reins of one of the horses. — Ready?

  Vilk nodded and mounted. They rode toward the city, through morning mists rising above the fields and groves. The air carried the scent of moisture and smoke — as though the city itself was already greeting him.

  After a while, Jan spoke again, his voice stripped of its usual confidence.

  — This is your last chance.

  Vilk looked at him sharply, but said nothing.

  Jan sighed, adjusting his grip on the reins.

  — Once you take this office, there’s no turning back. The city will need you — but you’ll never truly belong to it. — His gaze grew steady, almost grave. — I know it’s your decision, but you must understand what it means. You can still walk away. There are other paths. I could help you.

  — There’s nothing to walk away from, — Vilk said flatly. — Besides… sometimes a shitty script is all you get. It’s decided.

  Jan fell silent, then nodded, as though accepting it — though not without regret.

  They reached the city gates without trouble. The guards recognized Jan immediately and let them through without question.

  Still, Vilk noticed how a few of them glanced his way — not with fear, but with the wary understanding of what he was becoming.

  The city was alive.

  Market stalls, shouting vendors, smiths and craftsmen boasting of their wares — all in a kind of chaotic harmony that reminded Vilk how the world kept moving forward, indifferent to his struggles.

  They rode through the main streets. People stepped aside. Jan led him toward the town hall, where the councilmen were waiting. Vilk could feel eyes on him — some curious, some cautious, as though his very presence might bring misfortune.

  — These are your first steps in your new position, — Jan said, glancing sideways. — People won’t know how to treat you. You’ll be on the edge — some will respect you, others will avoid you. But all of them will need you.

  Vilk didn’t reply. He knew what he was, and what he was becoming — he just didn’t yet know what to do with it.

  Before entering the town hall, they paused.

  Jan adjusted the sleeve of his kuntush and gave him a faint, amused look.

  — You don’t look much like an executioner yet.

  — That’s just a matter of clothes, — Vilk said dryly. — The rest is already in me.

  Jan arched a brow but let it pass. They stepped inside.

  The council chamber was grand — a vast hall with heavy wooden tables and great chandeliers dripping wax. Tapestries lined the walls, depicting battles and the crests of the city’s noble houses. The polished floor gleamed darkly, the air thick with wax and smoke.

  At the main table sat the councilmen, wrapped in long robes and ornate sashes. Their eyes fixed on Vilk with the same distance one gives a man who no longer belongs to the world of the living.

  Jan spoke for him, introducing Vilk as the future executioner of Tarnów. The greetings that followed were cold, perfunctory. He was someone they needed — not someone they wanted.

  — You’ll have access to the dungeons, — one of the councilmen said at last. — It’s best you familiarize yourself with your place of work.

  — You’ll be bound to the orders of the magistrate, but also to your own judgment. We expect discretion and professionalism, — added another, his voice polite but icy.

  — Procedure also requires your attendance at council sessions when summoned. All documentation must be kept in proper order.

  Vilk didn’t answer right away. Their words sounded mechanical — pure formality.

  There was no humanity in this room; the hangman was not meant to think.

  — I understand, — he said at last.

  — Then let’s show you your workplace.

  They descended the stairs. The air changed immediately — damp, heavy, saturated with sweat and something darker.

  A guard opened the door to the dungeons.

  Vilk took his first step into what would become his new reality.

  The place reeked of rot and suffering.

  The air was thick, and the darkness felt almost solid — soaked for years in the echoes of screams. Vilk walked slowly along the corridor, examining the space that would soon be his domain.

  Behind him, Jan moved with measured steps; ahead, the guard led them — a hollow-cheeked man with the look of someone who’d seen too much.

  Vilk felt the eyes on him — from behind the bars, from the shadows. Fear. He could smell it; it clung to his skin like smoke.

  — Of course, everything is under the magistrate’s strict control, — one of the councilmen said, his voice echoing against the stone. It was dry, mechanical. — Your duties follow established legal procedure. Every execution must be approved by the council beforehand. Every corporal punishment recorded and signed. Nothing beyond that.

  Vilk nodded, though irritation simmered beneath the surface.

  Men who would never dirty their own hands were always eager to lecture him on how to use his.

  — There can be no room for discretion, — added another — an old man with parchment skin. — No one wants unnecessary complaints or accusations. The executioner acts as a tool, not a man guided by his own judgment.

  Interesting, Vilk thought. So my hands are your instruments — yet you still don’t trust what they’ll do.

  — Of course, — he said aloud.

  Silence.

  Jan sighed quietly but said nothing.

  — It’s not a matter of trust, but of order, — the councilman continued, adjusting his cuff as if discussing blood and death were no more than paperwork. — Tarnów, as you know, is a private city. Still, we must maintain standards. Royal law doesn’t demand an executioner’s certification here, but we believe it prudent that you undergo… let’s say, accelerated training.

  Vilk frowned.

  — Training?

  — Yes, — the man replied, flipping through several parchments as if ticking items off a list. — In a week, the hangman from Biecz will arrive to perform a series of scheduled sentences. When his work is done, he’ll take you with him. You’ll spend a few days there — learning technique, mastering the craft.

  Biecz. Of course. Vilk had heard of its house of executions — one of the most reputable place for butchers in the land. If one were to learn the trade, that was the place.

  — We don’t want anyone questioning your competence, — the official went on. — From what we know, you’re already familiar with… matters of pain. But you’ll need to learn how to handle the tools, understand the formalities. This is, after all, an official post.

  Vilk almost laughed. The irony of it all was grotesque.

  They had no problem with who he was, or what he did — but for the sake of procedure, they had to send him for “training,” a neat little formality to ease their consciences. They didn’t want a hangman, but they needed one. They didn’t want blood on their hands, but they wanted it done properly.

  Jan, who had remained silent, finally spoke.

  — You should be grateful. Without my word, you’d spend months there.

  — Grateful, — Vilk repeated, tasting the word. — Of course.

  The councilman folded the parchment and looked at him solemnly.

  — This week you’ll observe the city — how the courts operate, how sentences are carried out. You’ll start with simple matters.

  Vilk raised an eyebrow.

  — Simple?

  — Dogs, — the man said with a shrug. — There are too many strays. People complain. You can start with that. Later, we’ll move on to more serious cases.

  Vilk nearly laughed aloud.

  Men unwilling to soil their hands — already planning his first kills.

  Pure hypocrisy.

  Well, fuck. Grym’s not going to like this.

  He stepped toward the dungeon doors as they creaked open.

  The stench of damp, blood, and rotting straw hit him full in the face.

  In a week, he would travel to Biecz.

  But today…

  Today he’d be killing stray dogs.

  A fitting task for Vilk.

  *

  Vilk stepped over the threshold of the dungeon, and the air thickened around him at once.

  The stench of damp, rotting straw, and human despair was almost tangible. Torchlight cast long, shifting shadows along the stone walls, making them seem to pulse like living flesh.

  The guard leading them down the corridor didn’t bother to hide his weariness. His heavy boots struck the stones in a rhythm that Vilk, without thinking, matched to the slow drip of water echoing somewhere deep within.

  The darkness here was dense — waiting for people the same way as the moisture did, the same way as the rats that slid lazily along the walls, barely acknowledging their presence.

  In the cells they passed sat people — some crouched, others sprawled motionless, suspended between sleep, faint, or something worse. A few pairs of eyes lifted toward them, only to shrink back into the shadows, as if no one wanted to be noticed.

  But Vilk sensed something else beneath it — not just fear, but tension, fury, resignation.

  This was a place that devoured a man long before judgment was ever pronounced.

  — You’ll be working here. — The guard unlocked a massive iron door leading deeper into the dungeon. — The interrogation room’s at the end of the corridor.

  Vilk stepped inside. The stone walls were stained — some with damp, some with what clearly wasn’t. On the right stood a heavy wooden table, scattered with tools: hand-forged, weighty, worn smooth by long use.

  A strange kind of silence filled the room — the kind that existed only where hope had died long ago.

  Vilk brushed his fingers across one of the tools. The iron was cold. Everything here was cold.

  The councilmen stood behind him, watching closely.

  — You’ll have full access to the dungeons, but every execution and every interrogation must be reported and recorded, — one of them said, emphasizing the words as though they were a commandment.

  — I’ve always been a supporter of transparency, — Vilk replied, a faint edge of irony in his tone.

  — Good. — The man didn’t react to the sarcasm. — During your first week, you’ll learn procedure. Review the verdicts, get to know the city. Then you’ll have the chance to observe your predecessor at work.

  Vilk raised a brow.

  — Predecessor?

  — The hangman from Biecz. You’ll finish your training there, remember? Or shall I repeat it once more?

  Vilk grimaced. It didn’t sound like something open to discussion.

  One of the councilmen sighed, the way one does when dealing with a stubborn child.

  — Until you understand that this profession is part of a larger structure—

  — Profession? — Vilk repeated quietly.

  No one answered.

  It isn’t a profession, he thought. It’s a sentence — just turned the other way around.

  The guard cleared his throat, glancing uncertainly at the councilmen, unsure if he should speak.

  — You can start by familiarizing yourself with the prisoners, — one of them said at last. — Some await judgment, others interrogation. The magistrate will send you their records. Of course, no action without the council’s consent.

  Vilk’s mouth twisted into a thin smile.

  — Of course. Procedures above all.

  He looked around again. He wasn’t afraid of the work. But something stirred within him now — something different.

  This place would change him.

  The only question was how.

  He stood still, no longer listening to the councilmen. Their voices faded, turning to dull noise, a monotonous hum without meaning.

  The dungeons had their own language. The air itself vibrated — faintly, almost imperceptibly.

  The people trapped here were broken, but each in a different way. Some were already dead inside, burned out, their souls clinging to the air like the residue of spent wax on an old candle. Others still fought — though their bodies decayed, their minds pulsed with aggression, with hope, with blind defiance to survive.

  Vilk’s eyes moved slowly across the barred cells. In one corner, a man sat hunched on a cot, hands clenched around his knees, emanating silence. Another, a few steps away, watched from under half-closed lids. His face hid in shadow, but something in him still resisted.

  Maybe he didn’t yet know he was already finished.

  Vilk closed his eyes for a moment and inhaled. The air was thick, heavy, sticky. Cold.

  Soaked with sweat, blood, pain.

  The stench of fear was physical — it hung in the air like the echo of old executions, of confessions torn from throats that still had something left to say before meaning itself was stripped away.

  And that feeling…

  He sensed it rising again. Unexpected, awakening deep within him — pulsing, familiar, dangerous.

  Here, HE had power.

  Here, no one could command him, no one could judge him.

  This place belonged neither to justice nor to morality. It was bare reality — the place where words lost their worth.

  Everyone here was under his dominion.

  They just didn’t know it yet.

  A faint tingling crept into his fingertips — disturbingly familiar. He ran his hand along the wooden table, brushing a finger over the cold edge of a tool. The iron had a certain allure — the raw promise of effectiveness, of truth that didn’t lie, truth spoken only through consequence.

  He could lose himself in it.

  And then — a voice pulled him out.

