The air was heavy on the western wall.

The crowd dissipated quickly following the duel’s anticlimactic finale, particularly after Prince William dispensed with his ludicrously-excessive farseeing disk. The prince, himself, offered us some token farewells, ashen-faced all the while, before making his own way into Bern.

Before he left, though, I took the opportunity to ever-so-subtly snag his Blessing for my own. I suspected it’d be a good while before I actually managed to incorporate the capricious thing, but unlike Replicant, this one seemed quite ideal for my current power set.

And then it was just us.

Me, and Alyss, alone on the western wall.

And one other.

I’d not noticed him, at first. Throughout the entire sordid affair, he’d blended perfectly in to the surrounding horde. But as they made their collective exit, he threaded his own way through them, striding the smooth, marbled stones of the wall with great confidence. His steps were light, his movements lithe and agile, yet his frame was tall, bulky, and broad-shouldered. Which could only mean one thing.

He’d seen combat, this man.

He’d seen a lot of combat.

He marched right up to the two of us, even as the crowd bled out slow, and spoke.

“Zdravstvuyte, tovarishchi.”

His voice was warm, and deep, and dark. Like rich coffee. It dripped down from between his lips. And, much unlike the wide-eyed Prince Price, this Aristocrat was, without doubt, a man. Older than me, certainly. Older than Alyss, older even than the Inquisitor. In his mid-twenties, at least.

He wore all black linen, a thin, dense cloth that clung neatly to his frame, revealing a body lousy with rippling muscle. An easy grin full of wide, white teeth surrounded by a thin, well-trimmed, black beard covered up his face, cheeks, and neck.

This was no boy, no little lordling, no fair-faced, fine-fingered summer prince. This was a hunter. A predator. His smile was a shark’s.

And his blackfire song wound just as snugly and inscrutably about him as Caleb’s had.

~~~

Czernobog

Attunement: Contract(Mi) 14

Grain: Aspect

Marble: Favor

~~~

He wasn’t an Immortal, this man. Nor did he boast a Major Blessing. Yet he demonstrated not a hint of trepidation in our presence.

Concerning.

“Zdravstvuyte, mi dvoryanin.”

Alyss, thankfully, was ever-ready.

The sorceress’s reply in the Slav’s mother tongue came short and sweet. She bent politely at the waist and inclined her head a measure towards this Czernobog, who produced a deep and rumbling chuckle in response.

“Your Havish, it is soft, my lady,” he purred through a syrupy accent, grinning as he did so. “Soft, and rare. This far east of Siychyat. You honor me.”

His words were sweet, too. Like Alyss’s.

But unlike Alyss’s, I sensed a hint of sarcasm in them. Of farce. His song quivered with a mixture of amusement and venom as he spoke them, and his dark eyes flashed hatefully in my comrade’s direction.

Alyss didn’t seem to notice.

“You honor me,” she demurred, waving off the compliment as she smiled pleasantly back. “My Havish is utilitarian, at best. I appreciate your willingness to choose Common, and so spare my pride.”

She placed a hand upon her chest, depressing the willowy folds of her black-green half-gown.

“I am Alyss of Nycta,” she announced, formally. “And this is my companion, Lord Tharros. We are pleased to make your acquaintance, my lord. May I assume the Institute sent you?”

Czernobog’s dark smile broadened.

“Hmmm. Hm, hm, ha. Ha, ha…ha,” he chuckled, once more, in a slow and ponderous manner. Mockingly. It was as if something in my companion’s speech amused, and angered, him greatly.

“Da,” he drawled. “The Institute. Eti blednokrovnyye. That’s…you are right, devitsa. They send me to meet the…the…”

His easy grin curled ferociously at the edges, and Alyss couldn’t miss it this time. Despite her composure, I saw the sorceress take an anxious step back.

“The Katakh,” he snarled, dark eyes flickering with wroth. “Hah.”

And I stepped forth.

I stepped right up to the man, without a moment’s hesitation, drawing close enough to him that we were barely an arm’s breadth apart.

“Is something funny?” I asked.

His eyes whipped my way, surprise guttering the spite.

“…what?” He responded, after a moment.

“I mean, something must be funny, right?” I nodded seriously, glancing back at my companion. Alyss’s cheeks had colored slightly, and she treated me to a scandalized, near-panicked glare. I didn’t care.

I’d had fucking plenty of Aristocrats for today.

“You’re laughing at my friend,” I explained, gesturing her way, then cocking my head curiously. “So something must be funny. But, I didn’t hear her say anything funny.

“So what’s so funny, my lord?”

The Slav’s eyes darted up and down my person at dizzying speed. His gaze had narrowed slightly, his broad grin dimmed in favor of the slightest frown, and all the anger in him had vanished, for now.

But he didn’t back away.

He opened his mouth, and…paused.

