The air inside the tent was thick with the mingling scents of leather, salt, and smoke from an iron brazier burning low in the corner. Oddvarr sat at the head of a massive wooden table carved with runic designs, leaning back in a throne-like chair adorned with furs. Despite his age, he was a mountain of a man, his shoulders broad, his hands calloused and strong as if molded from the earth itself. His icy blue eyes sparkled with mirth, though they betrayed a calculating glint beneath the surface.

"Welcome," Oddvarr said, his deep, gravelly voice resonating with warmth as he gestured for them to sit. "Travelers from Kazan, is it? Quite the distance. And yet, you found your way to my little corner of the world. That’s no small feat."

Oleksandr stepped forward, his movements precise and deliberate, the kind a warrior couldn’t entirely mask. "We come on business, not chance," he responds in Norwegian, his tone steady and confident. He inclined his head toward Ivan. "This is my father. I am his eldest son."

Oddvarr’s sharp gaze lingered on Oleksandr, a flicker of something unreadable crossing his face before he smiled. "You speak the tongue of the Norse, do you?" He chuckled, switching to Norwegian. "In the middle of the Baltic states. How peculiar. And a family business. That’s always a good story. Please, sit." Samorix shifted uneasily as Ivan settled into a chair. Oleksandr stood a moment longer, locking eyes with Oddvarr, before sitting as well. "You’re not the mining type," Oddvarr said as he gestured toward Oleksandr’s broad shoulders. "You’ve the look of a man who’s held a blade more often than a pickaxe."

Oleksandr gave a small, calculated smile. "You’re observant, master trader. Before my father passed the family holdings to me, I made my living defending caravans."

"Practical," Oddvarr said, pouring himself a goblet of spiced mead. "A warrior’s skills translate well to the trade. Strength earns respect." He paused, studying Oleksandr with an intensity that made even the unflappable man’s jaw tighten. "And I imagine you’ve seen your fair share of battles. The way you carry yourself... It's familiar. Almost like looking in a mirror from years past."

Oleksandr’s brow furrowed slightly, but he quickly masked the reaction. "The lands of Kazan are unforgiving. A man either learns to fight or perishes."

"Indeed," Oddvarr said, swirling his wine. He gestured toward Ivan. "And what does your father think of this venture? Digging into the earth is a patient man’s trade. Is patience in your blood?"

Ivan nods, his face steely as he stares at Oddvarr. "Aye, the earth is a stubborn wench and takes her time to give up her treasures. I have plenty of patience. I’ve spent years building a legacy. My boy here wants to expand it. There’s ore to be mined, and slaves to do the mining." Oddvarr nodded slowly, his eyes never leaving Oleksandr.

"And you’ve come to me for those slaves? You’ve heard of my wares, then. My reputation."

"We’ve heard you deal in... quality," Oleksandr said carefully, leaning forward.

Oddvarr barked a laugh, the sound filling the tent like a storm. "Quality, he says! That’s a polite way of putting it. I’ll take the compliment. But tell me, why come all this way? Surely there are markets closer to home."

"The best is worth the journey," Oleksandr said smoothly, holding Oddvarr’s gaze. "You have what we need."

Oddvarr studied him for a long moment, the smile on his face sharp enough to cut glass. "You’re an interesting one, boy. Strong. Confident. Smart enough not to show your hand too early." He leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers. "I like you. Tell me, what exactly are you looking for? I assume you didn’t cross a continent without specifics."

"Strong backs and young bodies," Ivan said before Oleksandr could respond. "Miners. About a hundred. And perhaps a few fighters, in case we need to defend the operation."

Oddvarr’s grin widened. "I can arrange that. But business like this... trust is important. Perhaps we discuss this further over a drink tonight. Get to know one another. Who knows, I might even invite you to my homeland. Better dealing such large quantities there, than in this overcrowded pit."

Oleksandr inclined his head. "We would be honored."

Oddvarr leaned forward suddenly, his tone dropping to a near-whisper, his grin taking on a darker edge. "One last question before we toast to this partnership, son of Kazan. You’re not hiding anything from me, are you?" For a heartbeat, the air was electric, Oleksandr’s pulse hammering in his ears. He held Oddvarr’s gaze, his voice calm but firm.

"Nothing but my eagerness to seal the deal, master trader."