  — Executioner? — one of the councilmen cleared his throat, his tone dry and uneasy.

  Vilk blinked, returning to the present.

  He looked up, meeting the man’s face — strained, expectant.

  — Let’s return to formalities, — said another. — You have business in the city.

  Vilk slowly withdrew his hand from the table and turned toward them. He could see it clearly now — the slight tension in their shoulders, the subtle step backward one of them took without realizing. Even here, they were cautious, as if executioners were contagious.

  One of them reached out a folded sheet of paper. He hesitated before handing it over, as though weighing whether it was worth the risk of proximity. Finally, he sighed and laid it on the table.

  — You’ll find the blacksmith here, the carpenter there, and bread from the baker. They’ll supply what you need. — He spoke in the practiced tone of a bureaucrat reading another formality, but the strain in his voice betrayed him.

  Vilk unfolded the paper — a list of names and places. Nothing else. No ceremony, no empty phrases. Just practicality. Yet behind that simplicity, something deeper lurked.

  — Only them? — he asked quietly, looking up.

  The councilman cleared his throat and looked away.

  — The city’s never had an executioner before. It’s new for them.

  It wasn’t an answer. It was evasion.

  Vilk folded the paper and slipped it into his coat. The fact that someone had bothered to write it at all said enough.

  He was needed, but not wanted.

  A necessity, not a man.

  That truth lingered in the air, the quiet promise of what was yet to come.

  When he left the magistrate’s hall, Jan was waiting outside, leaning against the wall.

  He studied Vilk for a moment, reading his face.

  — Well? — he asked.

  — I got a list, — Vilk said, pulling out the crumpled sheet. — Like the city wants to make sure I only deal with certain people.

  Jan raised a brow, unsurprised.

  — It’s new to them. They probably don’t even know how to act. Come on, I’ll show you the places. Better you know where things are before you need them.

  They walked deeper into the city, passing alleys, stalls, and narrow streets. Jan led him with confidence, pointing things out.

  — The blacksmith’s there, next to the tanner. The carpenter’s closer to the market. And the baker— — he gestured toward a building with a wide window, where loaves of bread sat in neat rows. — If there’s any trouble, mention the magistrate’s writ. That should be enough.

  Vilk nodded, memorizing the spots.

  No one had shunned him yet, but he could feel it starting — the sidelong glances, the whispered comments, the subtle distance forming like mist.

  — They don’t see you as a hangman yet, — Jan said. — But they will.

  Vilk didn’t answer. He knew it better than anyone.

  They moved through the streets unhurriedly, as though there were no urgency — yet both men knew this was no casual stroll. It was a test. The city’s first look at its new executioner.

  People stared. Some furtively, others openly.

  The glances varied — curious, judging, cautious.

  Vilk felt them clinging to his back like shifting shadows on the cobblestones.

  — They look at me strangely, — he murmured. It wasn’t complaint — just fact.

  Jan snorted, adjusting the sleeve of his kuntush— Of course they do. People fear what they don’t understand. And no one understands a hangman — no one wants to. What’s more frightening than what we’d rather never know?

  Vilk smirked faintly.

  — You’re not afraid.

  Jan looked at him sideways, then laughed quietly.

  — Because I met you before you became one. We’ve not known each other long, but the right moments reveal what a man’s made of — here. — He tapped his chest. — It’s all in the heart.

  Vilk watched him, searching for something beneath the words. Jan smiled and added, lightly:

  — Besides, you’re a decent man. A bit grim, maybe. A bit closed off. But still a man. And let’s not forget — you saved my life. That counts for something.

  Vilk rolled his eyes but didn’t argue. They walked on. The city around them moved in its steady rhythm, swallowing them into its ordinary pulse.

  Except Vilk wasn’t part of that rhythm anymore.

  He belonged to its edges now.

  — One day, that might change, — he muttered.

  — Let the future decide, — Jan shrugged, smiling faintly. — People get used to anything — even fear. But until then, expect to be looked at the way they look at you today.

  Soon they reached their horses. Jan mounted with practiced ease; Vilk followed, feeling the familiar weight and tension of the animal beneath him. They rode slowly toward the western districts, where the road began to split.

  — You know what? — Jan said suddenly. — You should come to my place tomorrow evening.

  Vilk shot him a questioning glance.

  — Why?

  — So you spend at least one evening in proper company — not in your dungeon or under the stares of townsfolk. — Jan smiled. — I’ll invite a few people. Nothing grand, just wine, mead, food, a few conversations. Come. Bring Sika.

  Vilk shook his head.

  — Doesn’t sound like a good idea.

  Jan’s tone sharpened; his smile faded.

  — Oh? Then perhaps I should ask whether I’m still allowed to invite whom I please into my own house? Because, my friend, I’d say that choice is still mine.

  Vilk raised a brow but stayed silent.

  — You know what annoys me most? — Jan went on. — Everyone talks about freedom — about equality, about every man being what he chooses. Nonsense. We’re not equal and never will be. But at least here, in this Republic of ours, a man can live according to his own will — if he’s strong enough to keep it.

  Freedom isn’t given. It’s taken.

  And I intend to take mine — and to welcome at my table those I choose.

  And to hell with what anyone thinks of it.

  They rode on in silence for a while. Finally Vilk exhaled softly and nodded.

  — If that’s how you put it…

  Jan grinned.

  — That’s exactly how I put it. Along with wine and supper, too.

  Vilk didn’t answer, but he could tell Jan wouldn’t let him slip away. The invitation was settled.

  They rode on as the city exhaled its evening breath around them — smoke, bread, and fading light. The day was cooling, and the scent of hearthfire drifted through the streets.

  At last they reached the stable yard where their horses waited, tended by a few boys cleaning tack and harness.

  Jan stretched lazily.

  — I’ve still some errands to run, — he said, glancing at Vilk. — You, on the other hand, go home. Rest properly. Tomorrow your real work begins.

  Vilk smirked faintly.

  — Rest? You mean sleeping in a haunted manor? Best sleep I’ve had in years.

  Jan shot him a dry look.

  — I didn’t drag you there. Quite the opposite. We’re all adults here, aren’t we?

  Vilk chuckled quietly, taking up his reins.

  — And remember — tomorrow evening, you’ll be at my house, — Jan said with a half-smile. — The road’s straight; I trust you still know the way.

  — I remember. — Vilk’s reply was brief.

  — Good. — Jan patted his shoulder, then turned his horse to go. — Until then, Vilk.

  Vilk mounted and set off without another word.

  He let the horse find its pace, the rhythm of hooves steadying his thoughts.

  The day was nearly done, but what lay ahead was only beginning.

  He rode back toward the manor at an easy pace, letting the animal choose the rhythm. The day slid slowly into late afternoon; the shadows stretched long and languid across the road. The air was cool but not yet night. It smelled of earth, wood, and faint chimney smoke.

  When he reached the estate, he saw movement in the courtyard. Jegor and Viktor were working — one carrying planks, the other sawing, the hammer’s ring echoing off the stone walls.

  Vilk paused, watching the scene take shape.

  Sika spotted him first. She stood with her hands on her hips, her gaze sharp but softer than usual.

  — So, you’re back, — she said, coming closer. — How did the city treat you?

  Vilk dismounted, patting the horse’s neck.

  — I’m not sure it treated me at all, — he said dryly. — More like it’s still deciding what to do with me. People stare. They don’t avoid me yet, but they’re thinking about how they should.

  Sika narrowed her eyes thoughtfully.

  — That’s how it goes, when a man suddenly becomes someone better unseen, — she said, glancing toward Jegor and Viktor still at work. — But you’ve got other things to worry about. Come — see what they’ve managed so far.

  Vilk sighed and led the horse toward the stable, then followed her inside.

  — Everything quiet today? — he asked.

  — More or less, — she replied with a shrug. — Jegor said something seemed moved, but maybe it’s just his memory. Viktor swears a door was left open that he’s sure he closed. And me — I can’t get used to them. It’s… strange, what’s happened to them. Are they even still themselves?

  Vilk gave her a sidelong glance.

  — Don’t worry. They’re no threat. And the strange feelings?

  — Nothing, — Sika chuckled softly. — Probably just fatigue. If you hear something creak at night, it’s only the wood settling. Nothing more.

  Vilk shook his head and stopped before the manor door.

  Sika studied him, weighing something in her mind. Then she exhaled and spread her hands.

  — All right. Since everything’s coming together… you’ve got your post, they’re fixing the place up, the plan’s holding — I say it’s time for a little celebration.

  Vilk raised an eyebrow.

  — We’re celebrating?

  — Damn right we are, — she grinned. — It’s not every day there’s something real to celebrate. And today there is. A new beginning, isn’t it?

  He said nothing at first, but the thought slowly appealed to him. He felt the weight of the day on his shoulders — but also a faint warmth beneath it, the idea of an evening spent in quiet company, with wine and laughter.

  — Then I won’t argue, — he said, half-smiling.

  — Good. — Sika clapped her hands once. — Now go wash up. You look like you’ve marched across half the kingdom.

  Vilk didn’t protest. He stepped inside, ready for a moment’s rest before the evening came.

  There was still much ahead to think through — but for now, he could allow himself something simpler.

  An evening without the burden of tomorrow.

  **

  Vilk washed his face with cold water, letting the chill strip away the last remnants of fatigue. He stared into the mirror, at the reflection settling after the water’s ripple — tired eyes, a shadow of stubble, tension in the jaw he hadn’t noticed before.

  He sighed, setting aside the weight of the day. This wasn’t the time to dwell on things beyond his control — especially after the strain of the past few days. They all deserved a moment of calm.

  When he stepped into the main room, Sika was already waiting, leaning against the heavy table. A bottle of liquor stood on it, along with a few clay cups and simple food — bread, dried meat, a bit of cheese. Nothing fancy, but enough to honor the evening.

  — Now this — she said with a grin, tapping the bottle against the table — is living. So? Shall we celebrate?

  Vilk rolled his eyes but came closer, reaching for a cup.

  — Since you insist.

  — As if I’ve ever backed down — she muttered, amused, and poured for them both.

  They drank the first sip in silence, letting the heat spread inside them. The moment felt almost weightless — the first time in a long while Vilk wasn’t analyzing every glance, every decision, every move. Just him, Sika, and the quiet.

  — Funny — he said suddenly, setting down his cup — it’s the first evening since I came here that I’m not thinking about tomorrow.

  Sika shot him a sidelong look.

  — See? Maybe listening to me now and then wouldn’t kill you.

  He smiled faintly but said nothing, taking another sip. The tension in his shoulders began to ease.

  — And now — she said, leaning forward with a mischievous glint in her eye — the question is, how long before you start talking about work again?

  Vilk chuckled, shaking his head.

  — I’ll do my best to set a new record.

  The evening unfolded slowly — laughter, quiet talk, another round of drink. For a while, reality could wait.

  Vilk drained another cup, feeling warmth spread through his body. Sika turned hers absently in her hand, the firelight flickering in her eyes. The air smelled faintly of burning wood and candle wax — she must’ve lit a few earlier. The flames trembled softly, their glow painting slow, breathing shadows across the walls.

