Oleksandr moved methodically, his mind focused on the task at hand. The familiar smell of leather and dried venison filled the air as he packed. His movements were quick but deliberate, the practiced efficiency of a seasoned warrior preparing for another perilous journey. He had done this many times before, but something about this mission felt different—heavier, as if the air itself carried the weight of the unknown north, along with the fact this may be the last time he sets out for a journey. He has faced danger countless times, where he had made peace with the prospects of never returning, but now it was different. He had much to lose. For once, he wasn’t spitting in the face of death.
He began by laying out the essentials. An old, worn pack sat open on the floor, its leather softened from years of use. Into it, he carefully placed his old maps, dog-eared and marked with the trails he had once traveled, and a few new ones, detailing the rugged, unfamiliar terrain of the northern lands. The thick parchment crackled faintly as he slid them inside, their faded lines offering a semblance of control over the vast wilderness that awaited him.
Next, he gathered a pouch of coin—enough for whatever trading or bribes he might need along the way, though he knew that in the wild, gold meant far less than the strength of his arm or the sharpness of his blade. He stashed the pouch deep within the pack, followed by a generous portion of dried venison, enough to sustain him for weeks if need be. Its rich, smoky scent reminded him of past journeys, of long nights around a fire, and of survival in the harshest of conditions.
A new bow, sleek and powerful, along with a fresh quiver of arrows, was slung over his shoulder. He ran his hand over the wood, testing its weight, pleased with its balance. Beside it, he set another bow—this one for his companion. He had made sure everything was in perfect condition. There would be no room for error where they were going. A pair of sharp daggers followed, their edges gleaming in the low light, and a sturdy second sword for backup, its hilt heavy in his hand.
His clothing was simple but practical. A wool tunic, thick but not too cumbersome, and leather breeches that would stand up to the cold and bramble of the wilds. It would be belted together with a new leather strap, and cloak over his shoulders. The cloak was light, but he knew he'd need something far warmer once they reached the northern lands. That could wait for now. The journey ahead would demand speed as much as strength. He knelt set down a pair of moccasins alongside his other gear, their soft soles designed for stealth and comfort over the harsh ground.
Oleksandr stepped into the blacksmith's dimly lit workshop, the familiar clanging of hammer against anvil echoing through the space. The air smelled of hot iron and burning coal, the warmth of the forge creating a sharp contrast to the cool morning air outside. The blacksmith wiped his soot-covered hands on his apron as he spotted Oleksandr. Without a word, the blacksmith reached for the scimitar laid out on the table, its polished blade gleaming even in the low light. He turned it slowly, letting the fresh edge catch the faint glimmer from the forge’s fire, the metal ringing a song of deadly precision.
"It’s always a pleasure to work with Albanian steel," the blacksmith said with pride, handing over the sword with reverence. Oleksandr took the scimitar in his hand, feeling the familiar weight and balance as if it were an extension of his arm. He let the blade catch the light, admiring the craftsmanship. It was no ordinary sword, this one had been gifted to him years ago by Skanderbeg, and had been with him through battles, bloodshed, and survival, and now it had been returned to him, ready for the journey ahead.
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"Yes," Oleksandr replied, running his fingers lightly along the sharpened edge. "Albanian steel is the best." He swung the sword through the air in a slow arc, testing the balance, feeling the familiar grip and weight as if reconnecting with an old friend. It felt right—perfect, even. This was a blade he could trust, one that had seen him through before and would again. The blacksmith nodded, a grunt of approval escaping his lips.
"Feels like it belongs in your hand, doesn’t it?"
Oleksandr sheathed the sword with a satisfying click, securing it at his side. "She always does," he said, his voice carrying a quiet certainty. With the scimitar at his side, he felt ready to face whatever the north had in store for him.
After nodding his thanks to the blacksmith, Oleksandr turned and strode toward the stables where his horse, Deago, waited. The large black stallion snorted as he approached, pawing the ground impatiently. Oleksandr gave the horse a firm pat on the neck, his fingers brushing over the coarse braided mane, a silent exchange of trust between them. He saddled Deago with care, tightening the leather straps of the saddle and securing his supplies. His pack, filled with maps, provisions, and survival gear, was fastened to the back of the saddle. Oleksandr made sure everything was secured tightly, nothing could afford to be lost on a journey as perilous as this one.
Deago stood tall and proud, a sturdy warhorse bred for battle, not easily spooked by the promise of danger. Oleksandr whispered a few calming words in the stallion’s ear as he placed his second bow, along with his quiver of arrows, on the saddle. The rest of his weapons, daggers, an extra sword for his companion, were carefully packed with the rest of the gear. Once Deago was prepared, Oleksandr turned to the second horse, a strong, stocky creature selected for his companion. The horse, though not as imposing as Deago, had a steady, reliable presence—a beast made for endurance on long, harsh journeys. Oleksandr saddled this one just as carefully, ensuring it would be ready for the rugged northern paths ahead.
As he finished the final adjustments, tightening the last strap, he stepped back and took a deep breath. The supplies were packed, the horses ready, and the journey beckoned like the winds of fate.
With everything prepared he made his way back to the castle, seeking the comfort of a hot bath for the last time in what could be weeks or months. The familiar scent of damp stone and incense greeted him as he walked through the halls, his footsteps echoing softly against the limestone floors.
The bath chamber was warm, steam rising from the water as he sank into it, letting the heat ease the tension from his muscles. He leaned back against the smooth edges of the tub, closing his eyes for a moment, savoring the luxury. The journey ahead would offer no such indulgences. A place where his personal cleanliness would be a rare privilege, and survival would demand everything he had.
After some time, he reached for the comb beside the tub, running it through his long hair, working out the knots. His pale blue eyes flicked to the mirror across the room, catching his own reflection. His stubble had thickened over the past days, framing his sharp jawline.
He considered shaving, the blade sitting idly on the basin. But the North wasn’t a place for smooth faces or showing off his chiseled looks. No, the men there were hardened, bearded, and grizzled by life in the brutal wilderness. He would need to blend in, to become one of them, at least in appearance. He touched the rough stubble on his chin and decided to let it grow.
“Better to wear the cold like a man,” he muttered to himself, dropping the thought of shaving altogether.
With his hair combed out and his body clean, Oleksandr stood and dried himself, feeling the weight of the mission settling on his shoulders once more. He got dressed, preparing to leave behind the warmth of the castle for the uncertainty and danger of the road north.