Oleksandr moved like water, fluid and precise. As the guard’s fist came hurtling toward him, he ducked with effortless grace, his body weaving beneath the blow. In one swift motion, he caught the man’s wrist, twisting it in a firm but controlled grip. Before the guard could react, Oleksandr spun him around, locking his arm behind his back and wrapping a muscular forearm around the man’s neck, holding him in a perfect submission. The other guards, gathered around the training field, watched in rapt attention, their eyes wide as they took in the demonstration. Dust swirled beneath their feet, stirred by the breeze that swept across the open grounds, but no one moved, their focus locked on their captain. With a calm, measured gaze, Oleksandr looked up at them. His voice was steady, low, yet commanding, carrying effortlessly across the field.

“You see?” He said, his accent thick but his words clear. “It’s not about brute strength alone. You must be able to anticipate your opponent’s actions, use their momentum against them. Always have the upper hand.” He released the guard, who stumbled forward, rubbing his shoulder with a sheepish grin. Oleksandr straightened, stepping toward his men, his imposing figure casting a long shadow in the afternoon sun. His pale blue eyes, sharp and penetrating, scanned their faces, ensuring they absorbed every word.

“Victory in battle isn’t just about force,” he continued, his tone firm but not harsh. “It’s about control. Knowing when to strike, and how to turn your enemy’s strength into their weakness. You are soldiers, not brawlers. Use your mind as much as your sword.” The men nodded in unison, understanding settling over them. Their captain was not a man of wasted words, and they respected him for it. His teachings were hard-earned from countless battles, and they would be fools to ignore them. That's when his attention is grabbed by a servant who walks over, bowing his head slightly.

"Captain, a word." He turns his attention to the servant, nodding for the servant to speak. The servant leans in and whispers something to Oleksandr, who listens intently, nodding to indicate that he understands. The other guards look on, curious and a little uneasy, wondering what news the servant has brought. As the servant turns to leave, Oleksandr pats the guard he had been demonstrating with on the back, then addresses the group as a whole.

"Practice in pairs for fifteen minutes and then you're dismissed. You know the drill, clean up and get fed, and on with your duties." The guards nod and begin to pair up and practice together. Oleksandr watches for a moment, making sure they're all following his instructions before he rinses himself off at a water trough, the cool water washing over him and refreshing his body. He takes a moment to catch his breath and compose himself, his mind focused on the upcoming meeting with the king. He finishes up and goes to get dressed, donning his formal attire. He takes a moment to double-check his appearance, making sure that he looks presentable before heading off to the king's chambers. He walks through the corridors of the castle, his footsteps ringing out on the stone floor. He passes by the various guards and servants who give him respectful nods and hellos, but he remains focused and stoic, his mind already running through scenarios and conversations in his head.

He finally reaches the doors to the king's drawing room, and he gives a quick rap on the door, waiting for permission to enter.

"Come in." Oleksandr nodded to himself, steeling his resolve before pushing open the heavy wooden door. It creaked as it swung inward, revealing the spacious, stone-walled office of the king. He stepped inside with the quiet confidence of a seasoned warrior, his presence commanding yet respectful. As he entered, he bowed deeply, his large frame bending low, a gesture of humility and fealty. His sharp blue eyes flickered up briefly, sweeping across the room with practiced vigilance. The king was seated at a large, ornate table, surrounded by a handful of his most trusted advisors. Papers and scrolls were spread across the table—strategies, maps, matters of state, but the room now seemed to narrow its focus entirely on him.

The king looked up, his expression a mixture of sternness and curiosity, his gaze lingering on Oleksandr with the weight of expectation.

“Rise, Oleksandr,” he commanded, his voice steady but layered with an unspoken intensity. Oleksandr straightened, his posture tall and imposing, yet he kept his head slightly bowed in respect.

"Your Majesty," he began, his voice low but clear. “You summoned me.”

