Oleksandr sits on his knees in a burnt out husk of a church. The walls are blackened by soot and smoke, the windows broken and empty of glass. Everything is destroyed and desolate around him. Yet despite the dismalness surrounding him, the icon on the wall before him is perfectly intact, untouched by the flames, looking completely out of place in the ruined room. The icon shows a muscular, winged figure, dressed in gleaming armor. Archangel Michael. He stands tall and strong, his muscles bulging as he grips a flaming sword in one hand, his long yellow hair flowing, the point of the blade pointing down towards the floor. At his feet, a snake writhed and coiled around itself, the representation of evil incarnate. The figure’s face was stern and determined, a fierce warrior ready for battle.

Oleksandr gazes up at the icon, his mind racing. The warrior Saint. He had heard tales of this powerful saint, a champion against evil, a defender of the faithful. He had prayed, calling upon him for intercession many times, asking for guidance and strength on the battlefield. His eyes scan over the image, taking in the details. The wings, the armor, the sword… the snake at his feet. The devil who he cast into the abyss.

The flaming oblivion.

Oleksandr's vision blurred. For a moment, he saw Thekkur's face. Alive, grinning, that reckless spark in his eyes. But it was a ghost, a cruel mirage that twisted into a skull, empty and hollow, the laughter gone, replaced by silence.

Gone. Gone. Gone.

The word pounded in his skull, a relentless drumbeat. Thekkur was gone, and they had taken even his bones. His bones. All that was left of him, scattered, stolen, desecrated. It was profane, sacrilege. Oleksandr's breath hitched, a ragged sound tearing from his chest. His brother. His brother was no longer whole, no longer at peace. A shudder ran through him. The pain was a knife, twisting, carving deeper with each thought. Thekkur was supposed to be safe, resting, but now... now he was nothing but pieces, fragments, turned into cursed relics by those butchers.

Tears stung his eyes, hot, shameful, but he couldn't stop them. He could barely breathe. The ache in his chest grew sharper, more unbearable with every second.

He was paralyzed by the weight of it, the unbearable truth that he had failed. He wasn't there to protect Thekkur, not even in death. He was alone now. Truly, utterly alone. The bond they shared, the connection that had once been so strong, was shattered. They took him. They took Thekkur. They took what little was left. And there was nothing, nothing Oleksandr could do to bring him back. The sorrow crushed him, swallowed him whole, and all he could do was drown in it, gasping for breath that wouldn't come, suffocating on the grief and the rage and the unbearable, all-consuming loss. The words echo in his mind, hammering at his consciousness: GONE. GONE. GONE.

Gone.

His eyes prickle with unshed tears, the ache in his chest so visceral it's as if a knife is carving into his heart, twisting and tearing with each beat of his tortured heart.

Oleksandr rode westward, the black silhouette of Deago cutting through the twilight as they crossed into Hungary. The landscape blurred past, a mix of shadowed forests and distant mountains, but Oleksandr’s mind was far darker. The whispering wind offered no solace, only the cruel echo of his brother's death and the desecration of his grave. His jaw clenched, each breath heavy with the weight of rage and sorrow. Yet, his eyes remained fixed ahead, burning with a grim resolve. There was no room for peace now, only purpose—a purpose that pushed him relentlessly forward, no matter how deep the torment.

Oleksandr arrives in a town in south-eastern Hungary, weary from his long journey. As he rides at a slow canter, he takes a moment to survey his surroundings. The town seems peaceful and prosperous. It was a quaint, yet decently-sized settlement, with well-groomed houses built of timber and stone, their thatched roofs neatly maintained. The people mill about, going about their business. He passes by a group of soldiers on a march, and he whistles to one of the young stragglers in the back to come over. The soldier turns at Oleksandr's whistle, a curious look on his face.

"Where are you off to?”

He steps towards Oleksandr, stopping a few steps away and replying, "we're headed south, towards the Ottoman border," he says. "There's a battle brewing, it seems. Rumors of an Ottoman army gathering just beyond the frontier.”

“There are encampments?” The soldier nods, confirming Oleksandr's question.

