Oleksandr stood in the dark, dank room, the scent of iron and stone thick in the air. The flickering light of a lone candle cast long shadows on the walls as he focused intently on the task at hand. His hand moved with precision, drawing the steel along the whetstone. The sound of the blade being sharpened echoed in the silence, a rhythmic scrape that seemed to cut through the boisterous noise from the crowd outside. Laughter, shouting, and the murmur of a thousand voices leaked through the thick wooden door, but Oleksandr remained unfazed, the chaos outside only heightening his concentration.

When the edge gleamed with a cold, deadly sharpness, he set the axe down carefully, running his fingers along the blade to test its honed edge. Satisfied, he reached for the dark apron hanging from a hook nearby, the coarse fabric rough against his skin as he pulled it over his shoulders. His hands, steady and sure, adjusted the straps, securing them. Next, his fingers brushed over the hooded mask hanging from a peg. It was made of a thick, weathered leather, its darkened surface stained with time and use. He lifted it slowly, pulling it over his head with deliberate slowness. The mask settled into place, obscuring his features, and he straightened, looking at himself in the small, cracked mirror. The reflection staring back at him was distant, a shadow of a man hidden beneath the heavy folds of cloth and leather.

Pushing through the crowded market, Oleksandr moved with deliberate steps, his presence parting the sea of peasants and farmers who shrank back at the sight of him. Eyes flickered nervously as he passed. He was a figure set apart—his broad shoulders, towering height, and the weight of his grim task clear to all who saw him.

As he reached the center square, a few soldiers stood guard, their eyes scanning the crowd. A high-ranking officer gave him a brief, appraising look. Oleksandr didn’t flinch under the gaze, walking past him without a word, his eyes fixed ahead. The officer remained silent too, content to let Oleksandr take his place beside him, both standing in silent anticipation.

Oleksandr’s focus sharpened as he caught sight of the man being led toward the elevated stage. The prisoner stumbled slightly, his hands bound with thick ropes, a blindfold tied over his eyes, his head bowed in what could only be described as defeat. The man’s movements were slow, mechanical, as if he already knew what awaited him.

It was only then that the crowd’s cheers grew louder, a wave of mocking taunts filling the air, their voices swelling with a kind of savage anticipation. Oleksandr could feel the weight of the crowd’s hunger for spectacle, the sense of power they drew from witnessing someone else’s fall. The prisoner’s shoulders sagged under the weight of their disdain, but he did not struggle.

Oleksandr stood leaning on his axe as the officer moved forward, taking the blindfold off the prisoner. Oleksandr’s sharp eyes remained on the prisoner, studying his face with a detached sort of focus. The man’s features were rough, weathered from what must have been a hard life—grime caked his skin, and his clothes were nothing more than rags, the remnants of what had once been a tunic and trousers. There was a defiance in his eyes, but it was buried deep beneath a veil of exhaustion, like someone who had long since given up on hope but still clung to survival by sheer force of will. His youth was apparent beneath the weariness, he couldn’t have been much older than twenty.

"People of Viš..." The officer intoned. "We gather before you today to deliver justice. The man, Yuri Yokavich, has been convicted of crimes against our city. He is guilty of treason, murder, and banditry." The officer turns to the accused young man who now stands bound before them. "Yuri… Do you deny these accusations?"

The officer’s words hung in the air, and for a moment, the crowd’s noise seemed to drown out everything else. Oleksandr’s eyes flicked back to the prisoner, watching as Yuri, his face twisted in anger and defiance, spat at the officer’s feet. "Go to hell," Yuri hissed, his voice thick with defiance, a venomous curse. The officer, unmoved, simply stared at him for a moment, before he shifted his gaze to Oleksandr. The man had been convicted, and now it was Oleksandr’s turn to do his part. As always, he was nothing more than the hand of the execution, the tool that carried out the city’s will. For him, it was as mundane as chopping vegetables. Nothing personal. Just work.

The young man’s struggles grow weaker as the guards force him to his knees, his wrists still bound tightly, his chest heaving with the approaching finality of his life. His face, pale with fear, betrays the tension within him. Yet, his eyes remain burning with defiance, staring out at the crowd like a man unbroken, even in the face of death.