“Indeed I did,” the king replied slowly, leaning back in his chair. His fingers steepled as he continued, “I have a matter that requires a man of your... particular talents.” Oleksandr’s jaw tightened slightly, sensing that the king’s words carried weight beyond the usual orders.

“Whatever task you require, it will be done, Your Majesty,” he said, his voice firm, though his sharp eyes held a glimmer of intrigue.

“Sir Oleksandr, please, take a seat,” the king said, gesturing with a wave of his hand. His voice carried the weight of authority, calm yet firm. The advisor seated beside him immediately began to unfurl a series of scrolls across the large wooden table, the rustle of parchment filling the room as a map of Europe spread out, along with notes and documents detailing recent dealings. Oleksandr lowered himself into the chair, his eyes sharp as they darted over the map and the marked locations. He took in the information with practiced ease, already analyzing before a word had been spoken. The king leaned forward, his fingers tapping the edge of the table as he spoke.

“Oleksandr, it has come to our attention that a significant trade we conducted a few months ago was... less than honest.” Oleksandr’s gaze flicked to the king, his brow lifting slightly.

“A fraudulent trade, Your Majesty?” The king nodded grimly.

“Yes. We brokered a substantial deal with a northern tribe known as the Skarnjöl. Their chieftain, a man called Oddvarr, led the exchange.” He paused, gesturing toward his advisor, who swiftly laid another scroll in front of Oleksandr. It contained a detailed sketch of the man.

“You’ve seen him before,” the king added. Oleksandr leaned closer, his eyes narrowing as the face in the sketch triggered an old memory. He was there, he watched the deal happen with this slaver. His jaw tightened.

“I recall,” he said, his voice gravelly. The king’s expression darkened, his tone growing more serious.

“Our ambassadors, sent to oversee the payment and do further dealings, are missing. I suspect foul play. They may be dead, but if they live, I need them returned to me. As for Oddvarr...” The king’s voice trailed off, leaving the command unsaid but clear.

Oleksandr’s body tensed, the mention of Oddvarr stirring something within him. The idea of traveling into the untamed lands of the north, hunting down a man he knew to be treacherous, set his pulse racing. His hand rested on the hilt of his sword as the king continued.

“Bring him to me, Oleksandr,” the king said, his eyes hard. “Dead or alive.” A cold, determined expression settled on Oleksandr’s face. He can feel the familiar rush of adrenaline coursing through his veins, the primal thrill of the hunt stirring him like a wild animal.

“Consider it done, Your Highness,” Oleksandr replied, his voice steady as steel. The king leaned back in his chair, his eyes appraising Oleksandr.

“I knew you were the right man for the job,” he said, his voice holding a note of finality. His hand gestured toward the northernmost point on the map, a desolate region marked by jagged coastlines and sparsely drawn details. “This is where the Skarnjöl tribe resides. The very top of the world.” He looked at Oleksandr, the weight of the mission pressing in the air between them. “Do you speak Norwegian?”

Oleksandr nodded, his face betraying no emotion. “I learned it from my comrades in the Varangian Guard, Your Majesty. Many of them were Norse.” The king gave a slow, approving nod before his voice dropped to a more serious tone.

If you come across this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.

“Good. You’ll need it. But I must warn you... the journey is long and dangerous. You are going to the edge of the world, beyond what most men would dare. It doesn't get more North than this, and it will take you at least a year to complete the mission. If you survive.” Oleksandr’s lips twitched, a feral grin creeping across his face, his blue eyes gleaming with a wild, untamed spark.

“A year’s journey to the edge of the world, eh? I’ve done worse.”

The king, seeing the glimmer in Oleksandr’s eyes, continued, “That’s what I expected. Still, this will be no small feat. Oddvarr is a cunning bastard, and his men are fiercely loyal. The terrain will be harsh, the winters longer than you’ve known. But you, Oleksandr...” The king paused, his expression sharpening, “You’ll blend in with the Northmen. They’ll take you as one of their own.” Oleksandr nodded, but his mind wandered. The thought of being gone for a year—it gnawed at him. His thoughts strayed to Savka, his girl, who filled his every waking moment with a quiet, burning need. He imagined her waiting in the castle, alone. The king would likely consider her marriage prospects while he was away. The idea of some nobleman touching her, laying claim to what was his, filled him with a possessive, caveman rage. His fingers twitched at his side, aching to grip something, to take action. He tried to keep his face composed, but the thought of her slipping through his grasp made him want to snarl like a beast.

