Oleksandr takes a moment to freshen up, splashing cold water on his face and checking his appearance in the mirror. He adjusts his clothes, checks to make sure his sword, belt and dagger are securely in place, and combs his fingers through his hair to tidy it up. He takes a deep breath, steeling himself for the long evening of court duty ahead of him, before leaving to report to his position at the entry to the court. He takes up a position near the king's throne, his arms crossed over his broad chest and a stoic expression on his face. He stands, a silent sentinel, watching the courtiers and nobles as they chatter and gossip amongst themselves, discussing everything from politics to fashion to the latest scandals. His eyes scan the room, taking note of any potential threats or strange behavior, but his mind keeps wandering back to the princess and their time together in the garden.
Court is called to order and the official proceedings begin. The nobles and courtiers take their seats and the king takes his throne, presiding over the assembly. Oleksandr remains silent, watching the exchanges with a neutral expression, his thoughts elsewhere, his mind filled with images of the princess. They discuss various pressing issues of state: a revolt amongst some vassals, border disputes with neighboring lands, alliances to solidify to counter the encroaching Ottoman threat.
The king, seated at the head of the room, leaned forward in his great chair, brow furrowed, hands gripping the armrests with a tension that did not go unnoticed.
His voice cut through the din, firm yet laced with an undercurrent of frustration. “Any news on the trade ambassadors sent with Oddvarr's company?” The hall fell silent. All eyes turned to a nobleman, standing at the far end of the chamber, clearly prepared for this moment. He stepped forward, clearing his throat before speaking, though he could not mask the unease in his tone.
“Your Majesty, there has been no word yet from the trade ambassadors dispatched with Oddvarr’s company. They are now a month overdue in their expected return.” He paused, glancing nervously around the room before continuing, “There is no telling what may have happened to them in the North.” The silence that followed was deafening. The king's face tightened, his brow furrowed deeper. He pinched the bridge of his nose, muttering a curse under his breath.
“Damn it... Damn,” he hissed softly, his voice low, but the emotion was raw. The flicker of concern in his eyes did little to hide the growing storm behind them. Tension rippled through the court, every noble and advisor keenly aware of the gravity of the situation. To be left in the dark now, with no word from his ambassadors or his goods, was more than an inconvenience. It was an insult. The room remained unnervingly still, until one of the courtiers, braver than most, dared to break the silence.
“Sire,” he began, his voice hesitant, “what shall we do? We cannot sit idle while our men and our investments have vanished.” The king’s expression hardened further, his eyes narrowing as he regarded the courtier.
“No, we cannot,” he replied, his voice taut with frustration, “but we have no information. No way of knowing what has happened. We cannot move blindly without understanding the full extent of this... betrayal.” The last word dripped from his tongue like venom, his eyes darkening at the thought.
Another adviser, an older man with sharp features, stepped forward, his voice offering a sliver of suggestion. “Perhaps, Your Majesty, we could send a messenger north. Demand an explanation from Oddvarr himself, inquire after our missing men and goods. If there has been foul play... we will know.” The king considered this for a moment, his gaze distant as he mulled over the option. The tension in the room thickened, his court waiting for his judgment. After a long breath, his decision was made. “Very well,” he said, his voice resolute. “Prepare a messenger to travel to Norway. Demand an explanation from Oddvarr. He will answer for the missing ambassadors... and for our property.”
A murmur of agreement rippled through the court, though it did little to help the unease that now settled heavily in the room. The king’s face remained dark, his thoughts troubled. Oleksandr listened to the proceedings intensely. Oddvarr was clearly not a man to trust, and deep down, he feared this was no mere delay—it was the beginning of something far worse.
Later that evening, Oleksandr stands near the king’s table in the dining hall during dinner. The attendants are merry and boisterous, the sound of laughter and conversation ringing through the air. His sharp ears catch a snippet of a conversation between the king and one of his advisors.