"Any last words? Last chance to repent for your crimes before God." For a moment, there’s silence. Then, with a sneer, Yuri spits at the officer's feet again, a final act of rebellion. The crowd roars with laughter, some jeering, some applauding his spirit. But the officer's face remains impassive, as if he’s seen it all before, and he shifted his gaze to Oleksandr. The exchange was brief—a nod, a silent command. "Do your duty."

With a flick of his wrist, Oleksandr adjusts the axe, his grip firm and steady. He didn’t need to be told twice. He does not look at the crowd, does not need their approval, their noise. He is beyond that now. He steps forward, holding the axe in both hands, staring down at the man before him. He holds the axe out for a moment, eyeing where he must strike, a hush falling over the crowd. He takes a breath, and in one powerful, graceful movement, he swings his axe. The axe bites deep into the man’s neck, a swift and clean cut. There is no struggle, no blood-curdling scream. Only the quiet, efficient sound of steel meeting flesh.

The young man’s body jerks once, a final spasm of life before it goes limp, his head lolling to the side. The severed head falls, thudding to the platform with a sickening finality. The rope still binds his wrists, but his lifeless body slumps forward, heavy with the finality of death. The crowd is silent, watching the grim scene unfold. Then, as if on cue, the noise returns—cheers from some, a few cries of disgust from others. The officer gives a sharp nod, signaling the guards to remove the body. Oleksandr steps back, his axe lowered to the ground. The work is done. To him, it is nothing more than another task to be completed, another soul sent to its end. The axe feels lighter in his hands now, as if the weight of it has evaporated with the task at hand.

He steps back from the stage, wiping the blood from his axe on his clothes. The crowd cheers for him, clapping and congratulating him on a job well done. He pays them no mind, leaving the stage to wash up and return back to the castle.

He eventually makes it back to the castle after a couple of hours' ride, and gets dressed in his guard's attire. It's around dinner time, and he walks to the princess's study. Perfect timing, she should be finishing her lessons around now. He knocks on the door lightly, before walking into the room.

Vidosavka glances up at him as he walks in. She's seated at her desk, a mountain of books and scrolls piled on top of it. Judging from all the crumpled papers and used quills, she must've just finished up with a lesson. Upon seeing him walk into the room, she smiles softly, and rises from her seat. Oleksandr closes the door behind him, and bows his head at her politely. He strides towards her, closing the distance between them. He takes her hips in his large hands, pulling her towards him gently.

"Where were you all day? I missed you." She says softly, looking up at him. He smiles down at her, gently running a hand up her thigh.

"Had to take care of some things in town." He says. "But I'm here now." He presses his lips against her forehead, kissing her gently. "I missed you too."

"Are you hungry?"

"Aye, I am. I could eat a horse." He responds with a grin, going to grab her hand to lead her out of the room. She chuckles softly, looking up at him.

"Well then we should get you fed, hm? A big, strong boy like you needs plenty of food in his belly." She teases. She allows Oleksandr to lead her out of the room and down towards the dining hall. He takes care to maintain a respectful, professional distance between them. They sit down at the far end of the room, avoiding any unwanted attention. Oleksandr excuses himself briefly, going to grab their plates. When he comes back, he's holding a large steak in one hand, and a plate of turkey in another. He sits down beside her, placing the two plates in front of them. "Here we are," he murmurs.

As they eat, Oleksandr becomes aware of some dried blood still crusted between his fingers. It must've come from earlier when he executed the bandit. He doesn't mention it, going to wipe it off on his shirt. He glances at her, noticing that she's watching him. He resumes his steak like nothing happened, occasionally glancing at her. She has a slight inquisitive look on her face.

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"Olek..." She starts softly, picking at her food.

He looks up at her as she addresses him, swallowing a large bite of the bloody steak. "Hm?" He asks.

"You know, every time I hear about an execution happening in the country, you're gone all day."

He pauses as she speaks, his expression unreadable for a moment. He then picks up his goblet, taking a deep sip of wine. "And?" He asks. "What of it?"