The king’s voice interrupted his thoughts. “This is why I chose you, Oleksandr. You will blend in, not just because of your skills, but because of your blood. You look like one of them. A Norseman from the wild.” The king’s finger traced the northern edge of the map as he spoke, his voice lowering with gravitas.

“According to the information we’ve gathered from our sources, Oddvarr and his tribe are renowned for their fierce warrior culture. They hold strength and cunning above all else. Their combat skills are highly respected, and Oddvarr himself is believed to be a formidable fighter despite his age—just as ruthless as he is strategic. It’s said that he can shift from charming diplomat to merciless brute in the blink of an eye.” The king’s gaze flickered to Oleksandr, watching for any reaction, but Oleksandr’s face remained impassive, his pale blue eyes fixed on the map.

“He frequents a large slave market in Estonia for his dealings,” the king continued. “Our trade ambassadors knew of his reputation beforehand and were confident in their ability to handle the negotiations. But it’s been months since we’ve heard anything from them. They’ve vanished without a trace. Which leds us to believe they either didn’t survive the journey back... or they were betrayed by Oddvarr. Now, our messenger has also gone missing.” Oleksandr’s mind raced, processing the king’s words. The gears turned in his head, forming a possible plan. The king's eyes bore into him, waiting for him to speak. Oleksandr feels the weight of his gaze, the pressure to respond, to be honest with his needs and desires. But he keeps his face stoic, maintaining his tough, impenetrable facade. There is only one thing he really wants, more than he has ever wanted anything in his life…

Finally, after a brief pause, Oleksandr leaned forward slightly, his voice calm but pointed. “Your Highness, forgive me for asking, but... what’s in this for me? There’s a chance I may not return from this mission alive.” The king’s eyes narrowed, clearly expecting the question. He spoke without hesitation.

“Gold. More than you could earn in years of mercenary work. And not just that—I will offer you land. A fief we’ve reclaimed, ready for a lord.” Oleksandr’s jaw tightened, but he shook his head slowly, his gaze hardening as he met the king’s eyes. “I don’t care for land or gold,” he said, his voice low, almost dangerous. “You know that. There’s only one thing I truly want.” The air between them thickened, the weight of unspoken desire palpable. The king raised an eyebrow, intrigued.

“And what is that?”

Oleksandr's gaze turned and lingered on the large, framed portrait hanging on the wall, his heart pounding as he took in the image of Princess Vidosavka—her soft features, the graceful arch of her neck, the way her hair tumbled like black silk around her shoulders. He turned back to the king, a storm of emotion brewing within him. The king followed Oleksandr’s gaze, his eyes narrowing as he recognized the man’s yearning for his daughter. He nodded slowly, his expression shifting from curiosity to a mixture of annoyance and resignation.

“Ah... I see where your interests lie, Oleksandr.” Leaning back in his chair, the king tapped his fingers together, a steely glint in his eye. “And you want to marry my daughter.” It was more of a statement than a question, each word weighted with gravity as he scrutinized Oleksandr’s face for any sign of deception. Oleksandr met the king’s gaze with fierce intensity, unflinching.

“I must be honest with you, Your Majesty. Long have I greatly desired her.” His voice was steady, unwavering in the face of the king’s scrutiny. A heavy sigh escaped the king’s lips, his expression remaining stern as he regarded Oleksandr with a calculating stare.

“You desire her, but what makes you think you’re worthy of her?” His words were cold, a challenge thrown into the air, thick with expectation.