  — It’s strange — she said after a moment, tilting her head — how quickly a person gets used to a place. A few days ago this was a ruin, and now? I’m starting to like it.

  Vilk looked around. She was right. The manor no longer felt empty. The walls didn’t seem so cold, and the corners no longer hid the weight of silence. Even in its simplicity, the room had changed — warmth had crept into it somehow. Perhaps from the fire. Perhaps from the candles. Or perhaps from the rare luxury of being able to simply sit still.

  — Don’t exaggerate — he murmured, leaning back in his chair — there’s still plenty to be done.

  — But it’s better — Sika said, smiling faintly — and finally, you’ve got yourself a home. You can breathe. You can relax.

  Relax. The word lingered in his mind — so simple, and yet so far removed from anything he remembered. Since coming to this place, his days had been filled with duties, plans, and the constant demand to stay alert. Even now, he could feel a quiet pressure behind his ribs, as if something refused to let go.

  Sika rose and reached for the bottle again, refilling both cups with deliberate slowness, stretching the moment. When she sat back down, she leaned forward slightly, her gaze soft, searching.

  — You know — she said, tracing a finger along the rim of her cup — these past days have really taken it out of you. You look like you’re still waiting for the next fight.

  Vilk gave a faint smile but didn’t answer. She was right. The haunted manor, the duties, the uncertainty — and the Red Queen, whose name he hadn’t spoken aloud — all of it had worn him thin.

  Sika pushed her cup aside and rubbed her palms together, as if preparing for something.

  — Give me your hands — she said suddenly, in a tone that left little room for discussion.

  He looked at her, half amused, half suspicious.

  — What for?

  — Let me take care of you for once.

  He hesitated, then extended his hands across the table. Her fingers met his — warm, sure, deliberate. She began to work her thumbs into the tight sinews of his palms, finding the small, stubborn knots that pain leaves behind.

  It felt strange at first — almost too intimate — but after a moment, he let it happen. Her touch was firm but not rough, slow but precise, tracing a rhythm that drew the tension out of him one careful motion at a time.

  — See? — she murmured — you don’t always have to fight. You can just let someone do something for you.

  Her hands moved to his forearms, pressing, circling, coaxing the stiffness to fade. The warmth of her touch reached deeper with every breath. Vilk closed his eyes, and for the first time in weeks, his body remembered what it meant to rest.

  — Come — she said softly after a while — you’ll be more comfortable by the hearth.

  She rose and tugged him gently by the hand. He followed, wordless. They crossed to the raised platform by the wall, where soft pelts lay scattered. She sat first and patted the space in front of her.

  — Sit here — she said — I won’t have to lean over you.

  He obeyed. Her hands found his shoulders immediately — sure, steady, practiced. She worked the muscle beneath her fingers as though reading it. The pressure was just enough; the movement calm, patient, unhurried.

  — You’re as tense as a fortress wall — she whispered, still focused on his neck — you really need to learn how to let go, honey.

  He exhaled slowly. For once, he didn’t argue. Her hands pressed deeper, rolling through the hardness in his shoulders until the tightness began to melt. There was a quiet care in her touch — not demand, not dominance, just… release.

  — That shirt’s only in the way — she murmured after a while, her tone light but carrying something else beneath — take it off, let me do this properly.

  He looked at her, searching for irony, but found only calm intention. Without a word, he unbuttoned his shirt and let it slide off his shoulders. The air felt cool against his skin — and then her hands returned, warmer now, firmer, tracing the long line of his back.

  — That’s better — she said softly, her voice close, low.

  Vilk felt the warmth of her hand spreading across his back—soft, yet assured. With each stroke of her fingers, another wave of relief washed over him, as though every lingering tension melted beneath her touch. He stopped analyzing, simply allowing himself a moment of rest he hadn’t known in weeks. Sika knew exactly what she was doing—her hands glided slowly over his skin, from the nape of his neck down his spine, pausing at his shoulders to knead the tightened muscles.

  — You could have everything here, you know — she murmured — the best food, the best drink, the best women… — Her voice was soft, trembling ever so slightly with the warmth radiating from the fireplace. — the best nights.

  Her tone wrapped around him like smoke — tender, coaxing, persuasive. The warmth of her hands grew softer, more deliberate, as if each movement spoke a word she didn’t say aloud. Vilk felt himself drifting — not lost, but suspended, carried somewhere between exhaustion and surrender.

  Sika’s voice softened to a whisper.

  — I’ll make sure you have everything you desire,— she whispered into his ear, leaning in even closer so that her breath brushed his skin. —The most beautiful women, willing to do anything you wish. Everything you’ve never even dreamed of. And they will always be at your disposal… just like I am.

  Vilk let out a quiet breath, feeling something slowly rising within him — a warmth that had nothing to do with alcohol or the fire in the hearth. Sika’s hands slid lower, her fingertips gliding along his ribs, barely brushing his skin. There was something provocative in the gesture, something almost predatory, as if she were testing the limits—how far she could push them.

  — Because in the end… whichever way you look at it… — she whispered, a faint smile playing on her lips, her voice thick with soft provocation.—I’m a little bit yours, aren’t I? —

  Vilk didn’t have time to react before he felt her firm grasp. Not rough, not hesitant—certain, intentional. He drew in a sharp breath as the tension that had only just begun to leave him now gathered in a single point, spreading through his body in a wave of heat.

  —I’ll take care of you, Vilk— she purred, tightening her grip.

  Vilk felt Sika lean in closer, her body almost pressing against his back. The softness of her breasts brushed his tense shoulders, and the warmth radiating from her seemed even more soothing than the alcohol. Her breath was warm and damp, teasing his skin as she spoke softly, almost melodically, her hands gliding across his chest.

  ‘You see, Vilk…’ she whispered, drawing out the words with intent. ‘You’ll have everything here. Every pleasure you desire. Just say the word… and it will all be yours.’

  He could feel his blood quickening, a shiver running down his spine.

  —Mmm…— she purred quietly, slowly sliding her hand along his length. — Well now… how could one not be impressed?—

  Vilk tightened his grip on his thighs, as if trying to anchor himself to something — anything — in the midst of what was happening. But there was no anchor left. There was only her. Her touch, her breath, her closeness. She began to move her hand with slow deliberation, at first carefully, testing his reactions, then with growing confidence — precise, assured — as though she instinctively knew exactly how to reach him.

  — Don’t worry… I’ll take good care of you — she murmured.

  Her fingers moved in a steady rhythm, and he felt the tension inside him gathering, focusing, pulling tighter and tighter, his body responding to her without hesitation, without thought. This wasn’t a game. It was real — overwhelming, consuming — slipping beyond his control.

  Sika smiled softly and leaned over him, her lips grazing the edge of his ear.

  — Just let me do my work, Vilk… — she purred, her movements growing more certain.

  Sika tightened her grip, her movements growing more insistent. Vilk felt the heat of her hand spreading through his body, felt the quickening rhythm, the way she seemed to control each of his breaths, each tightening of muscle. Her hand moved with certainty, steady and deliberate, from the base to the very peak, where her fingertips traced him with almost predatory precision.

  — Come on… — she purred into his ear, her voice soft yet laced with something deeper—something that set him burning from within. — Show me what you’re hiding… —

  She held him more firmly, her motions quickening. Vilk clutched at her thigh, his breath turning heavier, his body tightening to the edge. Every touch, every brush of her fingers stoked the heat rising inside him, until there was no turning back. The fire built, surging higher and higher, beyond what he could contain. Sika smiled in quiet triumph as she felt his body tremble under the force of the moment. All he managed was a strained groan, surrendering to the moment completely, losing control in a way he had never allowed himself before.

  Sika continued for a moment longer — slow, gentle, almost tender — letting him fully ride out the fading wave. Then she lifted her hand, brushing her fingers across his skin before raising them to her lips, licking them thoughtfully. Her eyes gleamed in the dim light.

  — You even taste good… — she purred with satisfied warmth, watching him closely.

  But Vilk didn’t answer. Something stirred inside him — deeper than pleasure, deeper than the moment. A desire that wasn’t merely a response to her touch, but something that had been building for far longer.

  In a single motion he seized her, turning her body and pressing her down to the floor. Sika gave a low, eager laugh, not surprised in the slightest. If anything, she had been waiting for this.

  — Oh, Vilk…— she sighed, looking up at him, her eyes alight. — Finally. Finally I can be all yours.—

  He gripped her hips, his breath rough and uneven. His hand slid along her thigh, upward, pausing at the curve of her hip. He could feel she is ready — her warmth, the tension rising in her as fiercely as in himself.

  He was about to dive in immersing himself with her in this ecstatic moment. He felt her body gives in under his pressure.

  And then—

  — Oh? And what are you two doing?

  Voice came from nowhere. They froze. A cold shiver cut down the Vilk’s spine. It wasn’t Sika’s doing; it wasn’t any sudden shift in emotion. It was something else. Something that should not be here. Sika drew in a sharp breath, suddenly sober. Her gaze lifted over his shoulder, her eyes widening slightly, as though she had seen something she very much wished she hadn’t. Vilk felt it too — the air in the room thickening, tightening, as if something had seeped out of the darkness itself and was watching them from the very heart of the shadows.

  — Am I interrupting? — the voice continued — calm, lilting, almost playful, but carrying a hollow echo that didn’t belong to any living throat.

  Vilk turned his head slowly. At first, he saw nothing — only candlelight trembling across the walls. Then, from the pattern of vines on the wallpaper, something began to move. Lines twisted, shapes forming from the ornament — a silhouette, slender and distinctly feminine, stepping out of the wall like shadow turned solid.

  The figure smiled, head tilted, eyes glimmering with something that wasn’t light.

  — You were having such fun — she said with mock delight — I do hope I’m not interrupting anything… essential.

  Vilk rose sharply, fury flooding the void where moments ago there had been calm.

  — What the fucking hell—?

  Sika pushed herself up, pale and shaking.

  — What is that shit? — she hissed.

  — Oh, don’t mind me — the figure purred — you just make yourselves at home, start your little games without even introducing yourselves. Such manners.

  The lines of the wallpaper rippled faintly, as though the entire room moved with her voice.

  — Who are you? — Vilk barked.

  The apparition’s lips curved in amusement.

  — So formal, now. Moments ago you were much more… expressive.

  His jaw tightened. The mockery in her tone cut deep.

  — Answer — he said, voice low and dangerous — who are you?

  She smiled wider. The vines on the wall seemed to pulse with the motion.

  — Well, since you ask… I’m not entirely sure. Who I am. Or what. But my darlings — her voice dropped into a purr — I have the feeling this is just the beginning of our acquaintance. Isn’t that wonderful?

  Sika’s face flushed red — part anger, part humiliation. She grabbed the nearest thing, a wooden cup, and hurled it straight at the figure.

  It struck the wall — but the pattern blurred, and the ghost melted into the wood, reappearing on the opposite side of the room.

  — That — she hissed coldly — was unwise.