"Nothing. I... I just noticed."

He speaks carefully, leaning in. "You know... Your father appointed me to be your country's executioner. It's just kept a bit... quiet, due to the nature of the position. I also didn't want you to dwell on it."

"You didn't want me to dwell on it..." She repeats softly. "Why? Why didn't you want me to know?"

"I... don't want you troubled with such matters. The gruesome aspects of my work are best kept out of a woman's ears."

She furrows her brow, thinking over his response. "I see..." She murmurs softly, looking back down at her plate. She's silent for several moments, picking at her food as she thinks. "Olek, I..." He waits for her to finish, taking another bite of the steak. She watches him, the bloody red juices dripping down his wrist as he clutches his meal. "...I want you to be honest with me." His brows knit slightly, his expression growing serious. He sets down his steak, wiping his mouth with a cloth.

"What is it?"

"How many... executions have you carried out?"

"Well... I suppose you'd have to define execution. For this kingdom? About twenty-five, or thirty. I don't recall." She's silent as he speaks, staring at the floor as she listens. Her face is pale, and she looks sick.

"Thirty..." She echoes softly. She then looks up at him again, shaking her head slightly. "No. I mean... how many in your life? Before this kingdom?"

"I was never a formal executioner before I started working for your father. Like I said, you'd have to define what you'd call an execution.”

"...I want to know how many souls you've taken in your lifetime. By whatever means."

He looks into his wine cup, swirling the liquid around. "I don't know. I haven't kept count."

She stares at him, unable to comprehend what he's saying. She opens and closes her mouth several times, struggling to find words. "You- you don't know?"

"If I had to guess it could be in the thousands. No, tens of thousands." Her eyes widen, horrified. She looks away from him, gripping the edge of her chair. "Savka..." He sighs, leaning in, placing his hand on the table in front of her. "There's a reason I keep you sheltered from these things. I know it's not easy to hear."

She shakes her head again, looking up at him. "I don't understand..." She whispers. "I- I can't-" She stammers, struggling to speak.

"Kotik," he says firmly. "Look at me." She looks up at him, her eyes wide and watering slightly. "I'm a warrior. It's what I must do, and I'm damn good at it. It's the life I was forced to lead." She bites her lip, shaking her head.

"I- I understand that..." She says softly, her voice cracking a bit. "I do... but..." She pauses, taking a deep breath. "I just..." Her words catch in her throat, and she lets out a small sob. He sighs again, leaning back in his chair, a bit exasperated, unsure what to say. He's not used to displays of emotion, let alone making a girl he loves cry.

He leans forward, gently wiping her tears away with his thumb. "Savka..." He murmurs. She sniffles a bit, wiping away her tears.

"I'm sorry. I just..." She looks at him again, her eyes teary. "How can you do it? How can you take the life of another person, without feeling any guilt or regret?"

"Because I don't kill people needlessly. I'm a killer, yes... But I wouldn't consider myself a murderer. At least that's… my opinion."

"Do... Do you ever wonder what happens to the people you kill?" She asks quietly. "Their souls... where they go?"

"That's not up to me to decide, or to ponder on. It's in God's hands. I just set up the appointment."

She looks at him again, still teary eyed. "But-" Her words catch in her throat again, and she lowers her head. "But... What if it was someone you loved being executed?" His expression hardens at the question, and he stares at the table, his brow furrowing slightly. When he finally speaks, his voice is cold and flat.

"That would never happen." She looks up at him again, her expression pleading.

"But what if it did? If someone you loved - someone you truly loved - was guilty and set to be executed, how would you react? Could you just go through with it, and swing the axe, without hesitation?"

He pauses, contemplating. "No. I wouldn't. Well... It depends."

"On what?"

"What are their crimes? Did they do something truly devious, insulting to humanity and society? Or did they merely break a silly law? There's factors to consider. It's not so black and white."

She nods slowly, her expression somber. "I- I see..." She mumbles softly.

"There's many layers to it, Savka. I'm not the judge in the state's executions. I swing the axe. I don't want you to trouble yourself with such matters, girl. The philosophical aspects of dealing out death and punishment isn't for women, the likes of yourself."

