— Hey, you, bring me some mead.
Olekir, despite the circumstances, summoned one of Ratibor's girls. Her step was cautious, as if she were walking on thin ice. She froze as soon as she made the first move toward the pitcher—her fingers trembled, and fear flashed in her eyes, mixed with shame. Her gaze slid over the faces in the crowd, seeking permission or at least a hint of support. But instead, she met only Olekir's cold, unyielding stare—a gaze that seemed older than his years, heavy as stone and sharp as a blade. And that gaze left her no choice.
She moved, carrying the goblet carefully, as if it were not a drink but a sacrifice being carried to an altar. Each of her steps echoed in the silence that stretched like a taut string.
— What? My throat is dry, — he said, answering the question no one had spoken aloud but which hung in the air like a prayer to gods who are slow to answer.
Suddenly, the hall was split by Borivitr's loud, raspy laugh. His voice was like a lightning strike in the night's silence—sharp but cleansing. He snatched one of the goblets from the table, raised it above his head, and with that gesture—like a wave of his hand—wiped away the tension that had begun to spread through the hall like smoke over a fire. But it wasn't just a joke or a random move: the raised goblet became a sign. The energy that had just radiated from him began to coil back, drawing into his body, leaving behind only a faint trembling in the air, like after thunder.
That gesture was a demonstration of control and a wordless command. One by one, the warriors standing behind him subdued their auras, as if extinguishing the fire in their own hearts. Their figures, tense a moment ago, relaxed; shoulders lowered, gazes grew calmer.
On the opposite side of Velymyr's Great Hall, sensing the change in rhythm, Velymyra tilted her head slightly. Her fingers, already reaching for the staff's handle, froze. The power swirling around her shoulders dissolved into the air, leaving only a faint trace—like the scent after a storm when the earth still breathes moisture.
They approached each other like two warriors before a duel—not with swords, but with gazes. Borivitr stopped a step away, staring at his son. Olekir did not retreat. His eyes burned, but not with anger—there was a silence hiding a storm, a silence that could become a tempest at any moment.
And in that moment, Borivitr saw not just defiance. He saw depth—something dark, primal, stirring beneath the boy's skin. Not resentment, not youthful stubbornness, but an abyss waiting only for a push to break free. And he understood: if he stood before it as an enemy, he would be swallowed.
So he did not move. Not because he was afraid, but because he chose differently. His gaze softened, and in it appeared something that hadn't been there for years—acknowledgment. Not weakness, but understanding: this boy is not an enemy, unless you make him one.
— Amid all this chaos, we've forgotten the main thing. It's time for the meal. Olekir, you won't object to joining us for these delicious dishes, will you?
— And if I refuse? — Olekir's voice was even, but tension hummed in it like a string about to snap.
— Then I'll assume you're not hungry, — Borivitr replied, smiling, but there was no warmth in his eyes.
— I'm not hungry for words, — Olekir said quietly.
— For food?
— For food—always.
— Then let's go.
— Wait, — Ratibor spoke up, frowning. — We didn't invite him.
— He came on his own, — Borivitr replied without taking his eyes off his son.
— This is a breach of order, — added one of the warriors.
— Order is what we create, — said Borivitr, and his voice grew deeper, like a stone dropped into a well.
— But...
Ratibor had already opened his mouth to object, but Borivitr didn't speak—he just shifted his gaze to him. Ratibor fell silent, as if someone had cut the thread of his words. One by one, the warriors who had begun to move stopped. Someone clenched a sword hilt, someone took half a step forward, but all—as if by an unspoken command—lowered their eyes.
— Let's go, — he repeated more softly, but with the same authority.
Olekir looked around, noticing that Myroslava was still standing, frozen with fear. He approached, grabbed her by the hand, and pulled her along. Yaroslava followed without a word. They walked through the crowd, which began to part like melting ice, and in that silence, each of their steps echoed like a hammer striking stone.
Every move Olekir made was not just a step—it was a gesture that broke old rules. He walked not as a guest, but as one who had the right to be here. His posture was straight, his gaze direct, and even those who had doubted a moment ago now silently made way.
They approached the first of three massive oak tables standing before the fire in the center of the hall. Their dark, time-worn surfaces bore scratches, marks from goblets and knives—like rings on a tree trunk; each mark was a memory. Once, this central table had been the pinnacle of his dreams: he had seen his father the voivode and his warriors seated there, heard the murmur of voices deciding fates, and absorbed this ritual of power like a child inhaling the scent of fresh bread.