  The room erupted.

  Chairs flew into the air. Bottles and cups whirled like storm debris. The wind of invisible rage tore through the space, scattering pelts and ashes. Vilk ducked as a chair splintered against the beam. Sika cried out — a bottle struck her temple, shattering. A streak of red ran down her cheek.

  From outside came the furious barking of Grym. Doors burst open; Jegor and Viktor stormed in, their faces blank but alert.

  — ?to tu se děju? — Jegor rasped, his voice rough.

  The table rose and lunged toward them —

  — STOP! — Vilk roared.

  Everything froze. Objects dropped to the floor with heavy thuds. Even the air seemed to still, emptied of motion.

  — Dom… obsědnuty — Viktor murmured, eyes sweeping the chaos.

  The spirit drifted once more, sliding along the ceiling like smoke. When she appeared again, her gaze met Vilk’s with an amused lift of her brow.

  — Shall we start over? — he said, his voice steady but edged with iron — we didn’t know what we were dealing with. We didn’t mean to disturb your peace.

  — Oh, but I gave you signs — she said sweetly — you simply ignored them, too busy indulging yourselves.

  Vilk clenched his jaw. She was right — the missing things, the whispers, the sense of being watched — all of it had been there.

  Sika spoke up, her voice trembling but defiant.

  — We hope you can understand… you just appeared at a rather… unfortunate—

  — Moment — Vilk finished dryly.

  The ghost laughed, a crystalline sound that rippled through the room.

  — Oh, I’m in no hurry — she said, stretching the words like silk — take your time. Enjoy yourselves as you please.

  With that, she dissolved back into the patterns of the wall, leaving only the echo of her laughter — and a cold trace in the air where warmth had been moments before.

  ***

  The room still smelled of dust and spilled liquor, though the tension that had filled the air moments ago was slowly beginning to fade. Vilk lifted a fallen chair from the floor and sank into it heavily, breathing deep to quiet the frustration building inside him.

  Sika remained on the platform, pressing a cloth to her temple where the broken glass had left a thin trace of blood. Jegor and Viktor stood motionless, staring blankly ahead as if waiting for orders.

  But they weren’t what mattered now.

  Vilk raised his head and looked at the opposite wall. The shadows on the wallpaper seemed to move, to breathe faintly, as though still pulsing with the anger that had filled the room. And then she appeared again — not as clearly as before, not fully formed, but as an echo of a shape, a blurred silhouette of a woman woven into the floral patterns of wood and plaster.

  — Well, well — she purred, amused — such concentration. Have my new tenants finally begun to understand that they’re not alone here?

  Vilk narrowed his eyes, not looking away.

  — That much became clear when the chairs started flying — he said evenly — and I can’t say I’m fond of your way of making introductions.

  The figure in the wall laughed softly.

  — Ah yes, people never like when someone disturbs their earthly pleasures. Especially the… carnal ones — she drawled, her form rippling within the wood like a shadow cast by candlelight. — But this is my home. Your arrival was neither announced nor agreed upon. What you’re doing here is as unexpected for me as I am for you. Did it not occur to you to ask whether you might stay?

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  Sika snorted, pulling the cloth from her temple.

  — Didn’t know we needed the wall’s permission to move in — she said dryly.

  The shape in the walls dissolved, her shadow sweeping across the room until she reappeared on a ceiling beam, watching them from above.

  — And that’s exactly the problem with people — she said, her tone sharpening — you never stop to think whether something might already belong to someone else. You come, you settle, you take, reshape, claim — without restraint. And then you’re surprised when something pushes back.

  Vilk clenched his jaw but held back the retort. This called for more than anger — it required thought.

  — You’re bound to this place — he said slowly. — That much is clear. But we’re here now too, and I don’t think you mean to drive us out. So what do you want? To coexist?

  The specter hesitated, as if considering. Then a slender hand emerged from the dark, tracing the wooden beam with faint curiosity.

  — I don’t mind that you’re here — she said at last. — Not in the way you think. What offends me is your blindness. You thought the house was empty, that you could simply claim it. But I was here. I am part of it — its structure, its history. And your presence changes it. I’m not sure I like that.

  Sika rolled her eyes.

  — All right, let’s at least settle one thing — she said — you’re not planning to kill us in our sleep, right? Because if that’s the case, I’d prefer to know before you start smothering me with a pillow.

  The ghost laughed, bright and musical.

  — Oh, my dear, if I wanted you dead, it would’ve happened already. — She leaned against the doorway’s frame, her outline growing clearer within the grain of the wood. — But that wouldn’t be any fun, would it? Where’s the entertainment in that?

  Vilk exchanged a glance with Sika. It wasn’t the most reassuring answer, but at least the ghost seemed more mischievous than malicious.

  — In that case — Vilk sighed — maybe you could tell us who you are?

  Silence stretched. The shape flickered, her edges softening as if she herself wasn’t certain.

  — Who? — she repeated, tasting the word. — I don’t know. I don’t remember. Maybe I never had a name. Maybe I had many. But if you must call me something...

  She drifted toward the window where the candlelight shimmered across her faint form.

  — Call me what you will — she murmured — but make it something pretty. Something that suits me.

  Vilk sighed and rubbed his face.

  — Women… I guess this is just the beginning, isn’t it? — he muttered.

  The ghost smiled, her silhouette dancing faintly in the light.

  — Just the beginning — she whispered, before fading once more into the wall.

  Silence followed.

  Vilk sat with his elbows on his knees, eyes fixed on the wall as though he could see through it — into the place where the shadow had moved. The air still smelled of liquor, blood, and the heavy residue of tension that refused to lift.

  Sika leaned back, drawing a slow breath. She held the cloth to her temple, wiping away the drying blood. Her eyes still burned with anger, but beneath it flickered something rarer — unease.

  — So what the hell was that? — she growled at last, her voice raw.

  Vilk ran a hand over his face, considering how to answer.

  — Something I haven’t met before — he said slowly.

  Jegor and Viktor remained still as statues, their gazes sweeping the room without expression, but Vilk knew their silence wasn’t indifference. From the corridor came Grym’s distant barking, echoing off the stone walls.

  Sika scoffed, tossing the cloth aside.

  — I’ve heard stories about ghosts — she said, tracing her finger through a puddle of spilled wine — but that... — She looked up at Vilk. — That’s something else, isn’t it?

  He narrowed his eyes.

  — She’s not an ordinary ghost. — He rubbed his chin. — She’s tied to the house itself. Not just a memory — something woven into it. Either she couldn’t leave… or didn’t want to.

  Sika raised a brow.

  — You sound like you know what she is.

  Vilk inhaled slowly, gaze still fixed on the walls.

  — My people believed in many things — he said carefully. — There were souls that couldn’t rest — those who died violently or unjustly. They were called Nawkas. But there were others… beings who stayed in homes, merging with them. Not just haunting — becoming part of them. Some said they were spirits of the dead. Others, that they were demons feeding on human presence.

  His eyes moved along the carved beams, searching the wallpaper for movement.

  — In some tales, they were called Kikimoras.

  Sika frowned, repeating the word under her breath.

  — Kiki...mora?

  Vilk nodded.

  — House spirits. Some helped. Others tormented the living — tangling threads, breaking things, tugging people from sleep. Sometimes they whispered in the walls until you couldn’t tell whether it was your thoughts or theirs.

  Sika was quiet for a moment, then tilted her head.

  — Kiki... maybe just Kiki?

  Vilk shot her a glance, but before he could reply, the air shifted.

  The wallpaper patterns stirred; shadows rippled across the beams. The slender silhouette began to form again, drawn out of the wood itself.

  Then came a low, lingering laugh.

  — Kiki... — the spirit purred, stretching the name — it doesn’t sound too bad.

  Vilk rolled his eyes, though a flicker of relief passed through him.

  — It fits — the ghost said, her shadow curling lazily — it’ll do.

  Sika smirked, clearly pleased with herself.

  — Perfect then, Kiki. — She leaned back, relaxing a little. — Maybe now you can tell us who you really are?

  The ghost moved along the wall, blurring into the wallpaper patterns as if unsure how to answer.

  — Who? — she repeated softly.

  The light dimmed. The air grew heavier.

  — I don’t know — she said. — I don’t remember.

  Sika raised her brows.

  — Nothing?

  — Nothing. — Her voice was thin, trembling slightly. — I’m here. I’ve been here. But I don’t know who I was… before I became this.

  Vilk narrowed his eyes.

  — But you remember something.

  — Blood — her tone sharpened, colder. — So much blood.

  Silence filled the room.

  — Death — her shadow quivered. — And… — she hesitated.

  Vilk felt the back of his neck prickle.

  — And sex.

  The stillness was absolute. Even Grym went quiet in the corridor.

  Sika frowned, uncertain.

  — Sex? — she echoed slowly.

  The shadow shifted.

  — Something that clung to me — her voice trembled, not with fear but something harder to name. — Something that doesn’t fade.

  Vilk didn’t look away.

  — Something that defined you — he said quietly.

  She didn’t answer. But he knew they had brushed against something vital — something that shouldn’t have been forgotten.

  The shadows on the wall stilled, soaked with her presence. The room seemed to listen.

  — Blood, death, and sex — Kiki murmured at last, stretching the words like a cat in sunlight. — I don’t know which came first. Maybe they were all the same. Maybe they’ve always been here. Wait, maybe thats why I got atraccted to you.

  Sika grimaced, resting her head on her hand.

  — Not exactly a comforting history for a place we’re supposed to live in — she muttered. — Don’t think we’re staying here for your amusement.

  Kiki’s outline stirred faintly, as if weighing her words.

  — Did I invite you? — she said calmly. — You came on your own. And you plan to stay. Without asking. Without offering. You just took.

  Vilk’s hand tightened on the armrest. Something in her voice struck deeper than he wanted to admit.

  — We thought the house was empty — he said finally.

  Kiki laughed softly.

  — That old mistake — she said, shifting across the wall to the carved frame of the door. — An empty place isn’t the same as an abandoned one. Silence doesn’t mean absence.

  Vilk’s gaze darkened. Her words unsettled him — they carried more weight than mockery.

  — People always believe the world revolves around them — he said slowly. — That only what they see or name matters. But what if reality is layered — if what we claim as ours is just a fragment of something larger? How can we be sure we’re the important ones here?

  Kiki paused, her shadow rippling across the wooden surface before smiling faintly.

  — That’s the trouble with humans — she said with quiet amusement — so quick to assume you’re the measure of all things. You think if you don’t understand something, it doesn’t exist. How very... arrogant.

  Sika crossed her arms.

  — Fine... Let’s say we understand now. What next? Do we sleep with one eye open, or are you going to let us live here?

  Kiki’s shape wavered among the carvings.

  — Live? — she repeated. — Perhaps. But not without terms.

  Vilk narrowed his eyes.

  — You have conditions?

  — Oh, Vilk — she purred — isn’t it funny? You came into my home, made yourselves comfortable, and now you ask if I have conditions?

  Sika snorted.

  — Sounds like a bargain to me — she said, her tone cautious but sharp. — So what do you want in exchange for your… tolerance?

