The brothers run to the edge of the terrace, where they have a clear view of the waters below. They watch as Ottoman boats move closer to the city, ready to attack, and Byzantine ships maneuvering to intercept them. Oleksandr and Thekkur watch the scene with a mix of dread and anger. They know what the sight means - an impending battle, and the city's safety at stake.

"What the hell do we do? We're trapped on this island. Shit. Shit." Thekkur says, his voice low with anger and anxiety. Thekkur's outburst reflects the brothers' own frustration. They're used to facing danger and being prepared for challenges, but being trapped on the monastery island with an impending invasion leaves them feeling caged and powerless. Oleksandr looks around, searching for any possible escape route, but there's none in sight.

"Relax," he mutters to Thekkur, his voice steady and reassuring. "We'll figure something out. We always do." The brothers watch in awe and trepidation as the Byzantine ship launches fire from its cannon, igniting the surrounding water and an Ottoman ship, setting it afire. The sound of the explosion echoes across the water, the sight of the burning ship a fierce and intimidating display of military might. Greek fire. Oleksandr and Thekkur exchange a glance, the situation seeming more dire with every passing moment. The brothers spot a smaller boat in the distance, its size and speed suggesting it might be heading towards the monastery island. The brothers watch it approach, a sense of foreboding growing within them. The brothers race down the steps of the mountain, swiftly and skillfully navigating the terrain, jumping down from landing point to landing point. Thekkur's bow is poised and ready, Oleksandr's sword glinting in the sunlight as they descend. The plan passes between them with a single look, each knowing their role instinctively. The mission is clear - defend the island, take the boat and head back to the mainland. Their minds are focused and their bodies poised for the battle to come.

Thekkur quickly takes position on a high vantage point, his bow pulled back and arrow nocked, ready to fire at a moment's notice. He sees the group of men disembarking from the ship, and his arrow flies through the air with a sharp thwack, striking one of the men in the neck and dropping him to the ground. Oleksandr, meanwhile, is ready for the remaining soldiers, his sword held tightly in his hand. The remaining soldiers react quickly, drawing their own weapons and charging towards the monastery's walls as Thekkur continues to fire arrows. Oleksandr rushes to meet them, his sword moving quickly in a deadly and practiced dance, cutting down the soldiers that get within his range. The sound of clashing swords and men yelling in pain fill the air, the two brothers standing as a defensive line against the oncoming onslaught.

A group of soldiers slip past Oleksandr, making their way towards the monastery's entrance. Thekkur, quickly dropping his bow, draws his own sword and moves to intercept them, engaging the small group of men. Oleksandr continues fighting those that remain on the beach, his skills and reflexes on full display as he tirelessly cuts down the multiple opponents in front of him. Both brothers are focused and determined, their skills honed to a razor's edge as they fight to protect the monastery and its inhabitants.

“Fall back, Olek! To the monasteries!” Thekkur's cry cuts through the din of battle, his voice urgent and commanding. Oleksandr's ears catch the words instantly, and without hesitation, he starts retreating backwards, slowly moving towards the monastery walls. As Oleksandr moves backwards, a few of the remaining soldiers start to follow him, desperate to break through the monastery's defenses. Thekkur moves to intercept them, fighting fiercely to stop them from following Oleksandr into the monastery grounds. Oleksandr continues withdrawing, his sword flashing as he skillfully cuts down the approaching soldiers. He moves with fluid, practiced movement, the years of training kicking in as he fights, the monastery gates coming into view behind him. As Oleksandr heads towards the monastery gates, Thekkur moves to intercept the remaining soldiers, positioning himself on a lower terrace to fight. He faces the soldiers with his sword ready, his expression fierce and determined. Oleksandr moves with lethal grace, his sword flashing as he takes down one man and kicks another down the steps, causing a couple others to stumble. Thekkur, fighting nearby, impales one of the soldiers and seizes his sword, now dual-wielding with deadly efficiency. The brothers move in sync, their fighting styles complementing each other as they defend the monastery grounds. Oleksandr turns his back to cut down an enemy with a spin, and as he faces the front again, his heart drops in his chest, as he sees a familiar spear hurling through the air… He quickly slides out of the way, before he hears a gasp behind him. Oleksandr's heart sinks as turns to see the spear piercing Thekkur's stomach, pinning him to the wall.

No...

In that instant, Oleksandr's world shatters, almost literally. His ears ring, his body goes cold and numb, he nearly forgets everything going on around him, his chest caves in, as if the spear had hit him himself... With a primal scream, he lunges to defeat the rest of the enemies surrounding them, with an efficiency he's never had before, like a machine, as everything around him blurs, fading to black and white, the only sounds he can hear a loud ringing in his ears and the relentless pounding of his heart. Thump. Thump. Thump. Each move is precise and deadly, cutting down every enemy in his path with a cold, primal rage. Within moments, he defeats every last one of them in a bloody rage, finishing it off with the man who threw the spear, the now grown boy from all those years ago, in the rebel encampment, the one who he chose to show mercy to, the boy he spared… He stands there, panting and covered in blood, the ringing in his ears so loud that it drowns out all other sounds.