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The king's voice is low, but he can make out the words, "any updates on the proposal from Prince Andrey?" Oleksandr's curiosity is piqued, and he turns his attention towards the conversation, his ears straining to hear the response.
The advisor's voice is measured and thoughtful, "he is eager for your daughter’s hand, that much is clear."
There's a slight pause, and the king's response is contemplative. "It's true he has been persistent in his pursuit of her hand." He seems to be deep in thought, his eyes fixed on the swirling liquid in his glass. His voice is soft, his expression solemn as he continues, "I haven't come to a decision yet… It pains me to think about it." His words echo with a deep sense of fatherly protectiveness, as if the thought of Vidosavka being courted and married brings a measure of pain and sadness to his heart. The advisor chimes in with a practicality, his voice pragmatic.
"But sire, you must get her off your hands. She is nearing her twentieth birthday." The king nods slowly, a hint of resigned inevitability in his expression.
"Yes, I know. It's only a matter of time before I must make a decision about who she is to marry."
"And with Prince Andrey, your daughter will be well taken care of, and you'll have Bulgaria as a strong ally." The king nods again, his expression still tinged with sadness and resignation.
"I know," he repeats, his voice heavy with the weight of his responsibility as a parent and ruler.
Despite his stoic exterior, Oleksandr's heart is clenched with a deep sense of despair. The king's words have echoed in his mind like a death knell. His princess, the woman he loves more than life itself, being courted and soon married off to another man. The thought alone is enough to send a cold chill down his spine.
The king's voice is grave, his expression guarded as he speaks. "I'm troubled with the idea of sending her away, to that foreign land, surrounded by Ottomans and Mongrels.” The third advisor's voice chimes in, his tone more wary and cautious.
"Sending Princess Vidosavka to Bulgaria would mean effectively becoming their vassal. You'd lose control of the kingdom, not to mention your daughter." The king's expression darkens, his brow furrowing as the implications sink in. He takes a moment to consider the advisor's words, the weight of the potential consequences bearing down on his shoulders. He knows that the decision he makes will have far-reaching ramifications for not only him but also for his kingdom.
"And what of my dynasty? If she is to be sent away, my line ends here, with me."
"Why not marry her off to someone closer by, perhaps one of your vassals?"
The king shoots down that suggestion with a sigh, "none of my vassals are available at the moment. Either they are already married, or unmarried but not a good match for my daughter." The advisor proposes another potential candidate.
"What about Count Bendri?" The king immediately dismisses that suggestion with a shake of his head.
"No, no. Bendri is far too old for her." The king mulls over his options, his gaze fixed on the table in front of him. He reaches out for a glass of wine and takes a slow sip, his expression contemplative. "I've considered many options, but none seem entirely suitable." Oleksandr's heart is heavy in his chest as he listens to the king speak, his mind already picturing the worst-case scenarios of the princess being married off to some far-off prince or nobleman. He feels a cold, primal rage begin to burn inside him. The thought of anyone, regardless of social class or position, thinking they are worthy of the princess sends a possessive fury coursing through his veins. He clenches his fists, his knuckles growing white with tension.
"Well, your highness, I myself have been looking for a bri-" The king shoots the nobleman a glare, silencing him.
Later that evening, Oleksandr storms into his chamber, slamming the door behind him, the force of the impact echoing through the room. He paces back and forth, running his hands through his hair and gritting his teeth in frustration. His mind is a storm of anger and possessiveness, thoughts of his woman being married off to some stranger tormenting him with jealousy and dread. His heart aches like a wounded animal, his love for her burning bright and intense. He had been waiting for the opportunity to earn a title and impress the king, but it seemed like time was running out. He clenched his jaw, his chest feeling tight and his head pounding.
She was his. Why else would he have journeyed all this way, if not to be with her? She had appeared in his dreams, calling him to this place, to this moment, to her. It had to count for something, didn't it?
Didn't it?