Samorix studies Oleksandr in profile, the flickering firelight dancing in his good eye. "You looked like shit that night I found ye. Was surprised ye were still kickin it after Constantinople, in my neck of the woods of all places. Thought I had seen a ghost." He chuckles.

Oleksandr nods, taking a drag from his pipe. "Aye, I was a damned mess," he confesses, his voice low and gravelly. "I had hit rock bottom. Losing Thekkur, losing Constantinople... Losing everything. I didn't know where to turn, who to trust. I was just a broken man, trying to drown my pain with ale and flesh." Samorix grunts, a sympathetic look in his eye.

"I know, Lad," he says softly. "Losing someone important like that, twists yer head in ways ye cant fix easy. Makes ye want to drown it all, to run from the truth. But that’s not the way, son. It’s poison, eatin’ ye alive, and it was tearing me apart watching it. Imagine I really was a bounty hunter, out for yer ass. I would’ve had yer blonde head and a large paycheck that night." Oleksandr grunts in response, looking to the night sky in the clearing.

"We best get some sleep. Wake up late, travel into the night tomorrow. It gets more risky a bit north from here." Samorix nods, understanding the need to keep the conversation light.

"Aye," he agrees. "We'll need our rest. The road will be a bloody grind, that's for certain. The Ottomans have been stepping up their patrols, and we don't want to run into any trouble." He stretches his legs, wincing slightly from the pain of his old wounds. "You get some rest, lad. I'll take the first watch."

That night, Oleksandr falls into a deep sleep. In his dream, he wanders the grand halls of the Hagia Sophia, the echoing footsteps of the guards and visitors blending with the distant sound of prayer. The scent of burning incense fills the air, and the dim light of the candles casts dancing flickers on the mosaics on the walls. Later in the dream, he sees his beloved Thekkur, alive and smiling as he runs through the fields of the Steppe, trying to catch and tame a wild stallion, his laughter mingling with the sound of the breeze and the grass swaying. In his arms is his lover, her kisses sweet, her hair long and black.

Oleksandr wakes with a start, his breath sharp and ragged as he scans the dim camp. The burnt-out embers of the fire smolder weakly, the remnants of warmth dissipating into the chill dawn air. Samorix is nowhere to be seen, the space beside him empty, and the silence presses in with an eerie weight. The sun has barely broken the horizon, casting the world in a faint gray light. What woke him? His senses are on high alert as he searches the surrounding trees and underbrush, his eyes darting for any sign of movement. The only sound is the distant chirp of birds, their calls odd and unsettling in the unnatural stillness. He reaches instinctively for the hilt of his sword, muscles tense as he prepares to rise, but before he can move, a cold blade presses against his neck, the sharp edge biting into his skin.

Oleksandr's eyes widen as the cold steel presses harder against his throat, a grunt escaping his lips. He feels the presence of the men before he even sees them—dozen pairs of eyes watching him from the shadows, weapons gleaming in the pale light of dawn. As they step out from the tree line, a dozen Ottomans, each one armed to the teeth—some with bows drawn, others with scimitars ready. The realization hits him like a hammer: he’s been caught completely off guard, a reckless mistake for a man of his skill. The blade at his throat keeps him pinned to the ground, and despite the familiar rush of battle instincts flooding his mind, he knows he’s outnumbered. One wrong move, and it’s over. He curses under his breath, teeth gritted in frustration.

“Disarm him,” comes the command in Turkish, sharp and commanding. A man swiftly takes his sword, and two others seize his arms, dragging him to his feet. His muscles scream as they force him upright, but his mind is already calculating, looking for any opening. But none presents itself. Where the hell is Samorix?

The man who spoke steps forward, his eyes glinting with an unsettling mix of curiosity and intent. His gaze flickers between Oleksandr’s eyes, narrowing as if weighing him like a prize. “The Flaxen Reaper,” the man murmurs, his voice low, his tone almost admiring. “At the edge of my blade…” He smiles darkly, twisting the words in his mouth as if savoring the moment, as though Oleksandr’s life were little more than a trophy.

Oleksandr's jaw sets, his blue eyes locked with the commander's, the cold, hard look in them unwavering. He doesn't respond, doesn't give the man the satisfaction of a reaction. But his mind is racing, calculating, as he tries to gauge the situation. He wants to lash out like a caged animal, dispatch the men and be done with it. He could take on more than a dozen men, but not when he's disarmed and half of them have drawn bows, eager to land flint between his eyes. The commander leans in closer, a wicked grin on his face.

"I've heard stories about you, my friend." He sneers. "The Rus barbarian who's killed countless Turks. They say you're dangerous, that you're a demon." Oleksandr remains silent, unperturbed by the commander's words. The man moves closer, his breath hot on Oleksandr's face. "I have to admit," he continues. "I'm almost impressed. You're quite the fighter, if the stories hold any truth. You could've served us well, been made a hero and a rich man in our nation." Oleksandr's eyes narrow as the commander's words hit a nerve. He knows the commander is just trying to bait him, get a reaction. But the mention of serving the Ottomans, of being a part of the nation that he hates so much, is like salt on an open wound. He can't help the anger that rises in him. He says nothing, spitting in the man's face. The commander's eyes darken with fury and he slaps Oleksandr hard, the force of the blow leaving a red mark on his cheek. But Oleksandr doesn't react, not a flinch, not a blink. He just looks at the man defiantly, his jaw set. The leader holds his sword to his throat, his eyes burning with anger and disgust.

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"Had there not been a greater reward for you to be caught alive, I'd have cut off your head myself in your sleep, Rus pig. Don't tempt me to fulfill my desires."