Czernobog’s song, though still held tight under his iron grip, squirmed awkwardly about the Marble that sat inside his skull, and his head tilted almost imperceptibly to the side.

Like he was listening to something.

“Your devitsa comrade,” he said at last, in a cautious but increasingly-confident tone. He jerked his head her way, lowering his voice. “She speaks so…so softly, to me. So softly.”

I saw his deep, black eyes flicker with that rage, once more.

“Daughter of the soul stealer,” he condemned, in a grin so tight it could’ve been a grimace of pain, instead. “Successor to the land of slaves and Slavers. Of lashes, and last breaths. But her voice, it is so soft, to me. Such a loving lash.”

As he spoke, he watched my expression warily. Curiously.

“I would not mind this lash, devitsa,” he snorted, gaze flicking Alyss’s way for another short moment. “I think, perhaps, I would not mind. A lash that kills with softness. A good way to die.”

Then he licked his lips, and fixed it back on me. Challenging. Fearless.

“This…is what…is funny,” he rumbled.

“Is it?” I asked.

“To me,” he smiled, his teeth bared.

“But…you are not funny person, I see,” he shrugged, still smiling. “I see, I see. You are not funny. You are not loving. You are not Slaver. No. What are you, then? Well?”

I opened my mouth to reply, then…hesitated. I knew my story well, very well. I knew it backwards and forwards. But, for some reason, I didn’t speak it.

For some reason, I didn’t feel lying to this man would be a wise idea.

His smile sharpened.

“Well?” He asked, laughing. “Who are you? You do not know? Ah, you are too strange, tovarishch.”

Then he began to pace.

Slowly.

Back and forth.

“Your Name is strange. ‘Hero,’” he snorted. “Who is named, ‘Hero?’ Who is named, ‘Hero?’ I am but a humble soldat, my lord, but still, I have never heard a Name like this one. I have heard, ‘Lancelot.’ I have heard, ‘Roland.’ I have heard people named after heroes, many people named after heroes. But to be called, just, ‘Hero?’”

He shook his head, vehemently, as he paced.

“Nyet,” he declared. “No, never. This is strange.”

I watched his antics with a growing unease.

My song was beginning to unravel, my Blessings to prepare for combat. Alyss hadn’t said a peep behind me this whole time, but from what Sensory Projection revealed, she was even more panicked than I.

“Your family’s name, it is strange,” the Slav went on, relentlessly. “‘Tharros.’ I do not recognize it. I am but a humble soldat, my lord, but still, I do not recognize it. I have never heard this name, before. Who is this? I have never heard of families with this name, before. Who is this? I have never heard of mercenaries with this name, before. Who is this? Who is this? Do you know?”

Love this novel? Read it on Royal Road to ensure the author gets credit.

At this, he once more glanced over my shoulder, as if my companion might answer his query in my stead.

Alyss’s face had somehow managed to turn even paler than usual.

“Do you know?” He asked, again, an accusatory finger dancing between the sorceress and myself. “Do you know? Because, I do not know. No. I think…”

He frowned, and nodded to himself.

“I think, this is strange.”

Then the Slav stopped his steady pacing, and his shoulders drooped, and the smile dropped from his face, and the farce was abandoned.

“You are strange,” he said, without an ounce of comedy this time, his eyes burning with black fire.

He directed a single finger my way and raised an eyebrow.

“You do not fear me,” he said.

Without warning, and quick as a whip, his hand darted out from his side, heading for my own. Grabbing at me. His fingers were tinged in a coal-black shadow utterly unlike my companion’s. He was as fast as lightning.

But I was faster than lightning.

My hand flickered, retracting in less than an instant, and the Slavic lord grasped at empty air. But then he just smiled at me, like I’d done exactly what he wanted me to.

“You see me move,” he crowed.

His voice was still mocking, but a wariness had infected it, once more. As well as, perhaps, just a hint of excitement.

“You see?” he pressed. “You see me move. Your eyes do not stray from mine, but still, you see me move.”

He raised both eyebrows at me, and tutted.

“I move fast, my lord. I do. But, you? You move faster. You watch me. You watch me. You do not fear me. Something tells you this, yes? Something tells you that you do not need to fear. Yes?

“You are strong, my lord,” he drawled on before I could reply, rolling his eyes, at once sarcastic and genuine. “Da? Look, look how strong you are. You do not fear me, no. Not one bit. Ty zhestok. You hurt my feelings. Look, how strong you are.

“So strong,” he sang, nodding. “So fearless.”

He pursed his lips together and tapped his chin.

“So strong,” he mused. “And yet, I have never once heard your name. Not once. Not ever. Do you not find this, at all, strange?”

He beamed at me.

His teeth were wide and white.

His arms were spread out wide.

“Who are you, really, tovarishch?”