She stiffens slightly, looking up at him. "Why?" She asks, her voice slightly defensive. "Why can't I trouble myself with it? Because I'm a woman?"

He returns his attention back to his steak. "Because you’re young and innocent. Hold on to your innocence, don't be so eager to face the darkness in this world. You're lucky you never had to face such things."

"I'm not a child." She says bitterly, her grip tightening on the table. "You don't have to keep sheltering me from all the cruelness of the world, Olek. I'm not going to break.”

He sighs, reaching over and touching her hand. "That's kind of my job, princess. If you want to explore your morbid curiosities... It is what is is. But you're not getting it from me."

"I'm not asking you to feed into my morbid curiosity… I just don't want to be kept in the dark. I want to know what you go through..." She lifts her head slightly, looking him in the eye. "Please, Olek. I don't want you to treat me like some fragile doll..." His eyes flicker between hers. He knows he's being unfair and somewhat demeaning, treating her, an adult woman, like a sheltered little girl, but he can't help himself. It's almost as if he's trying not to pollute the one pure thing in his life. She stares at him, her expression hopeful, her eyes searching his for some sort of reply. Finally, Oleksandr lets out a long sigh, his shoulders sagging slightly as his resolve fades away. He leans back in his chair, his hand still resting gently over her's.

"Fine." He says finally, speaking firmly. "Fine. I won't try to hide everything from you. I... I'll try to answer any question you have, to the best of my ability. Just... don't blame me if you don't like the answers you hear. If you start crying again, I'm done talking."

"Thank you… I won’t get emotional again." She says softly, giving his hand a gentle squeeze. "Do you ever... Do you ever feel guilty? About what you do?"

"No."

She looks surprised by the bluntness of his response. "Never?"

"I try not to kill without reason."

"Yes, but... don't you feel anything? No remorse, no guilt ever? How can you just... kill someone and feel nothing?"

"If I burdened myself with remorse for the thousand of souls I've taken, I wouldn't have made it this far."

She nods slowly, taking in his words. "I suppose that makes sense... But… Don't you ever get tired of it? Of all the violence and bloodshed? Doesn't it ever weigh on you?"

He thinks for a moment, crossing his arms. "It's strange, actually," he muses. "It weighs on me more, when I've been away from battle for some time." She looks confused by his statement, tilting her head to the side slightly.

"What do you mean? Wouldn't it be the opposite?"

He shrugs. "Perhaps. I think that my body is accustomed to stress and adrenaline, to the thrill of battle. I only ever have night terrors and fits of battle-madness when I've been stagnant for too long. Perhaps my heart craves the violence, so it fills in the blanks when it's not getting its fill of bloodlust."

"Is that... is that how you would describe being in battle? A thrill? A way to satisfy your bloodlust?" He nods.

"I crave it like I crave sex." She blinks in surprise, her cheeks flushing slightly at the boldness of his statement.

"Have you ever... felt like it was wrong? Like maybe you were meant to find another purpose, one that didn't involve so much violence? Or do you think you were born with this thirst for battle, and there's no changing it?"

"I think I was bred for battle. It's in my blood, a necessity. There's a reason I'm so good at it." She takes a breath, as if she's trying to muster up the courage to ask something difficult.

"Does it... Does it ever bother you? Being good at something so... destructive? Something that causes so much pain and suffering? Do you ever wish you could have been good at something else?"

He shrugs, biting his steak. "Maybe if my life were different, I could've been a carpenter. Or a musician. But it wasn’t the Lord’s will. I was born into violence, by violence.”

"A musician." She repeats softly, letting the word linger on her lips. "What instrument would you play?"

"I like to sing. I used to play the accordion in Constantinople. Also mandolins, balalaikas..."

She looks surprised by his answer, her eyebrows raising slightly. "You can sing?" She asks, a hint of amusement in her voice. "I can't imagine such a big man, singing songs." She looks at him for a moment, her gaze playful. "You'll have to sing something sometime, for me."

"I do sing for you, you just never hear it."