Now he walked past without even slowing his step. He only ran his fingers along the rough edge—not like one longing to return, but like one saying goodbye. The touch was brief, but in it lived the shadow of former fascination, mixed with the chill of estrangement.
Yaroslava was about to turn left, toward the table of the fortress mages, but Olekir suddenly squeezed her hand again and led her onward. His grip held not so much command as a firmness that needed no explanation.
Ratibor noticed this, just as he was about to sit at the opposite table of the warrior commanders. His brows furrowed, something between irritation and wariness flashing in his gaze, but he said nothing. Because he knew: something had changed. And not just in the hall, but in the very order of things.
They passed several smaller tables—those where the children and wives of those present usually sat. That had once been his place beside his mother, where he caught fragments of adult conversations, trying to piece together a map of the world. But today he didn't even glance that way.
His path led to the far end of the hall, where tables stood that were almost always empty. These were places for the fortress's rare guests, outsiders who came and went without staying long. Today, he chose them.
The gazes of servants, warriors, mages—all focused on him. Some looked with astonishment, some with anxiety, others with a quiet hope they couldn't explain. In the silence, only the crackling of firewood in the hearth and the soft creak of the floor under his steps could be heard.
He went straight to the chosen table in the dark corner, set his goblet on the rough board, and sat down. With a gesture, he invited Yaroslava and Myroslava to take seats beside him.
They settled in, and in that moment it became clear: this was the first table where someone had already sat. The rest of the hall still stood—warriors, soldiers, mages, even servants waiting for the signal. By ancient custom, no one sat until the voivode took his place.
The silence that hung for several heartbeats was palpable. Glances slid toward the head table, but Borivitr hadn't moved yet. He stood, exchanging a few words with two senior warriors, as if nothing had happened. But even in that indifference, there was something tense—like a hunter who sees movement in the grass but pretends not to notice.
The warriors at their table exchanged glances. Some of them grimaced slightly, others watched the voivode's brother with curiosity. The warriors tried to maintain their usual expressions, but their shoulders held an artificial relaxation. The mages with Velymyra sat apart, observing Olekir without emotion but with an attentiveness that needed no words.
Only when Borivitr finally moved to his place at the head table and sat down did the rest of the hall, as if by an invisible signal, begin to take their seats. But the first one already seated was Olekir—and everyone saw it.
He leaned toward Yaroslava, said something to her, and she laughed brightly, ignoring the several pairs of eyes that turned their way again. Myroslava, though trying to remain calm, looked around as if afraid this audacity of the son would have consequences.
Olekir, noticing this, lightly touched her hand—and that was enough for her to relax a little. Then he called out loudly:
— My goblet is empty!
His voice rang out so that even the crackling of the fire momentarily stilled. Ratibor's girl, who had almost taken her seat beside him, didn't even glance at her master—she instantly picked up the pitcher of mead and moved toward Olekir. No hesitation, no seeking permission—just quick, obedient execution of the order.
She leaned over, pouring, and the golden drink whispered softly against the silver. Olekir didn't even thank her—just nodded, as if it were only to be expected.
A wave of chuckles rolled through the hall.
— Look at that, — one of the warriors said loudly enough for neighbors to hear, — even serves her master's brother like a servant.
— He subdued her with one look, — another picked up, — like a mare sensing a stronger rider.
— Ha! — came from the far end of the table. — Seems whoever's hand is firmer gets the fuller goblet.
— And Ratibor, look, doesn't say a word, — threw in another, and several heads leaned closer to hear more.
Laughter and whispers spread through the benches like smoke on the wind.
But despite the jokes, life in the hall continued. Servants brought out bowls of stewed meat, baskets of bread, pitchers of wine. One of the warriors, leaning toward his neighbor, discussed the state of the northern gate—whether it would last another winter without repair. At the mages' table, they quietly argued about the quality of the latest batch of herbs brought from the south. Two warriors, chewing, exchanged short remarks about changing guards on the eastern wall.
But every time Olekir leaned toward Yaroslava, whispered to her, and she laughed brightly and carefree, several pairs of eyes involuntarily turned his way. The glances were quick, almost accidental, but they held a cautious wariness—like people watching a fire that's still in the hearth but could spill onto the dry floor.
Ratibor sat motionless, listening to fragments of conversation about grain supplies and weapon distribution, but his gaze occasionally slid to the dark corner where his brother sat. Velymyra still appeared indifferent, and Borivitr, while conversing with two senior warriors about an upcoming ride to neighboring lands, again and again turned his eyes to his son in the pauses between words.
And though the hall was filled with the everyday bustle of a meal, beneath it flowed another current—quiet but tense, like a stream under ice.