The road stretched on longer than Anastas had expected. He was on edge, unconsciously glancing back from time to time. At first, it was just to check if Thomas was nearby, then—to make sure he was alright, and then... he couldn't exactly say why anymore. He just looked at him because he wanted to.
There was also this strange feeling of someone's presence. Barely perceptible, like a wisp of smoke. At times, he felt someone watching him, but he heard nothing suspicious. And then there was Thomas, riding beside him.
After the incident by the river, Anastas had started looking at Thomas differently. Fragments of events kept spinning in his head: from today, and from his past life. Could Thomas be Athit? Could it be that this time the feelings would be different, and would they even exist at all?
Thomas rode in a relaxed manner, humming something under his breath, occasionally losing the rhythm. He sat in the saddle slightly carelessly, but with confidence. His cloak was too large and occasionally slipped from his shoulder, revealing his neck—slender, pale, stubbornly refusing to hide from the wind.
Anastas caught himself staring for too long. He looked away sharply, frowning.
Pull yourself together.
Before, Thomas had just been... a constant friend. Lively, bright, annoying at first, but then pleasantly familiar—someone who rode beside him without demanding anything in return. But now this "just" was beginning to crack, and he didn't know what to do.
The view that opened up before them pulled him out of his stream of thoughts. A forest spread out across their path—dense, dark, and mysterious, exuding an aura of both danger and beauty.
Thomas stopped, looking ahead with genuine interest.
"Beautiful," he said quietly. "Gloomy. But beautiful."
Anastas wasn't looking at the forest.
He was looking at Thomas—at how the light fell on his face, how a spark of excitement mixed with caution appeared in his eyes. And suddenly, a feeling washed over him, sharp and painful: what if he really is Athit?
The thought was so piercing that Anastas tightened his grip on the reins until his fingers ached.
Too many doubts. He would need to calm down and think it all through. Not now, tonight. And for some reason, a part of the man wanted to fiercely deny this fact.
"Stay close to me," he said sharply, sensing that alien presence once again.
Thomas blinked, surprised by his tone.
"Worried?"
"Assessing the risks," Anastas clipped, glancing around. His sharp gaze tried to catch onto anything suspicious, but again, there was nothing.
Thomas smiled, softly and warmly.
And that smile only made it worse.
As they moved on, Anastas realized: something had already shifted. He didn't know what to call it yet—and didn't want to know, pushing those thoughts far away.
Taking the road through the dense forest turned out to be a mistake. Perhaps the map had lied, because soon a thick fog descended upon the woods, refusing to dissipate. It hung in a dense, milky veil, muffling sounds and distorting distances.
They had been riding for three hours now, and the tension was growing.
"I don't like this place," Thomas whispered, wrapping his cloak tighter around himself. "It's too quiet here."
Anastas stayed silent, but his hand never left the hilt of his sword. His instincts whispered of danger, but he couldn't tell where it would come from. The fog hid everything.
Suddenly, Anastas's horse reared up with a frightened neigh.
"Easy," he said, trying to hold the reins and stroking the horse's neck in an attempt to calm it.
At that moment, a whistling sound cut through the air.
It wasn't an arrow, but a bola. It wrapped around the legs of Thomas's horse, sending it crashing to its side. Thomas reacted instantly. He didn't let the horse crush him; he rolled over his shoulder and sprang to his feet, his blade already drawn.
"Back!" Anastas leapt from the saddle, landing beside him and drawing his own sword, but they were no longer alone.
Figures emerged from the fog like ghosts. There were many of them. Ten? Twelve? These weren't ordinary thugs. They were dressed in gray rags that blended with the forest, their faces hidden by masks. In their hands, they held axes, boat hooks, and short cleavers. Bandits.
"Closer." Anastas pulled Thomas toward him, and they stood back-to-back.
"Stay behind me," Anastas softly touched his friend's wrist.
The attackers didn't speak. They moved in coordination.
The first one lunged with an axe. Anastas parried the strike, letting the enemy's momentum carry him past, and pierced his shoulder with a precise thrust. But before he could pull his blade free, two others attacked from the flanks.
Thomas didn't just stand aside; he made a sharp lunge. He slashed his attacker across the wrist, forcing him to drop his weapon, and immediately followed up with a strike to the jaw with his hilt.
Anastas spun like a top. The ringing of steel filled the forest. He was faster, more technical, and deadlier than most of them. His body guided him on its own, deflecting blows and dodging.
Thomas fought desperately, fending off a hulking brute with a hook. Anastas had always been his sparring partner, making him highly capable in combat.
Anastas turned to check on his friend, but that split-second delay cost him dearly. One of the attackers seized the moment and struck him behind the knees with the shaft of his weapon. Anastas dropped to one knee. In that same second, a sharp pain burned through his left shoulder—a knife had gone in deep, slicing through his jacket.
Blood gushed in a hot stream.
Anastas snarled and rolled, knocking his opponent off his feet. Only about a third of the bandits remained. They closed the circle around Anastas.
The man stayed on his knees, breathing heavily, gripping his bloodied sword. Blood soaked his sleeve. Three against one, and a wounded one at that.
The gang's leader—a massive man with rotting teeth—stepped forward, idly swinging a heavy chain.