He quickly jumps down to Thekkur to kneel beside him, his eyes wide with shock and horror. Thekkur stares down at his bleeding stomach, his hands shaking as he hovers them over the wound, his face pale and panicked. Oleksandr's voice trembles as he grasps Thekkur's face, his heart pounding with a mixture of panic and despair. "No, no, no," he repeats desperately, his eyes fixed on the spear embedded in his brother's stomach. Thekkur looks at him with wide eyes, his face pale and clammy.

"Olek... Am I going to die?" He whispers, his voice strangled with the blood in his throat, his breaths shallow. Oleksandr's heart sinks at the question. He knows that the wound is severe, and the chances of survival are slim.

"No, Theko, I'm going to save you.. Just..." He holds his shaky hands over the wound, as if grasping at his brother's hot blood, but he knows it's futile, the spear having gone straight through him, and he's unable to take it out without causing further damage. Oleksandr's mind races, desperate and frantic for a solution, but he knows that time is running out.

“Olek... T-take care of Amalthea," Thekkur rasps. Oleksandr holds his brother's face tighter, his voice breaking as he tries to cling on to a sliver of hope.

"No, Theko, you'll see her, you'll marry her," he insists desperately, his eyes fixed on his brother's face, willing him to hold on. “You’ll take care of her yourself.” Thekkur's head lulls slightly as he coughs, spitting out a mouthful of dark blood on his shirt. Oleksandr trembles, staring at his brother, holding his face. "No, Thekkur. We were supposed to die together. I'm supposed to die with you, remember?" Oleksandr pleads, his voice thick with despair.

"Oleksi... I'm dying... I'm dying..." His voice is barely a whisper, but the impact is like a physical blow to Oleksandr's heart.

"No, Thekkur... Don't go where I can't follow... Please, brother." Oleksandr's voice breaks as he grips the sides of Thekkur's face as he begs desperately. "Please, brother, stay with me." Thekkur manages to lift his head slightly, leaning it against the wall behind him as he looks up at Oleksandr with his wide, pleading eyes. His breathing is labored and shallow, beads of sweat glistening on his pale forehead, his voice weak and strained, but with a surprising amount of strength he manages to choke out:

"I love you, Oleksandr."

Oleksandr grips his twin's hair, pulling his head into his chest, kissing the top of his head, petting his hair.

“Thekkur, my brother, my love, I’m sorry…”

Time passes, what seems like an eternity, perhaps just minutes, maybe hours, perhaps days or weeks. Time stands still as Oleksandr sits there, frozen and numb, cradling his brother's body. His hands tremble as he pets his hair, feeling as if time has slowed to a standstill, a cruel, endless moment that stretches on into eternity. Thump. Thump.. Thump...

With shaky hands he pulls the spear from the wall, allowing Thekkur to lay back on the ground, and he looks down at his pale, lifeless face, with utter soul-crushing grief and shock, his once brilliant blue eyes, half lidded and hollow. His mind is blank, frozen in a state of complete disbelief and shock. He feels as if his soul has died with his brother. Thekkur. What now? What is he supposed to do now? The world seems impossibly dark and empty without Thekkur by his side. The light has gone out of his life. He looks around with disbelief and confusion, the world around him seems familiar yet foreign, it has changed, like he entered a new universe. Everything is the same, but it's all different. The world has taken on a different shade of color, as if Thekkur's absence has altered the very fabric of reality. Once that was a pine tree, once that was a blue sky, once that was a sea. But now, it is a tree and a sky existing in a world without Thekkur. He feels completely lost and alone, so, utterly and terribly alone, the world suddenly vast and empty with his brother gone. Thekkur. Thekkur is gone.

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Oleksandr grabs Thekkur's sword, wrapping his twin's limp hand around it, and resting it across his chest. He then takes off his tunic and drapes it over his face, a gesture of respect and finality. He looks down, a single tear falling from his eye, splattering with the dark blood on his brother’s sword. As he stands up, a numbness washes over him, followed by a deep, primal rage that ignites his heart and soul. He doesn't think, doesn't feel, doesn't reason. He moves like a man possessed, acting on pure instinct and rage.

Oleksandr leaps onto the Ottoman boat, taking two oars, and begins rowing with an almost mechanical precision. He rows with a singular focus, pushing the oars through the water as he propels himself towards another boat in the midst of the continuing naval battle. Without hesitation, he dives into the water and grips a rope hanging off the ship, holding his sword between his teeth. With a few swift movements, he quickly pulls himself up the rope, his eyes fixed on the enemy before him.

