The first day of formal training for the brothers is an interesting one. They wake up before sunrise, the chill of the early morning air settling in their bones. They head to the training field, which is bustling with activity as soldiers prepare for the day's training. The air is filled with a mixture of sweat, steel, and determination. The sergeant, a man named Constantine, and his officers watch as the brothers are put through their paces. They are tested in hand-to-hand combat, swordplay, archery, and other war skills. The brothers move through the training exercises, their skills on full display. Their movements are fluid and lethal, their reactions to their opponents' attacks almost instantaneous. The soldiers watching can't help but be impressed by the brothers' prowess. Constantine and his officers exchange nods of approval and curiosity, watching the brothers with a mixture of respect and wariness. Thekkur and Oleksandr's reputation grows with each display of skill, drawing more onlookers and spectators. By the end of the long day of training, the sergeant pulls the brothers aside.

“Come on lads, let's go get some meals, yes?” Thekkur and Oleksandr both nod in agreement, their sweaty but confident faces expressing their eagerness to refuel.

“That sounds like a good idea,” Oleksandr says, his deep voice rough from exertion.

“We're starving,” Thekkur adds, wiping sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand. The three of them go to the eastern ruins to get some meals before the sergeant leads the brothers back to his tent, gesturing for them to follow him inside. The tent is relatively spacious, filled with a table and several chairs. The general motions for them to take a seat, a serious expression on his face. Constantine pours water for the brothers from a nearby jug, waiting until they are both sipping from their cups before speaking again.

“You both are quite impressive,” he says gruffly. “I have never seen such skill and coordination before, especially not from two men so young.” The brothers nod in thanks. Constantine takes a bite from his own meal before continuing. “Your skill is undeniable, and your reputation among the men is growing. I heard from another soldier about the skill you both displayed last night during the spar with the other soldiers. They said you fought seven men and brought them all down with ease.” He shakes his head in admiration, sipping his wine. “That is truly impressive. To fight seven men at once and win? It's almost unheard-of,” Constantine adds. “It takes a great deal of skill and strength to accomplish such a feat. You two are clearly different from the other men here. You move differently, fight differently.” The brothers listen closely as they slowly eat their meals. Constantine observes the brothers carefully, studying them as they sit before him. He notices the way they move, the way they listen intently and observe with sharp eyes. He can sense their focus and their respect. “I have to ask you something,” he says, his tone more serious. “Your fighting style, your coordination, your strength... It's unlike anything I've seen. Where did you learn to fight like that?” The brothers share a glance before Thekkur responds.

“We were gladiators when we were young. Since we were children. We were kept captive for fighting.” Constantine's eyes widen in surprise as he hears the brothers' revelation, a look of disbelief crossing his face.

“Gladiators? You were raised as gladiators?” He says incredulously. “Since you were children? That's… brutal, barbaric.”

“Unheard of in civilized lands like your own.” Oleksandr says.

“We were kept by a remote tribe in Siberia.” Thekkur adds. “Our mother, a slave, birthed us there. We escaped three years ago. After we left, we worked as mercenaries. Mostly against Huns, but we worked for whoever would feed us.”

Constantine nods in understanding, his expression a mixture of shock and curiosity. “I see,” he says quietly. He takes a moment to absorb this information, then looks back at the brothers with a more intense gaze. “That doesn't explain the way you fight, though,” he says. “It's not just rough survival. You have finesse. You are martial artists.” He studies the brothers again, his eyes narrowing as he tries to figure out the mystery of their fighting skills. “Who taught you to fight like that?” He asks again, his tone more pressing now.

“We taught each other. We saw how the wolves attack their prey with silent coordination, and how the Siberian tiger lunged. We practiced against each other. You have no choice but to improve when fighting against your equal. It's how we perfected our... coordination. Though... we have always had it.” Oleksandr explains, his voice low. Constantine listens in rapt attention, his eyes wide in surprise and fascination. He had never heard of such a thing. Brothers fighting like that, learning by watching wild animals and each other. It sounded almost mystical.