The reminder of his failure at alertness stings, but Oleksandr keeps his composure. He knows he's in a dangerous situation, but he won't give them the satisfaction of seeing him rattled. He just keeps his gaze locked with the commander's, his eyes cold and unblinking. He's dealt with men like him before, men who think they have the upper hand because they have the numbers and the weapons.

"Tie him up."

The commander steps back, giving the order. Some of the Ottomans move forward to bind Oleksandr's hands, using tight cords to secure his wrists. He doesn't resist, knowing it would be futile. He takes a mental inventory of his surroundings, looking for any opportunity to turn the tides of this encounter. Then, they tie his ankles, stringing the bindings across a pole to carry him out like fresh game. He listens to them muttering in Turkish, a language he thankfully learned in Constantinople.

"The Sığır's bounty is worth more than a Sultan's ransom."

"What do you think will be done with him?"

"Either burnt or boiled."

"Neither are good enough for the son-of-a-whore. Nothing can avenge all the blood he's spilt." A sense of dread settles over him, along with a lot of frustration. He can't help but think of the irony in his situation. He's always been the hunter, the one who strikes from the shadows, claiming his victims without them ever even knowing he was there. But now, here he is, captured and helpless, with no means of defense. He grits his teeth, struggling to come up with an escape plan, but his mind keeps drawing a blank. The Ottomans continue discussing his fate, their voices growing more fervent as they debate how to deal with the infamous slayer.

With a splatter of blood across his face, the man carrying one end of the pole above him falls limp, dropping him to the ground, the sudden impact causing him to let out a muffled grunt. He quickly rolls to his side, trying to regain his bearings and figure out what's going on. The sound of clanking metal and shouting reaches his ears, and he can tell that a fight has broken out. He struggles to sit up, but it's difficult with his wrists tied to his ankles tied to a pole. He cranes his neck, trying to get a glimpse of the unfolding situation. Another man is shot down, an arrow piercing through his neck as the others scramble to find their assailant, drawing their bows and scimitars.

"He's in the trees!"

"Where?!" The chaos of the battle increases, with more men falling to the hidden archer's strikes. Oleksandr watches in amazement as the Ottomans scramble to defend themselves, firing arrows into the trees and scanning the area for the mysterious attacker. He shifts and wriggles against the ground, sliding his bindings off of the pole, before grabbing it with his hands, wrists still bound behind his back

One of the men sees him, his eyes narrowing as he goes to attack. Oleksandr hops backwards, his ankles still bound, holding out the pole awkwardly from behind him. The Ottoman soldier swings his sword, but he parries with the pole, jumping back again and swinging it, cracking it against the man's head, the wood splintering from the impact, caving in the man's skull. That's when Samorix drops down from the trees, dawning his sword, taking on the soldiers. Oleksandr quickly moves over to a discarded scimitar, sawing his legs against it, using it to sever his ankle-bindings. One of the Ottomans sees him, and rushes in to attack.

Oleksandr quickly assesses the situation. With his ankles free, he has a better chance of defending himself. He quickly rises and roundhouse kicks one of the men who Samorix quickly executes, before he's hit on the back of the head by another man, causing him to stumble. He grunts, his vision momentarily blurred. But he shakes it off quickly, adrenaline coursing through his veins. His movements are savage, fueled by the fury of a cornered beast. He's still at a disadvantage with his hands bound behind him, but he's making up for it with raw strength and ferocity. He tackles another Ottoman to the ground, he uses all his weight and strength to keep him pinned. He then swings his head down, connecting it with the man's in a series of brutal headbutts. His forehead throbs, but he doesn't let up. He continues, feeling his opponent's skull crunch further beneath the force of each blow. The man's body twitches erratically, his cranium caved in, and Oleksandr knows he's defeated. He steps back, panting heavily, his hands still bound behind his back. His eyes dart around, looking for any more threats, but it seems the fight is over.

Samorix breathes heavily, his face lined with fatigue. His missing eye looks particularly weary in this moment, a testament to his years of battle and hard living. Even in the midst of this chaos, there's a hint of relief in the veteran's expression, a sense of gratitude that they both made it out alive. Oleksandr grunts in acknowledgement, his own chest rising and falling with each ragged breath he takes. Samorix pants, getting off the tree and stepping forward.

"A bit out of shape, I am." He sighs. Oleksandr stares at him blankly for a few moments, before his lips twist up in a humored grin.

“Out of shape but still climbing trees like a squirrel. Where the hell were you?" Samorix grins, a twinkle of amusement in his one good eye.

"I was biding my time, lad," he says, his Scottish brogue thick with exaggerated pride. "Just waiting for the perfect moment to swoop in and save yer sorry arse."

"The perfect moment, eh?"

Samorix helps Oleksandr unbind his wrist, and they mend each other's wounds and clean themselves of blood. "Well," he says, "I got up in the night to take a piss. By the time I turned back around, I saw the bloody turks poking around while ye were snorin."

“You're a damn lunatic for climbing trees like that."

"That's all I ever did as a young lad. I was known for shootin' from the trees when I first started fighting back in Scotland. They used to call me monkey." Oleksandr lets out a snort, a dry chuckle escaping his lips.

"I bet they did," he says, his tone filled with amusement. "A braw, Gaelic Highlander, climbing trees like a monkey and firing arrows at his enemies. Sounds like something out of a ridiculous fairytale."

"I always tell my wee lad, fairytales start somewhere. Ye best start believing 'em."

Oleksandr nods, a wry smile playing on his face. "Fair enough," He grunts, looking down at the bodies littering the forest floor. "We should make ourselves scarce before any more Turk dogs come sniffing for their comrades."

"Aye." Samorix nods, his gaze sweeping the area with a warrior's caution. "Let's gather what we can and get moving. We've lingered too long as it is"