"Oh, yes," he says. "There are encampments, all right. We've spotted them from a distance. A huge gathering of Ottoman soldiers, from what I hear. The empire is up to something, that's for sure.”

“How many? How many men in each?” The soldier scratches his chin, trying to remember what he's heard.

"Well," he says thoughtfully, "I hear there are maybe two or three encampments, each with around five-thousand men at least, if not more. The Ottoman armies have been growing larger and more daring lately, and they seem to have set their sights on Hungarian territory.” Oleksandr nods and glances at the soldier's squad that continues on their way.

"Interesting... Hurry along, now. Don't want to be caught straggling, hm?" The soldier snaps to attention at Oleksandr's words, hastily saluting before turning and running off to catch up with his squad. His voice rings out in the distance as he calls out to them, "sorry fellas, I got held up!”

Oleksandr continues to ride along the town, looking around. The cobblestone streets wove through the town like veins, guiding the steady flow of people going about their daily lives. Merchants called out from their stalls, offering fresh produce and fine wares, while children chased each other in playful laughter. The air was filled with the comforting aroma of baking bread and the distant clang of a blacksmith's hammer. Despite the turmoil in his heart, Oleksandr couldn’t help but feel a brief sense of calm as he surveyed this peaceful, prosperous town, untouched by the shadows that haunted him. He sees a farmer on a horse, pulling a cart stacked to the brim with many bottles of milk.

Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.

"How much for the cart?"

The old farmer glances at Oleksandr and stops, looking puzzled. "You want to buy my cart?" He asks, his expression a mix of surprise and curiosity. "What on earth would you need a cart full of milk for?”

"I don't need the milk. Just the cart will do." The farmer raises an eyebrow, bewildered by the odd request.

"You... just want the cart?" He says, still struggling to wrap his head around it. "It's not for sale. Ask someone else.”

"I'll give you the worth of the milk, and you can keep it, just give me the cart." The farmer's eyes widen at the offer. Nobody has ever been this eager to buy just a simple milk cart. He rubs his chin, mulling over the proposition for a moment before nodding slowly.

"All right, then. Deal. You want the cart, you can have it. You say you'll give me the worth of the milk in trade?" Oleksandr digs in his pack, pulling out a sachet of silver and gold coins, tossing it to the man. The farmer catches the sachet, his eyes wide with surprise as he weighs it in his hand and feels its heft. The coins inside clink together, making a satisfying jingle. He looks back at Oleksandr, now realizing that he was probably not dealing with an average man.

"You're a man of money, aren't you?" he asks, shaking his head. "Such a fine sum for a milk cart…"

“It’s for the trouble. Go sell your milk and meet me here at nightfall.” The farmer nods, his wide eyes still fixed on the sack of silver and gold in his hand.

"Ah... All right, all right." He climbs back onto his horse and pats the animal on the neck.

Oleksandr spurs his horse and continues making his way around the town, spotting an alchemist's workshop, with an old woman, presumably the man's wife, selling tinctures out front. He dismounts his horse and approaches casually.

"What are you selling, miss?" The old woman turns to Oleksandr, her weathered face creased with a friendly smile.

"Oh, I've got a bit of everything, young man," she says, gesturing elegantly to the display of various vials and bottles on the table in front of her. "Healing tonics, love potions, even a few things to make an old woman stay youthful and beautiful."

“Aye? What's in the latter? I can tell you take that often.” The old woman chuckles, her eyes sparkling with humor.

"Ah, those are my best sellers," she says, picking up a clear vial filled with a glowing pink liquid. "This here is a special concoction. It contains the essence of several potent herbs known for their rejuvenating properties. Drink a few drops every day and you'll feel and look years younger, I can tell you that much." She holds the vial up to Oleksandr with a proud smile.

“Mind if I see the inside of the workshop?”

The old woman cocks an eyebrow, clearly not used to having her customers ask to see the inside of her shop before making a purchase. "See the inside of my shop?" She repeats, an edge of surprise in her voice. She gives Oleksandr a once-over. "And why would you want to do that, hm? Just want to poke around, or are you looking for something in particular?"