“You... you taught each other," he says, almost as if in awe. “And you say you've always had coordination... even from birth?”

“Yes.” They respond in unison. Constantine raises an eyebrow at the response. To hear two men say something so perfectly in sync felt almost unnatural.

“From birth, huh?” He says, contemplating their answer. “I've never heard of brothers being so in tune with each other since birth. It's almost like you're in each other's head at times.” The brothers glance at each other and remain silent. Constantine watches the brothers carefully, noticing the subtle glance they share. He can tell that there is something more to their connection, something beyond just brotherhood. He decides to press further, probing deeper. “Is there more to this connection of yours? You seem almost like you can communicate without words. You read each other's thoughts, moving in sync without a single word. It's almost like you're psychically linked.”

“It's just practice. Nothing more.”

“You call it 'practice,’” he says with a half-smile. "But I've seen my fair share of brothers, and none of them have ever been so in tune with each other. Even twins. Are you sure there's nothing more to it?”

“Perhaps there is. But, with all due respect, it's not your business.” Oleksandr responds. Constantine frowns slightly at the brothers' curt response, but he nods in grudging acceptance.

“Very well. I understand,” he says, his tone slightly more formal. “I won't press further.” He takes another bite from his food, contemplating the brothers for a moment before speaking again. “So, you said you were mercenaries. You fought against the Huns, yes?”

“Aye, mostly. We fought for them too.” Constantine nods, his interest growing. He had heard the stories of the mighty Huns, and their fearsome warriors. To hear that the brothers had fought both for and against them was intriguing.

“For them as well?” He asks with a raised eyebrow. “You fought for the Huns? And against them? How did that work?”

“We traveled from place to place, picking up swords wherever we could, for whoever would take us. But we are not exactly fond of Huns nor Turkics... we avoided them if possible.”

“I see, I see. So you fought for whoever you could,” he says. “How many men have you killed?” The brothers look at each other and think for a moment. They're not entirely sure, they lost count years ago.

“Around... five-hundred I'd say.” Oleksandr says. Constantine's eyes widen in surprise at the brothers' number. He lets out a low whistle, his expression a mixture of respect and caution.

“Five-hundred? Together, you've killed five-hundred men?” He says, his tone tinged with disbelief. “That's a significant number. For two men your age, that's impressive.” The brothers nod slowly, their cold blue eyes on him. He can see the hardness in their eyes, the weight of their killing etched into their faces.

“Two-fifty each,” he says quietly. “That's... that's not a small number. It's not surprising given your skill and reputation, but it's still a great amount.” He pauses for a moment, studying the brothers closely. “And how old are you both?”

“Eighteen.” Constantine's eyes widen again, his expression one of mild shock. From their looks and demeanors he expected them to be older, let alone being eighteen years old and they have both killed two-hundred and fifty men? It was hard to believe, but judging by their appearance and their fighting style, it wasn't impossible.

“Eighteen." he says, his voice tinged with a mix of admiration and disbelief. “Only Eighteen years old, and already killed so many?”

“Many battles we have won, we have also destroyed encampments. We care not to show mercy, and strike hard on those who don't show courage. We are not the type to leave any alive.” Oleksandr says, sipping his water. Constantine looks at the brothers, his expression now more serious. They were ruthless, that much was clear. They show no mercy and leave no survivors. It made them excellent warriors, but it also made them dangerous.

“No mercy, huh?” he says, his tone guarded. “You don't leave any alive. That's a brutal way to fight. It's effective, but overkill.”

“It is what needs to be done to relentless enemies. Those men breed like rats, it does nothing but help us to cull their manpower.” Constantine nods slowly, his expression still serious. He can see the logic in the brothers' words, but it still makes him uneasy. Their attitude towards fighting and killing was unlike anything he had ever encountered before in men so young. There was a coldness to them, a ruthlessness that was almost... disturbing.