Oddvarr’s laugh was loud and sudden, breaking the tension, but his eyes didn’t smile, nor did they falter from Oleksandr’s face. "Good answer! Let’s drink, then. And talk of fortunes to be made."

Oleksandr raised his goblet, his face unreadable. Beneath the surface, though, his mind raced. Oddvarr wasn’t just cunning—he was dangerous. And Oleksandr knew, with a certainty that chilled him to the bone, that this man was more than he seemed.

The brazier’s glow painted shadows that danced like restless spirits along the walls as goblets were filled and raised. Oddvarr, ever the gracious host, poured the spiced wine himself, his massive hands moving with surprising dexterity. His smile was infectious, warm, even caring, but Oleksandr couldn’t shake the feeling of being studied, dissected by those icy blue eyes.

Oddvarr leaned back, his grin widening as he turned his attention to Samorix. "So, tell me," he began, voice dripping with curiosity, "what brings a Scotsman into the company of two Rusmen? A peculiar trio, wouldn’t you say?"

Samorix opened his mouth, but Oleksandr spoke first, his tone calm and steady, placing his hand on Samorix’s shoulder. "Samorix is like family. He’s known my father since before I was born. A mercenary by trade, and a damn good one. The kind of man you want at your back when things get rough."

Oddvarr raises an eyebrow and glances at Ivan. "A Scotsman and a Cossack? An unusual friendship indeed." He chuckled, taking a long sip from his goblet. "And you, Oleksandr—named for a conqueror, I see. You carry yourself like a man who’s seen the battlefield more times than he’s seen the hearth. Is that true?"

Oleksandr gave a slow nod, his grip tightening slightly on his goblet. "I’ve had my share of fights."

"I can tell," Oddvarr said, his voice dropping slightly, his eyes narrowing with a glimmer of respect. "There’s a way a man holds himself after he’s stood in the shield wall. It doesn’t leave you, not even when you try to hide it. Kazan must have forged you into iron."

"With ice and fire," Oleksandr replied tersely, before taking a long drink of wine.

"Fire! Yes, fire is what tempers a man. But it’s not just battle that makes us warriors—it’s the honor we carry, the code we live by. A man who doesn’t understand that is just a brute with a blade."

Oleksandr stiffened, his stoic mask cracking ever so slightly. "Honor’s a luxury most men can’t afford. Especially those born with shackles on their wrists." Oddvarr leaned forward, his voice softening, almost conspiratorial.

"Ah, but that’s where you’re wrong, my friend. Honor isn’t given—it’s taken. Earned. A man chooses to rise above his circumstances, to carve his name into the bones of history. Tell me, Oleksandr, how many men have you faced in combat? How many fell to your blade?"

"Enough."

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"Ho! A true warrior’s answer. Modesty hides greatness, and I respect that. You remind me of myself when I was younger—fighting for every inch, every scrap, but always with purpose. Always with honor." Despite the loathing boiling beneath his skin, he couldn’t deny the truth in Oddvarr’s words. The bastard knew what it meant to fight, to survive, to endure. It was a bond forged in blood, one Oleksandr hated to acknowledge but couldn’t entirely deny. Oddvarr’s gaze lingered, a sly smile tugging at his lips as he refilled their goblets. "You and I, Oleksandr, we’re cut from the same cloth. I can see it. Men like us, we don’t just survive—we thrive. We take what we want, shape the world to our will. It’s why you’re here, isn’t it? To make your mark."

Oleksandr met his gaze, his expression unreadable, though his mind churned with dark resolve. "I’m here for business," he said, his voice low, deliberate.

Oddvarr chuckled again, but there was a dangerous gleam in his eye now, as if he enjoyed testing the younger man’s composure. "Business, yes. But men like us always have a deeper purpose, don’t we?" Oleksandr didn’t answer, lifting his goblet instead, masking the storm brewing beneath his calm exterior. The air between them crackled with unspoken tension, the kind only men who lived by the sword could understand. "Enough talk of honor and battle! Let’s drink, aye? Before the wine cools and the night grows old."

Oleksandr’s eyes never wavered from Oddvarr, even as the older man’s gaze lingered a moment too long. A subtle, almost imperceptible tension thickened the air between them, like the calm before a storm. Samorix leaned in, his voice low and gravelly, barely above a whisper.