  The ghost didn’t answer right away. Her shadow drifted across the walls, absorbing their presence, testing their silence. Then she stopped, hovering above the fireplace.

  — Nothing grand — she said softly. — Just don’t forget I’m here. That this place isn’t only yours. It’s mine too.

  Vilk studied her carefully. There was more behind those words.

  — That’s all? — he asked.

  Kiki laughed again, but there was a faint sadness beneath it.

  — Maybe. — Her form trembled, uncertain. — Maybe I just don’t want to be alone again.

  Vilk leaned forward, running his fingers along the rough edge of the table.

  — You don’t remember who you were, do you? — he asked quietly.

  The shadow shifted uneasily.

  — No — she admitted. — I remember fragments, scraps. But not who I was before this. And I hope you’re not asking because you plan to get rid of me.

  Vilk’s eyes softened with something new — resolve.

  — Maybe it can be found — he said. — I won’t promise, but if I’m here now, I’ll try to find out what happened to you. Not to banish you. To understand you.

  The silence stretched. Even the candles seemed to flicker more quietly. Then the faint curve of her lips formed in the wood — a fragile, wistful smile.

  — You want to know my story, Vilk? — she whispered. — I like that idea.

  Sika sighed, rubbing her temple.

  — Great. A pact with a ghost and a mystery to solve. Another day and I’ll start wondering what we’re even doing here.

  Kiki chuckled softly.

  — Doing? — she teased — well… first you entertained yourselves in my walls, now you’re negotiating my presence. Quite a productive evening, I’d say.

  Vilk shook his head, unable to hide a smile.

  — Let’s get some sleep — he said at last. — Tomorrow I start work. And you — he glanced at Kiki — no surprises tonight, all right?

  Kiki blinked innocently.

  — Ah, Vilk, if only I could promise you that…

  He rubbed his face, fatigue finally seeping in. The past days had been long, and this evening — though far from ordinary — had brought a strange sort of calm. Even if it involved negotiating with a spirit who claimed ownership of the house.

  Sika looked calmer too, though her eyes still carried that mischievous gleam that made him wary. She leaned against the edge of the table, stretching like a cat preparing to sleep.

  — Well, for a first night in a new home, I’d say it went… surprisingly well — she murmured, glancing at him.

  Vilk snorted, raising a brow.

  — Really? Because I’d say it got interesting the moment bottles started flying.

  Sika waved a hand dismissively.

  — Minor details. We’re alive. Plus, we’ve got a new roommate. Honestly, I’m honored. Not sure yet how to describe her skill set though... perhaps Kiki the Light-hearted, who drains souls to the last drop?

  Vilk laughed, but his gaze turned thoughtful. He glanced toward the wall as if expecting the ghost to respond, then said, casually:

  — About earlier…

  Sika looked at him, amused.

  — Hmm?

  He cleared his throat.

  — It just... didn’t exactly go as planned — he said, half-smiling — if it hadn’t been for all that chaos, you know... — He paused, awkwardly. — I didn’t get the chance to return the favor.

  Sika arched an eyebrow, then smirked.

  — Vilk, if I held grudges against every man who didn’t quite deliver, I’d never get any rest. — Her smile deepened. — But given the circumstances… I’m sure you’d have done just fine.

  Vilk sighed theatrically.

  — How kind of you to have such faith in me.

  She chuckled softly.

  — Let’s just say I’m extending you credit for the future — she said, leaning closer, voice low and teasing — after all, forbidden fruit tastes better when you have to wait for it.

  For a moment, something wild flashed in his eyes — sharp and instinctive.

  Then a low, drawn-out laugh echoed through the room.

  — Oh, how sweet — Kiki’s voice slid along the walls, tinged with mockery — shall I expect an invitation next time?

  Vilk rolled his eyes. Sika laughed, shaking her head.

  — At least you’re consistent.

  — Naturally — Kiki purred — if we’re to be friends, I must be clear about my priorities. You’re not the only ones entitled to a little fun… not that I can drain souls anyway.

  Sika waved her off.

  — Fine, fine, celebrate in your walls if you like, but we’re going to bed.

  Vilk rubbed the back of his neck.

  — We’ve been up long enough.

  — As you wish — Kiki replied, fading into the wood — but don’t forget, I’m always right here...

  Vilk shook his head, giving Sika a look that said: what the hell are we doing with our lives?

  Sika shrugged.

  — At least it’s not boring.

  Vilk snorted.

  — Far from it. Oh, by the way — Jan invited us for dinner tomorrow night. We’ll have to go.

  — Gladly — said Sika — a pleasant guest, isn’t he?

  — Yeah… let’s just hope he sees us as pleasant too.

  And with that, they finally retired for the night, closing the door on a chaotic — but undeniably unforgettable — evening.

  ****

  Vilk woke with the strange feeling that something was… different.

  It wasn’t fatigue — he was used to little sleep, and even more to the need for constant alertness. This time, though, it was a scent that roused him.

  Warm, rich, unmistakably real — the smell of food.

  He frowned and ran a hand over his face, still half-asleep. After a night full of chaos — and unexpectedly diplomatic negotiations with a household spirit — he’d expected a morning filled with confusion, not… comfort. Not this calm, homely smell.

  He rose carefully from his cot, listening.

  No shattering glass.

  No levitating objects.

  No Kiki whispering taunts from the walls.

  Not even the suspicious silence that usually hinted at trouble.

  Instead, there was something far more unsettling.

  Peace.

  He pulled on his shirt and stepped into the main room — and there he saw Sika, standing with her arms crossed, staring at the table with a mix of suspicion and disbelief.

  Vilk followed her gaze.

  On the table stood food — bread, dried meat, eggs, even a pot of something that looked like warm porridge. Everything neatly arranged, as if set out by an invisible hostess.

  — Well, would you look at that — murmured Sika, glancing sideways at Vilk — you seeing what I’m seeing?

  — If you’re seeing breakfast that neither of us made, then yes — he said slowly, still not moving.

  — Wonderful, isn’t it? — came the familiar voice.

  Vilk turned toward the wall, where among the carved patterns a faint silhouette began to take shape. Kiki’s outline shimmered, her smile bright and wicked, her head tilted in that familiar, teasing way.

  — I decided to be a good girl — she said, her tone dripping with feigned innocence — I thought, since we got off to such a… turbulent start, I might as well make it up to you.

  Sika raised an eyebrow, folding her arms tighter.

  — Uh-huh — she said, narrowing her eyes — and what, we’re supposed to eat it and wait to see if it’s some kind of infernal trick?

  Kiki sighed dramatically, her shadow gliding lazily across the wooden panels.

  — Honestly, you’re such an ungrateful pair — she said with mock offense — I could have left you to fend for yourselves, but I thought, no, let’s start the day with something pleasant instead of mutual suspicion.

  Vilk studied her for a moment, then stepped closer to the table. He picked up a piece of bread, turning it over in his hands as if expecting a trap. Then he took a bite — chewed, swallowed.

  No poison. No spell. Just bread.

  — All right then — he said, nodding — at least you know how to make a good impression when you try.

  — Oh, Vilk — Kiki blinked at him, her grin sly — you really don’t understand what making a good impression means.

  Sika snorted, but sat down and reached for a cup of water.

  — Can’t lie, I was expecting something a little more dramatic — she muttered — maybe a morning possession. But porridge? Really?

  — I wanted you to feel welcome — Kiki drawled, her shadow twirling across the wall like a dancer — besides, I thought that since we’ve come to an understanding, this house deserves a little life again. You’re not planning to sit here in silence, are you?

  Vilk’s eyes narrowed with curiosity.

  — You have something in mind?

  Kiki spun playfully, her silhouette swirling as though she were turning in a slow pirouette.

  — Liveliness — she said brightly — people, laughter, warmth… and most of all… music.

  Sika arched a brow.

  — Music?

  — Oh, yes — Kiki sighed, her voice soft, wistful — this place used to be full of sound. You’ve no idea how terrible silence becomes when it lasts too long.

  Vilk watched her closely, sensing that her words carried something deeper than whimsy — maybe even something she herself didn’t fully understand.

  — So you wouldn’t mind if we brought a bit of life back in here? — he asked slowly.

  — Quite the opposite — said Kiki, her shadow slipping along the wall like silk — I want that.

  Vilk nodded slightly, not taking his eyes off her.

  — Then that works out well — he murmured — because we were planning something big anyway.

  Kiki’s smile widened.

  — Well now… this is getting interesting.

  Sika rolled her eyes.

  — As long as you don’t start throwing things again — she said, reaching for a strip of meat — that’d really help the cooperation part.

  — We’ll see — Kiki laughed softly — depends on how well-behaved you are.

  Vilk shook his head and took another bite. For the first time since arriving at the manor, he felt something almost foreign — the quiet sense that maybe, just maybe, they were beginning to build something here.

  Maybe even something that would last.

  *****

  Vilk stood in the courtyard, watching Grym lying stretched out across the stones, his heavy, calm gaze fixed on him. The dog’s dark eyes seemed to pierce through him — as though they saw more than Vilk himself could ever understand.

  He wasn’t sure if he had ever truly asked himself what Grym actually was. A dog? Perhaps. But not like other dogs. Too perceptive, too attuned to things no human eye could see. He never barked without reason. Never lost a trail. There were times Vilk felt Grym understood more than he should — not just following his master, but observing him, judging him, as though waiting for something Vilk had yet to comprehend.

  Today Grym looked at him differently. There was no anger in that gaze — only something that might have been disappointment. Vilk clenched his jaw, crouched beside the animal, and ran a hand over the coarse fur of his neck.

  — Don’t look at me like that — he muttered, knowing full well Grym wouldn’t look away.

  He rose and walked toward the cart. No point delaying. The day’s work awaited — the kind no one ever wanted to do.

  Tarnów greeted him with the chill of morning, though there was nothing comforting in it. Vilk dismounted and led his horse toward the place of execution. As he walked, people stepped aside, suddenly finding urgent things to do, their avoidance too rehearsed to be natural. It wasn’t new — their disgust hung in the air like stale smoke, constant and wordless.

  He paused by a bakery and bought a loaf of bread. The baker didn’t look at him — just grabbed the loaf upside down, placed it on the edge of the counter so Vilk would have to take it himself.

  A gesture that said more than words ever could.

  Vilk said nothing. He took the bread, dropped a few coins on the counter. The baker didn’t touch them until Vilk’s hand was gone. It was the way of things.

  He wasn’t one of them.

  He was the hangman — necessary, but never welcome.

  When he reached the execution grounds, his first task was waiting — to get rid of the stray dogs that wandered the streets, tearing through waste and spreading disease. Vilk rolled up his sleeves and reached for his weapon.

  At the back of his mind lingered the silent reproach of Grym’s eyes.

  But it was work someone had to do.

  Someone always had to.

  He descended the damp stone steps, the smell of mold and rot pressing into his nostrils. The dungeons beneath the gallows had their own microcosm — thick air, saturated with moisture, whispers, coughs, and the dragging of feet against filthy floors. A place where time slowed and meaning thinned into waiting.