“I see,” he says after a moment. “I understand your reasoning. You see it as practical, as a means to an end. But it's a brutal and ruthless way to fight.”

“We are brutal and ruthless.”

“Yes, you are,” he says, his tone matter-of-fact. He pauses for a moment, his eyes on the brothers. “What made you that way?”

“The world,” Oleksandr says, his voice low and rough. “The world made us what we are. The tribe that enslaved and raised us. The other slaves. The constant threat of violence. The constant hunger. The constant fear. The constant fighting, struggling to survive. It all shaped us. Made us hard, ruthless. We had to be.” He pauses, glancing at his brother, considering his own words. “In nature, there is no mercy. Only the strong survive. You either kill or get killed. We choose to kill. We kill those who are brave because they challenge us. And we crush those who are cowards because they don't deserve the mercy their brave comrades did not receive.”

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“But we no longer fight without loyalty on the lawless Steppe. We have come here to defend. To fight for something. We're sure you're aware we aspire for a Varangian position.” Thekkur says. Constantine lets out a low sigh, his expression turning a little more serious. He had suspected as much, but hearing them confirm it still gave him pause. The Varangian Guard were the imperial bodyguards, the most elite and prestigious military unit in the empire. And these two young men were aiming for it.

“Yes, I'm aware,” he says, his tone a mixture of curiosity and concern. “It's a lofty goal, and one that few achieve.”

“We came to achieve it. How do we get there?”

“One does not simply sign up and join the Varangian Guard.” Constantine remarks, sipping his wine, his brown eyes flickering between the brothers. “It's a high honour. You must be hand selected to join.”

“Cut to the chase, Constantine. Just tell us what to do and we'll do it.” Oleksandr says, his voice stern. Constantine smiles at the brothers' directness and nods his head.

“Very well,” he says, “you must prove yourself worthy to the emperor. He is the one who determines who joins the Guard, and he is a demanding man.”

The brothers pause and exchange a look for a moment, contemplating the information. He's told them all they need to know, and they've got a plan forming in their minds.

“So what's happening in the army right now? When will we be drafted to fight?” Constantine takes another sip of his wine, mulling over the brothers' question. There was always something happening in the army. It was a never-ending cycle of violence and power struggles.

“Hmm, in the army?” He says, his tone casual. “Well, we've been hearing reports of some skirmishes along our southern borders. Barbarians, Turks, and other raiders stirring up trouble. Not to mention the constant threats from the Persians to the east. But as of now, you two may not see battle for a while.”

Thekkur leans in. “Where exactly are these so-called skirmishes?”

“Well,” Constantine says, his tone a hint more serious as he leans forward in his seat, “We've got word of raids happening in the Anatolian Plateau. Tartar clans have been causing some trouble in the region, raiding and looting villages.” The brothers nod to each other and stand up.

“Cheers for the dinner, Constantine.” Constantine raises an eyebrow at the brothers, their abrupt departure catching him off guard. He hadn't been expecting them to leave so suddenly, but he had a feeling that they were already plotting something in their heads.

“Leaving so soon?” He asks, a hint of curiosity in his tone. "Where are you going?” Constantine watches as the brothers stand up and head for the exit, a look of mild surprise on his face.

“We're not needed here.” They were definitely an interesting pair, that much was certain. He takes another swig of his wine, mulling over their brief conversation. Meanwhile, the brothers make their way back to the barracks, their conversation hushed and intense. It was clear that they had a plan in mind.

Thekkur shakes Hæsten, who's asleep in his bunk. He groggily wakes up, rubbing the sleep from his eyes.

“What the hell…” He looks up at the brothers looking down at him. “Are Siberians nocturnal..?” He jokes dryly.

“Hæsten. Where can we get horses around here?” Oleksandr asks, his tone hushed. Hæsten was not a man who appreciated being woken up from his slumber, but the sudden appearance of the brothers at his bedside certainly got his attention. He looks up at them blearily, his expression a mix of confusion and irritation.