"I don't like how he's starin' at ye." Oleksandr’s jaw tightened, the words resonating with an unspoken truth. He could feel the weight of Oddvarr’s gaze, a calculating assessment, like the scrutinizing glance of a wolf eyeing its prey. But Oleksandr wouldn’t flinch, wouldn’t show weakness.

"It’s nothing," he replied, his voice as cold and controlled as ever. "He’s just sizing me up."

Samorix grunted, his one eye narrowed in suspicion. "Sizing ye up for what?" He leaned back slightly, giving Oddvarr a sideways glance. "That man’s too clever for his own good. Don’t trust him, lad. Somethin' about him doesn’t sit right." Oleksandr felt the familiar pulse of wariness in his gut. Samorix wasn’t wrong, but there was more to this than just distrust—it was a sharp, gnawing sensation at the back of his mind that Oddvarr’s calculating stare might not be purely professional.

"I know what I’m doing," Oleksandr murmured, his eyes never leaving Oddvarr. "Stay alert." Samorix gave a grunt of acknowledgement, but his unease didn’t seem to ease. His gaze flickered to Ivan, then back to Oddvarr, before he gave Oleksandr a wary look.

"Aye, lad. Just don’t get too comfortable with this one. The man reeks of trouble." Ivan sat back slightly in his chair, his weathered hands resting on the table, but his eyes were sharp, flicking between Oddvarr and Oleksandr with a quiet intensity. Beneath his stoic exterior, Ivan was no fool. He had lived long enough to understand the subtleties of men, and something in the way Oddvarr had focused on Oleksandr, the probing questions, unsettled him.

The old Viking leaned forward slightly, his smile widening, though the glint in his eyes was anything but warm. He tilted his head toward Ivan, taking in the older Cossack with a knowing glance. "And is this the man who taught young Oleksandr to fight? A famed warrior of the Cossack clans, yes?" He asked, his voice rich with feigned curiosity, his eyes gleaming with a hint of amusement.

Ivan remained silent for a long moment, his heavy brow furrowing slightly. He studied Oddvarr with a kind of calm distance, but there was an unmistakable hardness in his gaze. A deep well of history, long buried, churned beneath his weathered face. The old Cossack’s hands, calloused from years of gripping weapons and reins, remained steady, though his grip on his goblet tightened ever so slightly. He finally spoke, his voice as measured and heavy as a stone sinking into a deep lake.

"Aye," he said, his accent thick with the cadence of his people, "I taught him what I know. Every man learns his way with the sword in his own time, but I showed him the basics. How to stand. How to strike. How to survive."

"Survival is everything, isn’t it?" He said, leaning back in his chair. His eyes lingered on Ivan, sharp and intent, as if trying to pierce through him, unravel the layers of his past. "But a man’s soul... that’s something else. Some of us, we live by the sword because it’s all we know. Others, we fight because we love what we do." Ivan’s gaze hardened, but he said nothing. He knew well what Oddvarr was trying to do. The Viking chieftain was like a snake in the grass, weaving words into something sharp, attempting to provoke him, to pull him out of his shell. But Ivan was no fool. He’d fought men far worse than Oddvarr in his lifetime, and none had been able to break him. Not even this manipulative bastard.

Oddvarr’s smile never faltered. "I’ve heard the stories about your folk, Rusman. They are a force for nature, brutal, fierce. They say they fight like bears in battle. Is that true?" Ivan’s lips tightened, his eyes never leaving Oddvarr’s. He felt the old pain in his chest, a reminder of the days when Oddvarr’s raids had taken everything from him—his wife, his daughter, his peace. He had been forced to bury the pain with his own hands, far from home. Far from justice.

"We fight to protect our own," Ivan answered quietly, his tone colder now, more guarded. "What we do, we do for our people. And the rest—" He paused, his eyes narrowing as he leaned forward, meeting Oddvarr’s gaze directly. "The rest was nothing but survival." Oddvarr's eyes flickered with a mixture of amusement and calculation. He could sense the depth of Ivan’s hatred—though it was cloaked in silence, Ivan’s soul bore the scars of everything Oddvarr had taken from him. The Viking leaned back in his chair, satisfied with the small game they were playing.