“You know I'm worthy of her. You brought me here. Demanded my presence in your kingdom. You know my worth.” Oleksandr replied, his voice low yet firm. “My feelings are known to her.” He leaned in closer, the air between them crackling with tension. “Not only am I the captain of your guards, where I have served you well, but I am also your loyal knight. You say you wish to offer me land? That would make me a lord, would it not?” The king leaned forward, his expression shifting as he considered Oleksandr’s words.

“It would,” he conceded slowly, “but that alone does not make you worthy of her heart. A title does not guarantee her affection, nor does it assure me of your intentions.”

“Then allow me to prove myself,” Oleksandr urged, the fire of determination igniting within him. “I will undertake this mission to find Oddvarr and return your ambassadors. Should I succeed, you will see my sacrifice, loyalty and worthiness laid bare before you.”

The king's expression darkened further, a fleeting moment of possessiveness flashing in his eyes. “But my daughter...” He paused, his tone hardening as he continued, “My daughter is not something to be given away lightly. She’s young, innocent, and beautiful. Any man would be willing to give anything to have her. I’ve been receiving offers of betrothals for her for many months now, all of which I have rejected. Why on earth would I give her to you?” Oleksandr met the king’s gaze with a cunning glint in his eyes.

“Because you wish not to send her away to some foreign land. We both know that if you do, you’ll lose your precious daughter, and you’ll have no heir.” The king grumbled under his breath, the truth of Oleksandr’s words gnawing at him.

“You make a valid point,” he muttered, the tension in the room palpable. Oleksandr pressed on, sensing the king’s wavering resolve.

“If you give me her hand, you’ll never lose her. She’ll be here, in your country, and our sons will be your heirs.” He stepped forward, his voice steady and confident. “And you know I would produce strong heirs, Dragoje. As many as you'd like.” The king’s brow furrowed as he contemplated Oleksandr’s proposal, the weight of the decision resting heavily upon him. The king glares at Oleksandr, anger sparking in his eyes. He hates being trapped like this, cornered into giving his daughter away. But he can see that Oleksandr is right, the only logical choice. Oleksandr will never take no for an answer, he wants the princess too badly. The king sighs, his voice low and begrudging as he responds.

"Damn you, Oleksandr." Oleksandr seized the moment, his heart racing with hope.

“Think of it, Your Majesty. A warrior bound to your family, not only by loyalty but by blood. Our lineage would be strong, a union forged from shared values and strength. And love. You've seen the families produced by diplomatic unions. Unloved at best, deformed at worst. I have strong genes. The strongest. And my love for her... It will be seen in the quality of our children.” The king leans forward, fixing Oleksandr with a hard stare.

“You’re playing a dangerous game, Oleksandr. But if you fail… Her hand will go to another man.”

“I will not fail,” Oleksandr assured him, the fire of determination igniting within him. “I will bring back Oddvarr, and I will return with your ambassadors. You have my word.” The king gives Oleksandr a sharp nod in return, a sour look on his face. He's clearly not happy about this outcome, but he's accepted it.

"Good. Then we have an agreement. Consider yourselves... betrothed.” Oleksandr remained stoic, his face a mask of calm determination, but inside, he felt like he was going to explode. The weight of the king's words hung heavily in the air, and adrenaline coursed through his veins. Every beat of his heart drummed a primal rhythm of ambition and longing.

“Now... the details of your mission…” At that, the king leans in, his tone businesslike as he starts to discuss the specifics of the task, the plan forming together. Oleksandr’s mind raced with thoughts of his beloved. He imagined her smile, the warmth of her laughter, and the way her eyes sparkled with innocence. The prospect of winning her hand felt like a distant star within his reach, but the journey ahead would be treacherous, and every moment spent away from her felt like an eternity.

He knew that at this point, his fate was balancing on a knife’s edge: succeed and return alive to marry the woman he loved, or fail and die in the frozen wilderness of Norway, lost to the world and forever separated from her.

(New illustration I just made: Olek as a nomad)

image [https://i.imgur.com/ghEVRTh.jpeg]