His words hung in the empty air.

From behind me, Alyss’s lips had compressed themselves into a single fine line of pressure, her face drained completely of remnant color. I was watching her closely. I saw the tension spread across her frame the way it had so many times before. I knew it well, by now. I knew her.

The way her back stiffened, slightly. The way the shadows curled more tightly about her fists. The way her fingers curved themselves into claws. She’d done all she could to help us. To help me. She wouldn’t wait for the fight to begin. She’d start it, if she had to.

But she wouldn’t have to.

I allowed a slow smile to creep across my features.

I didn’t bother to stop it, because…well, there was no need. Ultimately, I realized, the Slav was right. I wasn’t afraid of him.

So I shrugged, and answered honestly.

“I’m Hero,” I said. “I’m here to kill the Warrior.”

Alyss’s jaw dropped. She goggled at me. The Slav jerked back with a choking exhale, his eyes widening in abject shock. And, for a brief moment, I thought it all might fall apart, then and there.

Then Czernobog let out a massive, booming laugh.

The Slav’s bearded cheeks trembled themselves into a broad grin that now wasn’t the slightest bit sarcastic. He bent double at the waist, clutching his arms about his chest and shaking profusely as he guffawed.

“Ebanny Cyka!” He gasped, panting for breath. “I did not expect that.”

He grinned up at me, slapping his iron abdominals.

“You’re a fucking sick brat, you know?” He rumbled, mirthfully. “The Warrior. Cyka. Fucking crazy. Yeah, you are.”

The Slavic lord reached out a large, hairy hand and clapped me powerfully upon the shoulder.

“Ok, priyatel,” he said, shaking his head. “Ok, ok. You are Hero. Da. Khorosho.” He removed the meaty appendage from my shoulder, and held it out towards me.

“Nikolai Novikov,” he introduced himself, cheerfully. “But my friends, they call me Niko.”

“Are we friends, already?” I muttered as I shook it.

“Da, of course!” He answered, laughing. “Everyone’s my friend. Just ask, you’ll see.”

Alyss strode up to the two of us, carefully, her tension greatly diminished but far from disappeared. As she did so, I watched the Slav’s easy smile dim again. Just what did he have against her?

He never shook Alyss’s palm, nor did he offer to.

“Lord Novikov,” she acknowledged, haltingly, then…grimaced. “My condolences.”

The man’s dark eyes flashed with a renewed fury at her words, but it didn’t seem directed at the sorceress, this time. Still, the smile didn’t leave his face.

“Condolences,” he exhaled, sharply. “Yes, indeed. Piotr will be…not happy.”

“Piotr?” I asked, frowning. The name was just familiar enough to ring a bell. “The Tepes heir?” I realized.

Niko turned his blackly-burning eyes my way.

“Da, brat,” he confirmed, grinning savagely. “Your devitsa friend, she knows our Houses. She knows well. Novikov swears fealty to Tepes, for centuries. I am the Prodigy’s personal sword. To serve, unto death. I know him since he is a boy.”

His breath hitched, but only for a moment.

“Vselin, too,” he said, stiffly.

“Wait, you knew the–,” I stopped myself short, quickly, thinking the better of finishing my sentence.

“Er–do…,” I tried, again. “Do…you know why, he…?”

Lord Nikolai examined me with an intense curiosity, his black eyes twinkling, but didn’t answer my unspoken inquiry. Instead, he pursed his lips in my general direction, then abruptly clapped his hands together.

“Ok, ok,” he nodded. “Poydem. We stay here all day, tovarishchi. How is it, you say? Let us get the show on the road?”

Nikolai considered his interpretation of the Common expression briefly, then nodded once more, assured that he had the right of it, and promptly took off towards the center of Great Bern, Alyss and I swiftly falling into step behind him.

“So, Institute,” he spoke as he walked. “You start fall semester, yes? Your svyatoy friend joins us by then, I hope.”

I frowned. I didn’t speak Havish, and I wasn’t using the song, right now, so I could only assume that he referred to Caleb. But Alyss responded to him in the affirmative, anyways, so I simply echoed her.

“Korosho,” he said. “So. You’re a pair of sick blyats who took the Agoge, so it’s all covered. Accommodations. Tuition. Board.” He shook his head.

“Lucky fuckers. You can’t imagine what they charge us. Ublyudki. Robbery.” He smirked. “Miss devitsa can buy herself a place in the city if she wants, I am sure, but otherwise, I take you to your doma, now.”

Once more, I didn’t quite understand what it was the Slav was saying, but could well enough interpret his intent. We lapsed into a sufficiently comfortable silence as we walked, Nikolai apparently satisfied with his role in our arrival, or perhaps, our interrogation. And I was plenty happy with silence, too.

Because it allowed me to lose myself in Bern.