"You're quick for a little nobleman," he rasped. "Shame to ruin such a pretty face."
He swung the chain for a strike meant to crush Anastas's skull, but he had underestimated the skills of the former commander.
Anastas dodged and hurled his sword at the nearest enemy.
At that moment, a strange, vibrating sound cut through the air.
The chain in the leader's hand clinked and... snapped in half. The heavy link fell to the ground.
The leader stared dumbly at the stump in his hand.
"What the hell..?"
A figure dropped from a tree branch.
Softly, cat-like, and very quietly.
It was a young man. He looked to be about Anastas's age, maybe slightly older. He was dressed in a strange, fitted black leather cloak with a high collar that made him look more mysterious, partially hiding his face. His dark hair fell over his eyes, concealing a sharp, mocking gaze.
But the most remarkable thing was his weapon. Two curved, crescent-shaped blades, gleaming like silver.
He straightened up, lazily flicking a leaf off his shoulder. He was incredibly, defiantly handsome—with that sharp, dangerous allure of a predator.
"Twelve against two?" he said. His voice was deep, velvety, with a slight, barely perceptible accent. "How unfair and cowardly."
"You?!" the leader roared. "Kill him!"
The bandits rushed at the stranger.
What happened next, Anastas would remember for a long time.
The stranger didn't just fight; he danced.
He slipped under a raised axe, spun around, and his blades flashed like twin bolts of lightning. The bandit collapsed, clutching his severed leg tendons.
The stranger moved with inhuman speed. He used the enemies' momentum against them, dodging mere millimeters away from strikes, laughing in their faces. It was a fighting style Anastas had seen only once—in distant lands, in his memories.
Within a couple of minutes, it was all over.
The survivors lay on the ground, howling in pain. The stranger hadn't killed anyone, merely incapacitated them. Then, with a deft movement, he sheathed his blades at his waist, hidden beneath his cloak. He then approached their leader. The stranger leaned in threateningly, and they exchanged some words in hushed tones. After that, the bandit pulled a small box from his jacket, received a hard strike to the temple, and passed out.
The "savior" headed their way. He looked at Thomas, who stood frozen with his sword raised, breathing heavily. The stranger slowly, deliberately, looked him up and down, lingered on his face, and... winked.
Anastas remained standing, still holding his sword. Blood dripped from the fingers of his left hand, but he looked at their savior not with gratitude, but with cold appraisal.
"A deep wound," he noted calmly. "The artery isn't hit, but you've lost a fair amount of blood. Anyone else would already be passed out." He smiled, and the smile was charming, though a shadow lurked in the corners of his lips.
"I'm not anyone else," Anastas snapped. His voice was firm. "Who are you?"
"Eist." The man smiled with the corner of his mouth, and there was something predatory in that smile. "At your service. Or not at your service, depending on how we agree."
Anastas gave no response to his smile.
"And you fight well," he narrowed his eyes. "For a simple aristocrat."
Thomas immediately rushed over, offering his shoulder.
"Anastas! You're hurt."
"I'm fine," Anastas replied softly, remaining standing without leaning on his friend. "Don't fuss, Thomas. Everything is alright."
He looked at Eist, who was watching the scene with curiosity, his arms crossed over his chest.
"You didn't step in just for nothing, Eist. What do you want?"
Eist laughed.
"I like that you get straight to the point. These bastards stole something of mine; I had to drag myself along their trail and catch the right moment."
"So it was you following us?"
"You're observant," he smiled broadly. "I need travel to Portsmouth. And you..." he nodded at Anastas's wound, "you need someone to stitch up that gash and lead you out of this forest."
Anastas narrowed his eyes.
"How much do you want?" Anastas asked simply, knowing that people like him didn't do things for free.
"Money? Keep your coins."
"Then what do you want?"
"Just some interesting company," he shrugged. "And I see you two come with your own secrets," he squinted in amusement.
Anastas looked at him questioningly.
"You don't move like an Englishman," he replied. "Your technique... it's the East. Old school. Where did you learn it?"
Anastas's heart skipped a beat.
"I learned from books," he lied smoothly out of habit.
Eist laughed. The laugh was quiet but genuine.
"From books? Sure you did. And I learned to fly by reading poems about birds."
He leaned in closer, and his face turned serious.
"You have secrets."
Anastas tensed, ready to defend himself, but Eist simply pulled back.
"Don't be afraid. I love secrets. We're a good match. So, do we have a deal?" The man held out his hand.
All this time, Thomas had been watching them, shifting his gaze from one to the other. But he trusted his friend completely and would accept whatever decision he made regarding their new acquaintance.
Anastas hesitated for a second. Then he shifted his sword to his numb left hand (a wild pain pierced his shoulder, but he didn't even blink) and extended his right hand to Eist.
The handshake was firm and dry.
"It's a deal. I am Anastas."
"I know," Eist nodded. "I heard your friend shout it. Let's go. There's a dry ravine not far from here. I'll patch you up there."
Anastas straightened up, fighting past the dizziness.
"I will lead the way," he tossed out. "Don't fall behind."
He took a step, then another. Every heartbeat echoed in his shoulder with a throbbing pulse, but he walked steadily, keeping his back straight as befits a king, even if he was wearing ordinary traveling clothes.