Grief and rage fused into a single, burning force that swallowed everything else. The Ottoman soldiers closed in, but Oleksandr was no longer just a man. He was vengeance and torment incarnate. He moved with a terrifying grace, each strike a blur of lethal precision. His blade sliced through the first soldier's throat, then twisted in his hand to impale the man behind him. Blood sprayed across the deck as Oleksandr spun, evading a spear thrust with a fluid duck. His sword lashed out, severing the arm that held it, then with a backhand slash, he cleaved through another's skull. They came at him in waves, desperate, frenzied, but he was a storm. A cut to the knee, a thrust to the heart, a head sent flying from its shoulders. Every move was efficient, devastating, honed by years of battle, now fueled by a fury that knew no bounds. His mind was empty of thought, driven only by instinct and the need to avenge his brother. Thekkur. A scream from his right, Oleksandr pivoted, catching a scimitar on his blade, then with a quick twist, he disarmed the attacker and drove his sword through the man's chest, coating his own blank, wide-eyed face with blood. He pulled it free just in time to block another strike from behind. Without pausing, he elbowed the attacker in the face feeling bone crunch under the impact, then turned and slashed his throat open. The deck became a slaughterhouse slick with blood. Bodies piled around him, but he kept moving, kept killing. His eyes burned with cold fire, his breath came in controlled, measured bursts. Another lunged at him, and he sidestepped, letting the momentum carry the man past, then cut him down with a single, brutal stroke. Over fifty men, all dead or dying, their blood staining the wood beneath his feet. Oleksandr stood alone, chest heaving, his sword dripping with the life he had taken. It's not enough. It will never be enough. The ship was silent now, save for the creaking of the timbers and the distant cry of gulls.

Oleksandr looked around the ship for a brief moment. Rage, vengeance, bloodlust, grief, and dread battling for dominance in his tormented heart, his world feeling cold, empty, and devoid of meaning now that his brother is gone. With a swift and practiced move, he grabs the hanging tether from the sail, quickly climbing up the mast. As he reaches the top, he leaps off, using the momentum to swing himself onto the next ship. The killing frenzy continues.

After hitting two more ships, Oleksandr leaps into the water and swims to shore, his heart filled with grief and rage. The city was a cacophony of chaos, fire, and steel. Smoke billowed from shattered walls, and the cries of the desperate mingled with the clash of weapons. Oleksandr charged forward, his eyes blazing with a single-minded purpose. The gates had fallen, and the invaders flooded the streets like a relentless tide. But for him, there was no thought of retreat. Only death. A horse, riderless and wild with fear, thundered past him. Without breaking stride, Oleksandr leaped, his hand seizing the saddle with an iron grip. The momentum of the galloping beast almost tore him off balance, but he swung his leg over in one fluid motion, landing squarely in the seat. His free hand clenched around his sword's hilt like a lifeline, knuckles white as he steered the horse into the thick of the enemy.

The invaders barely had time to react as he descended upon them like a force of nature. The sword flashed in deadly arcs, cutting through armor and flesh with brutal precision. A mounted soldier turned to face him, only to find Oleksandr's blade buried in his chest before he could raise his shield. The man toppled from his horse, and Oleksandr tore his weapon free, already seeking his next target. The horse reared, driven by the fury of its rider, and Oleksandr pressed on, plowing through the throng of enemies. A group of spearmen tried to block his path, but he urged the horse forward, trampling over them as he slashed down with lethal force. Blood sprayed and the screams of the dying filled the air, but he was deaf to all of it. His focus was absolute, his mind locked on destruction. An enemy archer aimed at him from a rooftop. In a blink, Oleksandr hurled a dagger from his belt, sending the archer tumbling to the ground with a gurgled cry. The horse charged up the street, hooves striking sparks from the cobblestones as he cut through the ranks of the invaders, leaving a trail of death in his wake. With every swing, every strike, Oleksandr felt the weight of his grief driving him forward. He did not feel pain, he did not feel fear nor fatigue, he was a machine, fueled by hate and malice. The city was a warzone, a hellscape, but he moved through it like a man possessed. Thekkur's death echoed in his soul, turning his rage into an unstoppable force. Gone. As the sun set, casting a crimson glow over the city, Oleksandr fought on, a whirlwind of fury and steel, determined to see the invaders crushed beneath his relentless wrath.