It was nothing like Talos, really. The Uther Capital, by comparison, seemed almost artificial. Mechanical and well-ordered and compact. But Bern was vast.

And it was alive.

It was glorious. Gorgeous. Grand. Everywhere I looked, was just more of it. It dominated the horizon. A slice of the Heavens, recapitulated here on earth.

But even though I couldn’t hear it, and even though I couldn’t see it, I knew that the Hells were right here, too. I’d seen them as we arrived. I’d seen the great and gaping slums on the eastern side. I’d seen what life was like there.

Could this paradise exist without them?

Our path took us from the very tip of the great western wall down into Bern proper, and then wound into the residential quarter. Unfortunately, or perhaps fortunately, the route Lord Novikov had chosen never led us through the city’s heart. We saw only far-off glimpses of the Coterie’s great Guild Halls, and those of the magnificent Assembly.

Oh, well.

I supposed I’d see plenty of them soon enough.

“We’ve heard there are a lot of heirs, this year,” Alyss mentioned, suddenly and off-handedly. A wise question. Doubtless the sorceress sought information, though I wondered if this antagonistic and peculiarly savvy Aristocrat was really the right one to probe.

“Da. You hear correct, devitsa,” he replied, pleasantly enough. “Though, more than usual? I may not say this.

“There are the Gothic twins,” he mused, softly. “Shodan’s spawn. Bertolt, and Bianca. They are here for a year, already. Like me. Then, there is a third-year from Morena. A first-year from Kostyana. A number of whelps from the Wer.”

He snorted.

“There is…of course, the Anglican boy,” Lord Novikov noted, in a tone that ensured I was all too aware of his feelings regarding Prince Price. “Son of the Dragonslayer, hmmph. I hear we get us one from House Titus, as well.

“And, of course,” he finished. “There is Piotr.”

“What’s he like?” I asked, abruptly. “The Prodigy, I mean.”

Nikolai eyed me inquisitively.

“He is Prodigy,” he described, unhelpfully. “You will see him, I am sure. Ah, khorosho. We are here.”

The Slavic Lord ground to halt in front of a pair of stupidly-luxurious townhouses. They were a good few stories tall, at least, and though smaller, were no less splendidly embellished than most those we’d encountered on our way. Fit for a family of mundanes, or two. Or three.

We each had a whole house to ourselves.

“You are lucky, tovarishchi. You arrive just in time for induction ceremony,” Niko smiled at us, appearing particularly pleased, for some reason, by my awe at our accommodations. “Tomorrow. Morning. Central…quadrangle.”

He stopped, laughing to himself.

“A funny word, no? Quadrangle. So funny. Common.” He waved a hand. “You find it, easy enough. Hard to miss. We will be all there. After that, we choose classes.”

“Any recommendations?” I asked, not truly expecting the jocular musclehead to give me a satisfactory response.

“Hmmm,” Niko mused, smiling slyly. “Well, this depends on who you are.” He flashed a combative grin at my companion.

“The devitsa is a Master, da? I am sure, I am sure. So, she goes with Piers.”

He glanced me over.

“You, I am not so sure,” he muttered, still smiling as he narrowed his eyes at me. “Mister Hero, Mister Hero. A Brute, perhaps. Or, a Mover. Or, something else. Who knows?”

“In which case,” he said, shrugging, “I recommend Bogatyr.” The humor in Niko’s voice faded, and he spoke with a seemingly unusual sincerity, and respect.

“Bolemir of House Bogatyr, Dean of War,” he said, seriously. “I train under him. He is…good, at his job. Teaches general courses. I assist his first-year lectures. Basic Melee Maneuvers 101, this, I would recommend.”

Nikolai cracked his knuckles, then, as an idea, perhaps, seemed to occur in him.

“You are Katakh,” he stated, dryly. “Da. So. I do not take you as academic sort. But for if you are, I suggest Circade and Degrasi.”

The corners of his smile twitched, mischievously.

“Deans…or, Dean…of Entropic Engineering. And, of Institute, itself. Second, only, to Lord Pylon. Lectures are…quite notorious. I attend one myself, this year.”

“I see,” Alyss replied, politely, to the man who so clearly and confoundingly despised her. “You have our thanks, Lord Novikov.”

If only patience were power, I thought, wryly, why, she could slay the Warrior right now.

In response, and for the very first time, the Slavic Lord treated my friend to a piercing glare that was more perplexed than truly hateful, as if she was some enigma he couldn’t quite unwrap.

Then he shrugged.

“Nichego, devitsa,” he commented, waving a hand. He turned on his heel, and chuckled as he walked away.

“Sleep tight, little champions. Enjoy Bern.”

Alyss and I glanced at one another.

“Enjoy Bern, brats,” I mimicked, once he was far enough away.

She giggled airily at me.

But, maybe it was just because my accent sucked.