  The guard at the entrance didn’t even glance at him. He didn’t need to. Vilk was new, but his presence required no explanation. The hangman needed no introduction.

  As he stepped between the cells, silence fell — taut, alive. In the dimness behind the bars, eyes flickered: some empty, some wary, some trembling with quiet tension. The prisoners stared at him — not in fear, but in recognition. Those who were doomed knew there would be no warning.

  Vilk stopped by one of the cells, leaning against the beam.

  — What are you in for? — he asked into the dark.

  A raspy laugh came back.

  — For being innocent, good sir.

  A snort echoed from somewhere deeper in the corridor, followed by a chuckle. The old, worn joke — the bread and salt of every dungeon.

  Vilk narrowed his eyes.

  — Must be crowded in here, then.

  The man stepped forward, into the light — young, thin, his eyes ringed, his grin crooked.

  — If they locked up the truly guilty, half the nobility would’ve rotted down here long ago.

  Vilk lifted an eyebrow. He wasn’t surprised. Justice was a bellows — flexible, depending on who held it.

  He moved to the next cell. Inside sat an older man, hunched, his hands clasped over his knees.

  — And you? — Vilk asked.

  The man sighed, looking up with tired but sharp eyes.

  — I used to be a butcher.

  — That’s not much of a crime.

  — No, not really — the man shrugged. — Until you chop up your own wife. Couldn’t keep her damned mouth shut.

  Vilk studied him but didn’t press. Every story was messier than it seemed.

  And that, more than anything, was what weighed on him.

  With a sigh, he pushed off the bars, adjusted his coat, and turned toward the exit.

  He wasn’t a judge.

  He wasn’t a savior.

  He was the hand that ended stories once others had written their verdicts.

  Enough talking. Time for work.

  The city had its silence — not the peaceful kind, but the heavy kind that smothers. The streets of Tarnów were nearly empty that morning, as if no one wished to witness what was about to happen.

  Vilk felt the cold creeping beneath his clothes, but it didn’t matter. In his right hand, he held a wooden club — plain, unadorned, built for one purpose only.

  He headed into the alleys where the strays roamed — scavengers living on scraps of what men left behind. They were thin, dull-coated, scarred from too many fights over refuse. Primitive creatures, wild, yet in their eyes still burned that faint spark of loyalty — the trace of once having belonged to someone.

  The first one he saw was large, its color blending almost perfectly with the mud beneath his boots. It stood by a barrel, rooting through garbage. One ear torn, one eye clouded — a survivor, but barely.

  Vilk’s grip tightened on the club.

  He shouldn’t think about it. This was work, like any other. The townsfolk didn’t want to see strays on the streets, didn’t want to hear their whining in the night. They wanted clean streets. Order.

  But dogs weren’t people. They couldn’t be blamed for what they’d become.

  He crouched, pulled a piece of bread from his pouch, and held it out.

  The dog watched him — wary, uncertain, the way creatures do when they’ve learned that a kind hand can hurt just as easily as it feeds.

  Vilk’s throat felt dry.

  The dog stepped closer, cautiously, its nose twitching over the bread, sniffing.

  Vilk struck.

  The club hit the temple — not too hard, but enough to bring it down. The dog yelped, gurgled, twitched — the second blow ended it.

  Silence.

  For a moment, he stood still, his hand frozen around the weapon. He didn’t look at the body. Looking made it worse.

  It was only a job.

  He moved on.

  The others came, one by one — cautious, hungry, doomed. Some hesitated, sensing what was coming; others rushed in, desperate for a morsel. The pattern repeated — approach, trust, betrayal.

  There was a moment — a young dog this time, still bright-eyed, not yet broken. When Vilk raised the club, the animal looked up at him. Its eyes caught the morning light. There was no fear in them — only a quiet question, voiceless and sharp: Why?

  Vilk’s hand faltered.

  Just a heartbeat of hesitation — but long enough for the creature to feel it.

  It didn’t run.

  Didn’t fight.

  It simply waited.

  Vilk inhaled through his teeth.

  He wasn’t allowed to feel.

  The blow fell faster than thought.

  Afterward, he stood there for a while, staring at the bodies. Four, maybe five. He didn’t count.

  He built the fire.

  At the back of the yard, he leaned over the well, washing the blood and grime from his hands. The water was icy, biting into his skin, as though trying to strip away what had soaked too deep. He splashed his face, the cold cutting through him, but it didn’t cleanse enough.

  The taste of ash still clung to his tongue.

  The stench still filled his lungs — that acrid, greasy smoke of burning hair and fat crackling in the flames. Black curls of smoke rose into the sky, twisting like the restless souls of the animals he’d thrown to the fire.

  He smelled of smoke.

  He wiped the back of his wet hand along his neck and looked up. Twilight was settling over the city, the light dim but enough for him to see his reflection in the water’s surface — tired face, shadows under his eyes, a faint trace of blood he’d missed beneath a nail.

  He wasn’t hungry.

  He’d done what needed doing.

  That didn’t mean it felt right.

  He dragged a hand through his damp hair, the tension still locked in his fingers, as though the weapon were still there. He knew it would fade. He knew that one day it would all become routine.

  But not today.

  He turned and walked back toward the horse. Time to go home.

  Vilk shut the door behind him. The cold outside vanished, replaced by the warmth of firelight and the faint scent of something slightly burned — probably one of Kiki’s or Sika’s experiments.

  Sika sat at the table, her legs propped against the beam beneath it, a cup of wine turning slowly in her hand. She looked up at him, raising a brow.

  — So, how was your first day on the job?

  Vilk sighed, hanging his cloak on the hook by the door. He crossed to the basin and plunged his hands into the water, splashing his face. He could feel her eyes on him.

  — Honestly? — he said, brushing wet hair back from his forehead — I think I’d rather deal with people than dogs.

  Sika’s brows rose.

  — That bad, huh?

  — It was… — he paused, searching for the words — it was wrong. Somehow.

  Sika shook her head, amused.

  — You say that like you’re not about to start breaking people’s bones.

  — That’s different — Vilk said quietly, bracing his hands on the basin’s rim. — Dogs are just dogs. People are bastards. They can choose to be cruel. They can deserve it. The dogs… they were just where they weren’t supposed to be. That was their only crime.

  Sika nodded slowly, then gave a crooked smile.

  — You sound like a man who hasn’t yet made peace with what he’s become.

  — Maybe — he admitted, drying his face with a cloth.

  Sika leaned back, taking a sip of wine.

  — As for us — she said, shifting the topic — the brothers did fine work today.

  Vilk looked up.

  — Jegor and Viktor?

  — Mm. — Sika rested her chin on her hand. — Fast, efficient, no questions. And I swear, Kiki kept an eye on them too. Maybe she’s a ghost, but she likes things done her way.

  Vilk didn’t comment, just sat across from her.

  — And besides that?

  Sika’s grin widened.

  — Besides that, your new friend gave me a full makeover. And I have to admit, it suits what we’re planning.

  Only now did Vilk truly take her in. From the moment he’d entered, he’d sensed something different — but now, in the flicker of the fire, he saw it clearly.

  Her dress — deep burgundy, nearly black where shadow softened the fabric — caught the gold of her skin. The lace along the sleeves and neckline was subtle, yet rich enough to lend her an almost regal bearing. She’d never been one for tight or ornamental clothing, but the cut fit her astonishingly well.

  And her hair…

  He had no idea how Kiki had done it, but the short, coarse curls had become an intricate arrangement — half cascading along her neck, half hidden beneath a lace cap.

  Sika caught his look and smiled under her breath.

  — Well? How does your Polish-African lady look?

  Vilk rolled his eyes, though the corner of his mouth twitched.

  — Jan won’t know whether to greet you or kneel before you.

  Sika laughed throatily, raising her cup.

  — Oh, Vilk… if Jan had even half as much vigor as he has refinement and noble restraint, I’d gladly kneel before him myself.

  Vilk snorted, shaking his head.

  — Stop.

  — What? — she said innocently, spreading her hands — I’m just saying it’d be an interesting arrangement.

  From the ceiling came Kiki’s drawn-out, teasing voice:

  — Well, well, little wolf… you do have taste after all.

  Vilk looked up, but the spirit was gone — only shadows moved along the beams.

  — So, shall we go? — Sika asked, pulling on her coat.

  Vilk exhaled through his nose and nodded.

  — Give me a moment. I’ll change out of the hangman’s clothes and we’ll ride.

  ******

  The carriage rolled into the courtyard of Jan Bia?oszewski’s estate, its wheels lifting a faint haze of dust. The air smelled of damp wood, hearth smoke, and that stale, sealed-in scent that clings to rooms closed all day. The sound of hooves and wheels echoed dully through the space, and the guards at the gate exchanged brief looks before one of them bowed slightly and stepped aside, allowing them through.

  Vilk was the first to climb down. For a moment he stood still, taking in the familiar yard, before instinctively lowering his hand to help Sika. He didn’t even manage to touch her fingers — she snorted softly and leapt down on her own. The movement was smooth, almost dancer-like, a faint smile flickering at the corner of her lips.

  — What was that supposed to mean? — asked Vilk, raising a brow.

  — That I can handle myself — she replied easily, a playful challenge in her tone — though I appreciate the gesture, good sir.

  Vilk shook his head, exhaling through his nose, but said nothing. They crossed the courtyard, passing the carriages lined along the edge. Voices and laughter spilled faintly from the manor’s interior, while the glow of candles and lanterns cast long, wavering shadows on the cobblestones. Vilk could feel the guards’ eyes on him but ignored them. He was here by Jan’s invitation, and that meant he had every right to enter.

  As they neared the entrance, Vilk looked up toward the windows. In one of them stood Jaros?aw. The blind youth’s eyes were fixed directly on them. For a fleeting second Vilk could have sworn the boy saw him. Then the figure withdrew into shadow.

  They stepped inside. The air within was warmer, thick with the scents of wine, roasted meat, and melted wax. The murmur of conversation undulated like a river current. Tables gleamed beneath silverware and glass, and in one corner a lutenist played softly — not to dominate the room, but to thread the melody through its heartbeat. The atmosphere was relaxed, but vigilant.

  This was no ordinary feast. These were Jan’s chosen guests — people who understood that gatherings in his house followed their own laws.

  Jan rose from his place at the long table and came toward them with a smile both sincere and measured.

  — My friends, here they are — he said lightly, not loud enough to interrupt the room’s rhythm — I promised you intriguing company, and I do not disappoint.

  A few heads turned. A few glances exchanged.

  A ruddy-faced nobleman in a richly embroidered kuntush raised an eyebrow and slowly set his cup down. He didn’t need words — his expression was enough. Beside him sat another man, taller, sharper-featured, whose restraint only emphasized his distance.

  — Vilk, Sika — Jan’s voice remained calm, disarming — I’m glad you came. Make yourselves at home.

  Vilk inclined his head. Before he could reach for a cup, the ruddy noble finally spoke:

  — Jan — he said with courteous coldness — tell me, is it by accident or design that you bring an executioner into your home?