The streets of Constantinople were drenched in the blood of its defenders, but Oleksandr felt none of the exhaustion that hung over the city. He tore through the chaos on horseback, the wind whipping his face as he steered toward the imperial palace. The mighty walls of the city had been breached, and now the heart of the empire lay exposed to the enemy. But as long as he drew breath, Oleksandr would not let it fall. The great dome of Hagia Sophia loomed in the distance, a beacon amidst the smoke and ruin. The closer he got, the thicker the throng of invaders became. Ottoman soldiers swarmed the streets, their banners snapping in the air as they pressed their assault on the last bastion of Roman power. He guided the horse with fierce determination, charging straight into the enemy ranks. His sword cut a path through them, leaving bodies in his wake. A spear jabbed at him from the left, but he twisted in the saddle parrying it aside before driving his blade into the attacker's chest. The horse trampled over another, crushing bone beneath its hooves, while Oleksandr's sword cleaved through the air, felling another foe. Ahead, the gates of the imperial palace came into view, besieged by a sea of Ottoman soldiers. The last line of defenders, fellow Varangians, fought desperately to hold them back, their axes rising and falling in a deadly rhythm. Oleksandr's heart pounded as he urged his mount forward, barreling into the enemy with a fury that matched the Norse gods of old.

He leaped from the saddle as the horse plowed into the crowd, his sword flashing in a blur of silver. He fought his way to the gates, where his brothers-in-arms stood in grim defiance. Together, they formed a wall of steel, pushing back the invaders with the strength of men who had nothing left to lose.

"Hold the line!" Oleksandr bellowed, his voice carrying over the din of battle. He swung his sword in wide arcs, each strike cutting down another enemy. They were vastly outnumbered, but he fought with the fury of a man who had already lost everything, turning his grief into a weapon sharper than any blade, into a beast, hungry for revenge and blood, an appetite that will never be satiated. The gates creaked under the pressure of the assault, but they did not break. As the sun dipped below the horizon, casting the city in shadow, Oleksandr and his fellow Varangians stood firm. He fought on, a living embodiment of the empire's last stand, determined to defend Constantinople to the very end. The days blurred into a relentless tide of blood and steel as the battle for Constantinople raged on. For Oleksandr, time lost all meaning. Each sunrise and sunset bled into one another, but he did not sleep, did not rest. The exhaustion that gripped his comrades never touched him. He fought with the endurance of a machine, his every movement fueled by an unyielding drive to defend the city, to honor his fallen brother. The once-proud walls of the imperial palace were now scarred and battered, groaning under the ceaseless assault. The Varangian Guard, once a formidable force, was dwindling. Oleksandr fought on, his sword an extension of his will, striking with deadly precision against the endless waves of Ottoman soldiers. His face was a mask of grim determination, his eyes hollowed by the loss that drove him forward. The struggle became a nightmare that had no end. Day after day, he stood in the breach, cutting down invaders as they poured through the shattered gates. His bare skin was bruised and drenched in sweat and the blood of countless enemies, his sword dull from the endless slaughter, but he moved with the same lethal efficiency as when the siege began. His comrades, men who he faught with, lived with, laughed with, fell around him. One by one, their bodies added to the growing pile of the dead, a pile that fueled his desire for vengeance. But Oleksandr never wavered, his focus razor-sharp, his grief a fire that refused to be extinguished.

Yet despite his efforts, the tide could not be turned. The Ottomans were too many, their resolve as unbreakable as their numbers. The city’s defenders were being overwhelmed, inch by inch, street by street. The imperial palace, once a symbol of strength and grandeur, was now a fortress on the brink of collapse. Oleksandr could see the despair in the eyes of the other Varangians, their faces etched with fatigue and hopelessness. But in his heart, there was no room for despair, only a burning need to fight on, to stand against the inevitable for as long as he could. The pain of Thekkur’s death was a constant ache, but it kept him moving, kept him swinging his sword with relentless fury. The days bled into one another, each one more desperate than the last. The city was dying, its streets choked with smoke and ash, its people lost and fleeing to fear and sorrow.

As the walls of Constantinople finally gave way, and the invaders poured into the city in a flood of fire and steel, Oleksandr fought with the last of his strength. The Varangian Guard was shattered, their blood staining the streets they had sworn to defend. The imperial palace was consumed by the flames of conquest. Yet, even as the city fell, Oleksandr refused to die. Not yet. Death is not for me. His fury burned within him, a beacon that guided him through the chaos. Surrounded and outnumbered, he cut a path through the enemy with sheer force of will, each strike fueled by the determination to live. He was a ghost, moving through the smoke and ruin, slipping past the grasp of death.

When the dawn broke over a fallen Constantinople, the city was unrecognizable, a ruin of its former glory. But Oleksandr emerged from the shadows, bloodied and battered, yet alive. The weight of survival hung heavy on him, a bitter victory amid the ashes of defeat. He had lost everything—his brother, his comrades, the city he had sworn to protect—but he had survived. With no home, no purpose, and no future, he was a man adrift, carrying only his sword and the burden of his memories. Yet, in the ruins of the fallen empire, Oleksandr vowed that his brother’s death would not be forgotten. He would live on, a lone warrior in a world turned to dust, seeking a new path amidst the wreckage of the old. But first, he has one last oath to fulfill.

Find Amalthea.