“Horses?” he asks, rubbing his eyes as he struggles to wake up. “You want horses? At this time of night? Why?”

“We're getting out of here.”

“And where exactly are you running off to?” He mutters, swinging his legs off the side of his bunk.

“We're leaving the city.” Hæsten's eyebrows raise at the brothers' words, his expression turning more serious.

“Leaving the city?” He repeats, a hint of disbelief in his tone. “Just like that? You've barely been here a day. You're really deserting?”

“Yes, brother. We grow restless in this boot camp. Where can we find horses?” Oleksandr responds, his voice hushed and serious. Hæsten lets out a low sigh, shaking his head in mild disbelief. The brothers were definitely a different breed, that much was obvious. But he had to admit, their desire for adventure was admirable.

“Alright, alright,” he says, reluctantly getting up from his bunk. “I'll take you to the stables. But you better come back and say your goodbyes. The boys have taken a liking to you two.” Hæsen leads the brothers silently through the dark streets of Constantinople, the night air cool and humid around them. They make their way towards the stables, the only sound being the soft crunch of their footsteps against the gravel.

“You know, deserting isn't taken lightly,” he mutters, his tone more cautionary than stern. “If you get caught, you're looking at a death sentence.”

“Death had many chances to ensnare us and it still hasn't. We won't fall in such a way. It's not our fate.” Thekkur responds, his pale eyes cautiously scanning their surroundings. Hæsten can't help but chuckle at Thekkur's words, the younger man's confidence bordering on cocky. But there was something admirable about it.

“You're either extremely overconfident or extremely naive,” he comments, shaking his head as they reach the stables. “Either way, you've got balls of steel, I'll give you that.” Hæsten and the brothers peer around the corner at the stable ahead, eyeing the lone worker slumped against the wall. He's sitting with his back to them, his attention completely focused on his smoking pipe. Hæsten looks over at the brothers, a hint of a smile on his face.

“Looks like you've got your target,” he whispers. “Time to put that confidence to the test, eh, lads?” The brothers stand there for a moment, silently strategizing and planning. The night is still and quiet around them, the only sounds coming from the worker as he puffs idly on his pipe, and the huffing of the horses. Hæsten watches the two brothers, a smirk playing on his lips. It was going to be interesting to see how this plays out…

“Hæsten. You have to help us.” Hæsten raises an eyebrow at the brothers' words, his smirk widening.

“Oh? You need my help, huh?” He whispers, his tone lighthearted. “And what do I get out of this little adventure, besides risking my neck?” The brothers exchange a look before Thekkur reaches into his pack, drawing out the long Griffin feather. It shimmers like a glistening opal in the moonlight and is nearly three feet in length. Hæsten's eyes widen at the sight of the shimmering feather, his smirk replaced with a look of pure awe. It was a magnificent feather, and clearly worth a fortune. He reaches out to touch the feather, running his fingers gently along the silky barbs.

“Is this what I think it is?” He murmurs, his tone a mixture of disbelief and wonder. “You bagged a griffin?”

“You've seen a griffin before?” Hæsten nods slowly, his gaze still on the shimmering feather. He lets out a low whistle, his expression a mixture of awe and envy.

“Aye, I've seen a griffin before. Nasty bastards. Fast and deadly. You must have some serious skill to be able to take one down.”

“You can have the feather if you distract the man. No... He'll see your face. Go, get him into a submission and cover his eyes and mouth while we steal the horses. Then, when we're done, run off.” Hæsten looks at the brothers for a moment, contemplating their plan. It was simple, direct. He had to admit, it could work. And the reward was certainly worth it. He grins, his excitement building.

“Alright, lads,” he says, a hint of anticipation in his voice. “You got a deal.” Thekkur passes him the feather.