  The murmur in the room thinned, though it didn’t vanish.

  Jan took a sip of mead, his gaze sliding across the guests.

  — Tell me, Hieronim — he began slowly — if there were game on your table, would you refuse it because the butcher stained his hands with blood?

  He drank again.

  Hieronim’s lips tightened; irritation glinted in his eyes. A few others looked away, unwilling to be caught between them. Vilk said nothing. He stood back, aware that his presence alone fed the tension like a hidden flame.

  — The butcher sustains life, the executioner takes it — Hieronim said at last, with the resolve of one who does not bend.

  Jan’s mouth curved faintly, but he waited, letting the silence weigh down before answering. Then, with quiet certainty, he said:

  — And yet here we sit, surrounded by walls bound with the sweat and blood of those who fought so that we might feast. We all live by the hangman’s hand, even if we pretend not to see it.

  Beside Hieronim sat an older noble, stern-faced but without that same zeal. At first he’d nodded in agreement; now he merely sighed and straightened his cuff.

  — I can’t say I share your philosophy, Jan — he said slowly — but I have never been one to abandon my host’s table, especially yours.

  Hieronim snorted, pushing his chair back.

  — Have your evening, Jan — he said, rising — but I don’t dine beside men whose hands smell of blood so uncleanly earned.

  Jan lifted a brow, tilting his head slightly, amused.

  — Ah, Hieronim — he said lightly — how dull the world would be if we all believed the same things.

  He raised his cup in a mock salute, still smiling.

  Hieronim met his gaze coldly but said nothing. He turned on his heel and left, the doors closing sharply behind him.

  Vilk didn’t move. Jan looked his way, lifting his cup.

  — Seems you’ve stirred a bit of excitement — he said with a hint of laughter.

  Vilk shrugged.

  — Wasn’t me — he replied evenly — just the truth.

  Jan’s smile widened. He raised his glass.

  — Then let us drink to truth.

  A few voices echoed the toast — even those who moments ago had eyed Vilk with unease.

  He raised the cup to his lips — but never drank.

  Something had caught his attention.

  Across the hall stood a woman with fair hair cascading in soft waves over her shoulders, a golden cross resting upon her chest. Her blue gown accentuated her slender figure, but it was her eyes that held him still.

  For a brief moment their gazes locked — fleeting, yet enough.

  There was more than curiosity there: a spark of challenge, of intrigue, of something deeper.

  He didn’t look away.

  She noticed. A faint smile played at her lips as she tilted her head, assessing him. Her posture shifted — just slightly forward, as if waiting for an invitation. Then, with measured grace, she began to move toward him. Stopping once at a table, feigning a polite exchange with a nobleman, though Vilk saw through it — a small act to mask intent.

  She drew nearer — light, unhurried steps, a dance rather than a walk. Then suddenly she was there, close enough for him to catch the faint glint of irony in her gaze.

  — You strike me, madam, as deeply devout — said Vilk, one eyebrow arched.

  — How could I be otherwise, sweet sir — she replied, leaning closer with feline ease — but shall I tell you a secret?

  Vilk didn’t move back, though his gaze stayed guarded. Her perfume was light, floral, with a hidden warmth beneath — honey and smoke.

  — Come nearer — she murmured, her voice smooth, almost sung.

  He didn’t. Nor did he speak.

  Klara tilted her head, her smile delicate, deceptively innocent.

  — I am like a holy book myself — she whispered, letting the words linger in the air between them.

  Vilk’s head inclined a fraction, the corner of his mouth barely twitching.

  — Oh?

  She leaned slightly, though her eyes slid toward another man — one with a dark moustache across the hall. Her tone dropped to a hush, the softness charged with something uncomfortably intimate.

  — Open to anyone who wishes to study me… thoroughly.

  The silence that followed was thin as glass, and just as sharp.

  Then, almost playfully, she lifted her hand and let her fingers trace the golden cross nestled between her breasts. Her fingertips brushed its surface as she added softly:

  — As this cross itself, you’d agree.

  A teasing smile curved her lips, and for an instant her eyes darkened — the light around her seeming to dim. For that heartbeat, Vilk felt something familiar, an echo of a presence he’d already met.

  Then it was gone.

  — Klara! — came a warm, booming voice from across the room — Come here, my dear, my little treasure!

  — Coming, Master! — she called back, straightening at once.

  The tension vanished as if cut away. Her posture softened; her expression, moments ago edged with temptation, turned meek — almost girlish. As though the other version of her had never existed.

  She turned, but glanced back over her shoulder.

  — I must go — she said playfully — but we’ll see each other again.

  She lifted a brow with a hint of mischief.

  — We have much to discuss, my good hangman.

  Her smile was both invitation and challenge.

  And then, with uncanny ease, she became someone else entirely — the modest, pleasant woman crossing the hall toward the man who awaited her.

  Vilk could still feel the ghost of her breath at his ear. The faint warmth of it, the trace of moisture in the air.

  Wet as she is herself, he thought.

  He raised his cup and finally drank, his eyes scanning the room. He caught a glimpse of Klara disappearing among the guests.

  All so pious, he thought, let’s hope their halos don’t slip off… and I’m the one called unclean.

  The corner of his mouth twitched — the faintest, defiant smile.

  *******

  Vilk moved slowly through the hall, feeling the weight of eyes upon him. Some were fleeting, indifferent; others cool, distant; and a few — curious.

  Sika, as always, had no trouble finding her place among people. Wherever she stood, conversation seemed to flow freer, laughter a little louder — as if her very presence loosened the air, lent it warmth and movement.

  Vilk paused beside a small table where a noblewoman in a crimson gown leaned lightly over her cup of wine, watching him with open interest. She was beautiful — not in the fragile way of porcelain, but with that poised elegance that comes from being both desired and bored by the world. In her gaze lingered a spark of intrigue, fascination, perhaps even ennui — the hunger for something to break the monotony.

  — An executioner at the table of nobility — she said, raising an eyebrow — truly a rare sight. I must admit, sir, you have stirred my curiosity.

  Vilk met her glance sidelong, bringing his cup to his lips.

  — And are you one of those who seek their thrill where they shouldn’t?

  She smiled lazily, tracing the rim of her goblet with her fingertip.

  — Or perhaps I simply seek truth. You know, hangman, they say those who touch death also touch mystery — that you stand closer to what lies beyond. — She tilted her head slightly, eyes glinting. — Tell me, is it true that a hangman’s blood heals illness? That a hanged man’s rope brings luck, and a sinner’s bone wards off spirits?

  Vilk smirked faintly.

  — Maybe people say so. Maybe they just need to make death sound bearable.

  She laughed softly, but the fire in her eyes didn’t fade.

  — You’re not afraid of what you do?

  — No more than a soldier fears the battlefield — he said evenly. — Death is the same, no matter who wields the blade.

  — Oh, but a soldier kills in glory — for cause, for king — she propped her chin on her hand — and a hangman?

  — Kills without illusions — said Vilk. — That’s the difference.

  A male voice cut through their conversation.

  — Interesting words, hangman. But tell me — how many of us truly live without illusions?

  Vilk turned toward him. The man’s face was hard, weathered — the face of someone long acquainted with battle. A thin scar ran from cheek to jaw, pale against tanned skin — the mark of a duel. His eyes, light and keen, belonged to one who’d seen more deaths than he cared to remember. His fair hair, tied back in a short braid, gave him a martial austerity. The fur-lined delia draped over his shoulders was richly woven but worn at the edges — a man familiar with both war camps and noble halls.

  — You’re a soldier — Vilk observed. — Fought in battles?

  — More than I can count — the man replied. — I fought for kings, for the Commonwealth, for honor. And you?

  He studied Vilk anew, his tone neither hostile nor mocking, but probing.

  — You’ve the look of a fighter. So why this? Why the gallows instead of the field? Where’s the honor in that?

  Vilk lifted his cup but didn’t drink. He turned it in his fingers, as though searching for the right words at the bottom.

  — Maybe honor lies where the fight for righteousness ends — and the fight for one’s own soul begins.

  The man frowned slightly, raising his chin.

  — You speak in riddles, hangman. Do you mean to say that a warrior who fights for his cause cannot keep clean hands?

  Vilk’s gaze held his.

  — I believe one can serve king and country by more than the sword. I believe not every bloodshed is war — and not every war is just.

  The soldier — Lech, as Vilk would soon learn — fell silent for a moment. His brow furrowed; his eyes flicked with restrained thought.

  — There are battles that must be fought, wars that must be won. Even God commands that we defend our people.

  — True — said Vilk — but He never said that death must become our path to salvation. I once thought what I did was right. Then I began to wonder — is killing for a cause any different from killing on command? And if it isn’t, where does that leave a man’s conscience?

  Lech’s jaw tightened. He was not a man easily swayed, but the words hit deeper than he would admit.

  — So instead of war, you chose the scaffold? — he asked quietly.

  — I chose truth — Vilk said. — A soldier can still pretend he kills for something greater. I don’t have that comfort. Every life I take is one God will count against me. That is my penance.

  Lech leaned back in his chair, drawing a long breath.

  — I doubt I’ll ever understand your choice, hangman — he said at last — but I see it wasn’t made without honor.

  After a pause, he extended his hand.

  Vilk looked at it, then took it firmly. It was a gesture between equals — one seldom offered to men like him.

  — Now I see why Jan invited you — said Lech. — You’re not a man without honor. You’ve just chosen to bear its weight all the way to the end.

  Vilk nodded slightly, though said nothing. What was there to add? The world was full of illusions — he simply no longer needed them.

  The hall around them pulsed with renewed laughter, toasts, and talk. Sika still shone amid the crowd, a burst of vitality amid the smoke and candlelight. Vilk remained apart, though not entirely estranged.

  And then, out of the corner of his eye, he saw him — the eccentric man who had earlier called for Klara.

  He stood taller than most guests, yet his presence commanded attention not by strength, but by that effortless confidence of one who never doubts his own place in the world. Slender, though not frail, dressed in a deep navy kuntush clasped over a crimson ?upan, a richly patterned belt at his waist. High black boots gleamed in the light; several ornate rings caught the candle’s flame, their symbols shifting with the angle of reflection.

  In one hand he held a carved pipe, which he gestured with languid precision as he spoke — his words laced with intellect and flourish. His thick moustache twitched with each phrase, but it was his eyes that drew attention most — deep, oceanic, and piercing, as though seeing far beyond the room.

  He wasn’t looking at Vilk.

  And yet Vilk knew — the man was perfectly aware of him.

  The stranger stood across the hall, mid-conversation, but for the briefest instant, his gaze flicked toward Vilk. Just a fraction of a moment — enough to say that something, quietly and inevitably, had begun.

  ********

  Vilk moved slowly through the hall, attuned to the rhythm of voices, the clinking of glasses, and the distant hum of a lute lazily strumming in the corner. The air was warm with wine and candlelight, heavy with a mingled scent of perfume, pipe smoke, and the faint resinous sweetness of polished wood.