"My father is an alchemist from Lithuania. I'm just curious to see how you do things in these parts." He gives her a charming grin. The old woman's expression softens a bit at Oleksandr's explanation.

"Ah, I see," she says, her tone becoming a bit friendlier. "Your father is an alchemist, hm, dear? Well, then I suppose it wouldn't hurt to show you a thing or two." She steps back and gestures for him to follow her into the shop. "Not many customers ask to see the inside of my shop, though. You're quite different from most around here, eh?"

"Sure am." He ducks under the doorway, entering the dimly lit shop. He's immediately enveloped by the dim lighting and the faint, pleasant scent of herbs and spices that linger in the air. The room is small and humble, with shelves lining the walls from floor to ceiling, crammed with glass bottles and vials of every conceivable shape and size. A long, sturdy table dominates the center of the room, cluttered with mortars, pestles, scales, and other alchemical tools, each bearing the marks of frequent use. The atmosphere is one of quiet, focused chaos, a space where knowledge and mystery intertwine.

Behind him, the old woman enters silently, her eyes watching as Oleksandr takes in his surroundings, her presence as much a part of the workshop as the tools and tinctures. He looks at the two barrels of gunpowder in the corner, and there's a large jar of copper shavings.

"My, are you a tall one." She murmurs. Oleksandr smirks.

"Thank you. Do you have any quicklime?" The old woman watches Oleksandr keenly as he gazes around the shop, and she smiles knowingly when he asks about the quicklime.

"Ah, you're rather observant, aren't you?" She says, walking over to one of the shelves and pulling a small bag from it. "Quicklime? Most folks don't even know what that is, much less ask me for it... But none of our materials are for sale, unfortunately. They're quite hard to come across."

"Yes, they are."

The old woman nods, setting the bag of quicklime back on the shelf just as casually as she took it down. She glances at Oleksandr, a gleam of curiosity in her eyes. "And what would a young man like you need quicklime for?" She asks, one eyebrow raised.

Oleksandr crosses his arms casually and leans on one leg, giving her a suave grin. "Oh, you know... Love potion. There's a girl who won't love me back." The old woman chuckles, a knowing grin spreading across her face.

"Aye, a love potion? You'd be surprised how many lads come to me with that problem. Most just ask for the straight-up simple love potion, though. But you're a curious one, aren't you?" She leans against the wall, crossing her arms over her chest. "Why quicklime, specifically? That's not the first ingredient I'd reach for..."

"It's more for passion rather than romance, if you catch my drift." The old woman laughs heartily, her eyes sparkling with mirth.

"I see, I see," she says, chuckling to herself. "Maybe the quicklime will help with that, who knows? It certainly does have a few... interesting properties, when mixed with the right ingredients."

"Right... Hm. Well, that's all I wanted to see. Thank you for your time." The old woman nods, amused by Oleksandr's odd requests.

"No problem, young man," she says, watching him head for the exit. "You're an interesting fellow. I don't get many customers like you, you know that?"

"I'm sure..." He winks and leaves the store, going back to his horse. Oleksandr mounts Deago, whistling a little tune to himself as he takes in the town around him. His mind is already buzzing with the knowledge he's absorbed in the alchemist's shop, and he begins to formulate his next move. He spurs his horse on as he leaves the town, the horse's hooves thudding rhythmically on the path. He glances up at the sun, noting that a few hours have passed already and the shadows are growing long. As he rides, his mind drifts to the alchemist's shop, lingering on the memory of the various ingredients he saw there, and the simple lock on the front door.

After riding hard for a while, Oleksandr reaches the outskirts of the town. The farmland and small dwellings give way to open fields and a few sparse clusters of trees. The sun hangs low in the sky, casting long shadows across the dusty road. He soon reaches a small village nestled in the countryside. Upon first glance, it's clear that the villagers here are not wealthy by any means, the houses and buildings showing signs of wear and age. But despite their circumstances, there is a sense of community and resilience in the air. Oleksandr is here for a reason. He has a purpose for stopping in this particular village.