“It's valuable. Don't sell it in need of a quick bezant.” Hæsten takes the shimmering feather from Thekkur, running his fingers over the silky barbs one last time before he carefully tucks it inside his belt.

“Don't worry, brother,” he replies with a smirk. “I know when something is worth more than gold.” The brothers nod to Hæsten and he puts on his hood, mentally preparing himself. Hæsten walks casually towards the unsuspecting stable hand, a sly smirk on his face. The man doesn't even notice his approach, still smoking his pipe and minding his business. Hæsten stands beside him for a moment, then suddenly grabs him from behind, one hand clamping over the man's mouth to muffle any cries for help. The man puts up a fight, but he's no match for the viking's strength, his grip firm as he keeps his hand over the man's mouth to silence him. Meanwhile, Thekkur works quickly to draw out two strong horses, gently coaxing them out of their stalls and leading them outside. Oleksandr is right behind them, quickly saddling them up and getting them ready to ride. They swiftly mount the horses and ride away, giving one last glance and nod of thanks to their friend. Hæsten watches as the brothers ride away quickly, their form disappearing into the narrow labyrinthine streets. He lets out a deep sigh, shaking his head in mild disbelief.

“Crazy bastards. They actually did it,” he mutters to himself, a mixture of admiration and amusement on his face.

The brothers ride through the cobblestone streets, the sound of hoofbeats echoing softly in the stillness of the night. The streets are deserted, the city asleep in the deep hours of the night. They continue on, riding slowly and keeping a low profile. The city seems strangely peaceful at this time of night, the quiet broken only by the soft sound of their horses' footsteps.

“Second night in Constantinople and we're already causing trouble, hm?” Thekkur says with a hint of amusement. Oleksandr grunts in agreement, a wry grin on his face as he rides beside his brother.

“Aye, we do seem to have a knack for stirring things up wherever we go,” he replies, a hint of dry humor in his tone. “Perhaps the civilized lands aren't quite suited for us, brother. We are cut from rougher cloth.” They ride through the night, into the outskirts of the city. Eventually, they make it to a checkpoint, with armed soldiers. They exchange a glance and remain stoic. As far as they’re concerned, these guards know nothing about them. The brothers approach the checkpoint, their horses' hooves treading softly against the dirt. The guards on duty regard them warily, taking note of their foreign appearances and lack of familiarity. Oleksandr meets their glares with a steady, unblinking look, his face giving away nothing. Thekkur, meanwhile, keeps a composed expression, showing no hint of nervousness or anxiety.

“Where are you headed?” A soldier calls up to them from the ground.

“Returning to our home in Anatolia.”

“Why were you in Constantinople?”

“We came for the wine and women.” Oleksandr's reply is met with a snort from the guard, who looks at them skeptically.

“Returning home to Anatolia, hm? You're a long way from home, boys,” the guard says, not entirely convinced by their story. “And you had to come all the way here for wine and women?”

Thekkur grins, his voice casual and light. “What can I say? We have expensive tastes.”

“Your accents are not Anatolian. Those horses are Greek.” The guard says, his serious demeanor returning. Oleksandr reaches into his pocket to toss out a small satchel of gold coins, the coins spilling on the road.

“We don't want trouble. Let us leave and we'll be gone from your city.” The guard's gaze falls on the spilled coins, his eyes widening at the sight of the gold sparkling in the moonlight. The other guards also crane their necks to get a better look, their expressions shifting from suspicion to greed.

“Well, well, well,” the guard says, his tone changing from suspicious to intrigued. “Now, that's more like it.” He picks up a few of the coins, weighing them in his hand, then looks up at the brothers with a slight nod. “Alright, my lords. You can pass.”

“You didn't see us.” The guards watch as the brothers ride off, leaving the city grounds. As soon as the brothers are out of sight, the guards quickly pocket the gold, keeping their encounter quiet. The brothers ride out of the city gates, leaving the hustle and bustle of Constantinople behind them.