"Ah," Oddvarr said softly, his voice thick with satisfaction, "survival. The oldest law of all. But what happens when survival isn’t enough anymore?"

"Then you die," Ivan said, his tone flat, yet carrying an undeniable weight. Oddvarr let the silence stretch between them, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. It was a moment of understanding, a brief recognition of two men who had lived through the same brutal world—just on different sides of it. Oddvarr’s expression softened, almost fond, though his eyes remained cold.

"Well, then," Oddvarr said, breaking the silence, "let’s drink to survival, shall we?" He raised his goblet again, his smile still bearing that devilish charm. "To men who know how to live... and to those who know how to endure." Ivan didn’t raise his glass. His gaze didn’t leave Oddvarr, and his lips remained sealed. But he didn’t need to speak. His quiet fury spoke louder than any words could.

The trio sat in the warm, amber glow of the inn’s common room, the weight of the day pressing heavily on their shoulders. The establishment was far finer than any they’d expected to find in a place like this—a fact that wasn’t lost on Samorix as he lifted his mug of ale and muttered, “Oddvarr’s coin pays for better lodgings than a man like him deserves. Makes ye wonder what strings come attached to the favor.”

Oleksandr sat across from him, his arms crossed, his expression unreadable. He hadn’t touched his drink. Ivan leaned against the wall, his hands clasped in front of him, his weathered face hidden in shadow as he silently watched Oleksandr, his thoughts hidden behind his usual stoicism.

“Well, lad,” Samorix began, his sharp eyes narrowing slightly, “how do ye think it went? We’ve got the invitation. That’s a start. But I can’t say I liked the way he was lookin’ at ye. Didn’t feel like he saw a trader or a buyer. Felt more like a wolf sniffin’ out a lamb.”

Oleksandr’s jaw tightened, but he kept his tone steady. “He’s testing us. Gauging how far we can be trusted.” He paused, his voice lowering. “But he’s also curious about me. More than he should be.”

Samorix nodded, his expression grim. “Aye. That’s what I mean. He’s too sharp to believe we’re simple traders, but instead of outright doubting us, he’s pulling us closer, like he’s tryin’ to see what we’re really about. He smiles at ye, lad, but those smiles never touch his eyes. It’s like he’s trying to measure yer worth.”

“Or your intentions,” Ivan added quietly, speaking for the first time. His voice was calm, but his gaze didn’t waver from Oleksandr. There was something unspoken in his eyes, a shadow of unease that he wouldn’t name. “Men like him don’t trust easily. If he’s keeping you close, it’s because he wants something. Or because he’s waiting for you to show your hand.”

Oleksandr met Ivan’s gaze briefly before glancing away. “If he suspects anything, he didn’t let it slip. Not fully. He plays the game well, but he’s not invincible. He’s skeptical, but he’s still biting the bait.”

“Maybe,” Samorix said, rubbing his beard thoughtfully. “But it’s the way he looked at ye that bothers me. Not like a man wary of a rival. More like a butcher sizing up a prize cut of meat.” He leaned forward slightly, lowering his voice. “Or worse—like he sees somethin’ in ye he’s trying to place. Like he knows ye from somewhere.” Oleksandr’s expression darkened, but he said nothing. Ivan, still silent, continued to study him, his lips pressed into a thin line. “What if it’s a trap?” Samorix continued. “What if he’s lettin’ us into the den just to shut the door behind us?”

“It’s a risk we have to take,” Oleksandr replied firmly, his voice brooking no argument. “We’ve come this far. Turning back now isn’t an option.”

Samorix leaned back, his gaze searching Oleksandr’s face. “Aye, lad, I see that fire in ye. But be careful. There’s somethin’ not right about this. About him. The man’s no fool, and his interest in ye—it’s too personal. Feels like there’s more to this than just a trade deal.”

Ivan’s gaze flicked between the two men before finally settling on Oleksandr. “Just remember,” he said quietly, his voice heavy with meaning, “a wolf doesn’t always bare its teeth before it strikes.”

For a moment, silence settled over the group, the unspoken tension lingering like a storm waiting to break. Oleksandr finally reached for his mug and took a long, measured sip, his thoughts as guarded as ever. Whatever lay ahead in the Wolf’s Den, he knew there would be no turning back.

(My illustration- Oddvarr)

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