  He wove between clusters of guests; their laughter and murmurs brushed past him like shifting shadows. Yet it wasn’t the people that caught his attention, but something else.

  Against one wall, half veiled in candlelit shadow, stood a table — hexagonal, intricately crafted yet solid, the kind that had survived many matches and the hands of those who’d studied it with focused silence. Its surface gleamed with the deep warmth of polished wood, the grain alive beneath the light. Along its edges ran delicate carvings — interlacing lines that forked and twined like branches of a young oak, occasionally broken by sharp, cutting strokes, as if the chisel itself had remembered the violence of a blade or the flash of lightning.

  One could wonder whether it was mere ornamentation — or a cipher, a hidden rhythm of war and order, chaos and design.

  But it was the board itself that held the heart of the table: a mosaic of four woods — amber, honey, chestnut, and near-black walnut — their tones forming a hexagonal pattern, more fluid than the rigid grid of chess. Each tile was unique, the natural grain giving every field a slightly different shape, like a battlefield where no two paths are ever the same.

  The pieces were carved with masterful precision. The Knyaz, though central, was not grand. His modest crown was no decoration, but a symbol of burden — this was not a game about his might, but about how he led his people. Around him stood shield-bearers, their round bucklers gleaming like sunrise. Beyond them, warriors — faces cut sharp from the wood, taut with readiness. Archers stood farther out, small bows drawn, as if the first, decisive arrow were forever on the verge of flight.

  Among them perched a falcon — the watchful scout — and an hound, a beast between hound and wolf, its back arched, its head lowered as though scenting something unseen.

  They were the same figures Vilk had been carving since boyhood, by habit more than need, ever since waiting for the next campaign. He ran his fingers lightly along the table’s edge, tracing without touching, as if searching in its order for some forgotten path.

  He hadn’t played in years. And yet once... Knyaz had been his companion more often than most commanders. One played to sharpen the mind, to train patience — or to keep from thinking about what awaited after the next order. And sometimes, even before a weapon was drawn, the battle was already lost — decided only by who foresaw the enemy’s move first.

  — You play?

  Vilk blinked, drawn from thought, and turned to see Jan standing beside him, a cup in hand and amusement in his smile.

  — I used to — Vilk replied.

  — Then we must remedy that soon — said Jan. — One game, or eight.

  He laughed and set a hand on the table.

  — But not tonight. Tonight, there’s someone I’d like you to meet.

  Jan didn’t wait for an answer. He simply took Vilk by the arm and led him through the hall, exchanging polite nods and murmured greetings as they passed.

  Meanwhile, across the room, Sika seemed perfectly in her element. The noblewoman in the crimson gown — the same who’d earlier grilled Vilk with morbid fascination — now leaned toward Sika, her eyes bright with genuine interest.

  — Your presence is extraordinary — she said with admiration. — Tell me, my lady, where do you come from?

  Sika smiled — short, regal, effortless — and cast a sideways glance at the warrior seated nearby, who watched with equal curiosity, though more reserve.

  — From a place where men are brave — and women don’t need permission to be themselves — she said, reaching for her cup.

  The woman blinked, then laughed, snapping her fan against her hand.

  — Oh, I do like that! Sounds like my country.

  The warrior inclined his head, intrigued.

  — Rarely do I meet a woman with such confidence. In our world, it’s a virtue reserved for men of arms.

  — Perhaps that’s why — Sika narrowed her eyes — so many of you seem unsure what to do with it when you find it in a woman.

  The warrior’s smile was quiet, but sincere.

  — Indeed, this evening proves… refreshingly unpredictable.

  Jan, glancing that way, raised an eyebrow.

  — I see your companion doesn’t waste time.

  — She never does — Vilk murmured.

  They continued until Jan stopped, tightening his grip lightly on Vilk’s shoulder.

  — Here we are. Vilk, there’s someone you really should meet.

  Vilk looked ahead — and there he was.

  The eccentric gentleman he’d noticed before. Up close, he looked even more… unpredictable.

  Before Vilk could speak, Jan leaned closer, lowering his voice as if sharing a private joke.

  — A sorcerer — he whispered, amused. — And not just any. Meet Master Twardowski.

  Vilk studied him.

  — The royal magician. Scholar, advisor, and guest of half the courts in this hemisphere. There’s nothing he hasn’t looked straight in the eye — nor any secret he hasn’t pried open if he wished. — Jan paused, milking the moment. — Some say he’s shaken hands with the devil himself — and yet, as you see, still walks among us. That must mean something, doesn’t it?

  Vilk gave him a sidelong glance.

  — It means either the devil wasn’t clever enough — or Master Twardowski was very careful indeed.

  Jan grinned.

  — I’d wager the truth sits somewhere in between.

  Twardowski, who had been quietly observing their exchange, inclined his head in acknowledgment, his smile widening.

  — Ah, so this is our bloodthirsty Wolf — he said easily.

  His voice was pleasant, deep — but beneath it, Vilk sensed another tone, a second meaning threaded through every word.

  — Indeed — Jan replied, clearly pleased. — I thought the two of you might find the acquaintance… enriching.

  — Oh, Jan — Twardowski sighed theatrically, though his eyes gleamed with real delight — you always do have the right words.

  Vilk stayed silent, letting the current of talk carry itself, studying the man in front of him.

  Twardowski extended his hand; Vilk took it. The grip was firm but not forceful — as if the magician was feeling something through the touch, not testing strength but… something deeper, beyond the senses Vilk understood.

  — I’ve been looking forward to this meeting — said Twardowski softly. — Though I’m not sure which of us should be more curious.

  Vilk’s mouth curved slightly.

  — It’s always good to know who’s curious about you. And why.

  — A wise approach — said Twardowski. — In my case, let’s call it… intellectual hunger.

  — Hunger? — Vilk echoed.

  — Oh, yes. I have a taste for the unusual. The rare. And you, my dear sir — are precisely that.

  Jan chuckled.

  — Hear that, Vilk? You’ve been declared a curiosity.

  — Not the first time.

  — But perhaps the first time by someone who actually knows what he’s talking about — added Twardowski, still watching him intently.

  For a moment, his gaze drifted toward Klara, who stood a little apart, her laughter bright and effortless. Yet Vilk caught something in the magician’s look — a flicker of indulgent fondness, maybe even quiet amusement. It wasn’t disapproval, nor simple affection, but the gaze of someone who knew her far too well.

  And in that instant, Vilk was certain it wasn’t accidental.

  — I see you’ve found something interesting to look at, Mister Vilk — said Twardowski lightly, turning back to him.

  — I analyze people — Vilk replied after a pause.

  — Ah, a wonderful habit — said Twardowski, spreading his hands. — Without proper observation, the world would be unbearable.

  Jan laughed softly.

  — The two of you are more alike than either will admit.

  — Not quite that much — muttered Vilk, though without conviction.

  Twardowski smiled faintly.

  — We’ll see.

  And Vilk, though he couldn’t name it yet, felt that a game had begun between them — not Knyaz, not chess, but something far subtler.

  The evening unfolded in a warm, easy current. After the introductions, conversation flowed with wit and precision — barbed jokes, layered stories, and clever turns of phrase that Twardowski wielded like a seasoned conjurer.

  Vilk, at first cautious, soon saw that the man wasted no words. There was something magnetic in him — not vanity, but a hunger for understanding, as though each new mind was a book to be read. He studied people without cruelty, dissected them without breaking them.

  Before long, Sika joined them, a cup of wine in hand. Her presence changed the air immediately.

  — Ah, there you are — she said brightly, glancing between Jan, Vilk, and Twardowski. — I hope you’re not discussing anything tedious.

  — Tedious talk isn’t my field — said Twardowski, arching a brow. — Only the kind most people can’t follow.

  — Perfect — Sika smirked. — Vilk, are they recruiting you into some secret order?

  — Not yet — muttered Vilk.

  — Give me time — said Twardowski, finishing his wine.

  Sika laughed softly, slipping into the circle of conversation. The rest of the night passed in a rhythm Vilk found — surprisingly — pleasant. There was no forced courtesy, no veiled contempt. For the first time in a long while, he felt no need to justify his presence.

  Perhaps that was what united them all at this table.

  Guests began to drift away. The chatter dimmed, wine flowed slower, laughter thinned into quiet farewells.

  Lech, who’d been bidding goodbye to his comrades, turned and approached Sika. She was setting her cup down, her gestures loose, but her gaze sharp.

  — Perhaps we’ll meet again — he said, his tone polite but colored by a subtle smile.

  Sika raised an eyebrow, studying him briefly.

  — Perhaps. But don’t make a habit of it.

  Lech’s smile deepened. He didn’t argue. He simply took her hand and brushed his lips across her skin — light, deliberate, respectful.

  Sika gave him a sidelong look and murmured something too quiet for anyone else to hear.

  Lech didn’t answer at once. He only met her eyes for a heartbeat longer, then smiled — not in triumph, but in understanding.

  Without another word, he stepped away — walking toward the exit with the calm assurance of a man who knew he would return.

  Vilk stood with a cup in hand, watching the last of the guests depart, when Twardowski appeared beside him.

  — I must admit — said the magician, stretching slightly — that company this tolerable can still be unbearably tiring.

  Vilk glanced at him.

  — And yet you come.

  — Ah, Jan likes me — said Twardowski. — And sometimes one must appear in order to disappear again later. — He smiled faintly. — Besides, had I not come tonight, I’d never have met you — and that would have been tragic.

  Vilk snorted softly.

  — I doubt you’d lose sleep over it.

  Twardowski smiled, though his eyes held something more than jest.

  — I think there’s more that connects us than you realize — he said quietly. — Though I’m still piecing together how.

  Vilk said nothing, watching him in silence.

  — Which is why I want you to visit me — Twardowski continued, his tone shifting — in Kraków.

  — That’s a bit of a ride — Vilk said, not as refusal but simple fact.

  — I know. And I know you’ve work here — your trade, your… initiation. Jan mentioned it. — Twardowski’s voice was calm, measured. — But when the time comes, when you can step away — come. It matters.

  Vilk studied him.

  — Why?

  Twardowski shrugged.

  — Because I have the sense that something is moving around you, leading you somewhere you don’t yet see. And I’d like to help you understand what it is — before it decides for you. For the sake of us all...

  Vilk said nothing for a while.

  Twardowski didn’t press. There was no demand in his tone — only quiet certainty, the kind that came from knowing a path had already been set.

  — I’ll think about it — said Vilk finally.

  — Of course you will — Twardowski smiled, as though the decision were already made.

  Klara drifted nearby like candlelight — warm, graceful, radiant — yet Vilk still felt that there was something hidden in her every gesture, something just beyond reach.

  Then she appeared beside Twardowski, placing a light hand on his arm.

  — Shall we?

  — Of course, my dear — he said with a weary sigh.

  He looked once more at Vilk, as though about to add something — but didn’t.

  He simply smiled, turned, and walked away.

  Vilk remained standing in the center of the hall.

  He drained the last of his wine and set the cup down on the table.

  And already, the questions were beginning to form.