Oleksandr stands outside the longhouse, the cold biting at his skin but failing to pierce the storm of thoughts swirling in his mind. The sword rests in his hand, its runes and engravings catching the faint moonlight like whispers from the past. He studies it, tilting the blade ever so slightly, watching how the intricate patterns seem to shift and dance in the pale glow. It feels familiar—too familiar. The weight is perfect, balanced in a way that makes him wonder if this weapon had always been meant for him, if its destiny had been intertwined with his all along.

  He shakes his head, trying to dispel the unease creeping over him. His thoughts turn to Ivan, the Cossack who had vanished into the shadows the night before. Too many secrets in this place, Oleksandr thinks grimly. He hadn’t thought much of it at first. Ivan was capable, resourceful, but now, unease gnawed at him. Then there was Samorix, who had gone after Ivan. The absence of both his companions strikes a dissonant chord in his mind, the silence of the snow-covered world around him amplifying his worry.

  Oleksandr moves with the precision of a wolf stalking prey, his eyes scanning the snow for the familiar tread of Samorix’s moccasins. Even among the countless footprints around the wrestling arena, his sharp gaze finds what he’s looking for: tracks heading back toward the heart of the village. The impressions are distinct, the same tread as his own, yet shorter and broader, with the slight drag of Samorix’s step that Oleksandr knows from years of friendship.

  The trail weaves through the village, and Oleksandr follows, each step precise and calculated. The weight of the sword at his hip adds a certain gravity to his movements, as if the weapon itself has become part of his resolve. The village feels unnaturally still, the silence pressing against his ears like a heavy fog. The festive chaos of Yule seems to have drawn most of the inhabitants away, leaving the streets empty, the wooden huts dark, their chimneys lifeless. He loses the footprints, the snow tracked over in the village.

  His hand tightens around the hilt of the sword Oddvarr had gifted him, the weight of it both comforting and burdensome. The footprints he’s been following lead him towards the heart of the village. No one else seems to be around. He passes an old stone well, the skeletal frame of a nearby cart, and then stops in his tracks as he spots a lone figure on patrol.

  The man is wrapped in furs, his beard thick and matted from the cold. His eyes narrow as he notices Oleksandr, a guarded look crossing his face. He’s a warrior, seasoned and strong, standing with arms crossed, scanning the surroundings. Oleksandr approaches him, his steps purposeful.

  He doesn’t wait for an invitation. "I came here with two companions," he growls, his voice low and demanding. "Where are they?" The patrolling man shifts his weight slightly, assessing Oleksandr with a mixture of suspicion and curiosity. He grunts as he uncrosses his arms, his gaze still locked on the stranger.

  "You're the strange foreigner, the Rus, right?" His tone is rough, like the crunch of the snow beneath Oleksandr's boots. "What makes you think I know where your companions are?" He can feel the weight of the man's gaze, sizing him up.

  "I don't think you understand me," Oleksandr continues, his voice growing colder. "I’m asking you where they are. Samorix and Ivan. They haven’t returned since last night." His eyes narrow, the warning in his tone clear. "I know the kind of men Oddvarr keeps in his service. So I ask again—where are they?"

  The warrior steps forward, his boots scraping against the ice. "I don’t know where they are. And I don’t care." His tone is dismissive, but Oleksandr can see the flicker of uncertainty in his eyes. There’s something beneath the bravado, a hesitation he doesn’t like. The anger in Oleksandr’s chest swells, burning hot and fierce. His friends have disappeared without a trace, and he knows that something isn't right. These men, they know something, and if they won’t speak, he’ll make them.

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  His breath comes out in a harsh exhale as he steps forward, his large frame looming over the warrior. His hand clenches into a fist, knuckles crackling in the cold air. Without warning, Oleksandr throws a punch straight into the man’s face.

  The blow lands with a sharp crack as his fist connects with the warrior’s nose. The Viking stumbles back, a surprised grunt leaving his lips as his knees buckle, and he crumples to the ground. Blood pours from his nose, staining his furs.

  He gasps for air, more out of shock than pain, eyes wide with disbelief. Oleksandr doesn’t wait for him to recover. His towering form casts a shadow over the fallen man, his body rigid with anger and frustration.

  "I asked you a simple question," Oleksandr growls, his voice low and menacing. "If I ask again, I won’t be so gentle. Where are they!?"

  The warrior, clutching his swollen nose, looks up at him through blurred eyes, his lips trembling as he tries to regain composure. “I… I don’t—” He chokes on his words, clearly still rattled by the unexpected blow and the blood in his mouth. Oleksandr draws the gleaming sword from its scabbard, the runic engravings catching the moonlight with a faint hum. The blade feels almost alive in his hands, weighty and powerful. Oleksandr doesn’t speak, but his gaze is cold and unwavering, fixated on the man at his feet. The warrior swallows hard, a flicker of realization crossing his face at the sight of the blade. With a reluctant nod, the Viking points down a narrow street, towards the edge of the village.

  Without another word, Oleksandr turns and begins moving swiftly, the cold air stinging his face as he follows the trail, the warrior's words echoing in his mind. His breath comes out in sharp bursts, the urgency of the situation surging through his veins. Samorix and Ivan, his friends, his brothers, are close. His pulse quickens with each step. He re-locates Samorix’s tracks and sees they lead to an old barn.

  There are two armed men outside, standing vigilant and unmoving, as if expecting trouble. Their furs are thick, their expressions grim.

  Oleksandr pauses at the edge of the village, hidden in the shadows of a nearby building. He surveys the two men. They're large, rugged, their weapons—axes and short swords—glinting in the dim light.

  He creeps around the barn, pressing himself against the walls, moving with calculated precision. His boots barely make a sound on the snow, and his eyes flicker to every shadow, every movement. He checks for alternate entrances or signs of activity, but the barn remains silent.

  His gaze shifts to the snow near the guards, where Samorix's footprints abruptly end. The tracks suggest a struggle, and he notices faint drops of blood staining the white snow. Oleksandr pauses, his breath shallow as he crouches near the back of the barn. He reaches out, gently knocking on the wood, the sound barely audible in the frigid air. He listens intently, straining to hear any response, but all is silent. He moves on, repeating the process as he inches closer to the rear of the barn.

  His heart races when, on the next knock, the sound is echoed back to him, as if someone inside was waiting. He freezes, then carefully pulls apart a few pieces of thatching and mud between the logs. His eyes narrow as he peers inside, the darkness of the barn swallowing the faint moonlight.

  "Sasha!" Samorix's voice comes out, a whisper from within. Oleksandr's heart skips a beat.

  “I’m here,” Oleksandr responds just as quietly, his voice barely audible.

  "They got us, Olek," Ivan’s voice joins in, sharp with urgency. "Bound us, took our weapons. We're alive, but they’re watching us." Oleksandr takes a quick look over his shoulder, making sure no one is approaching. He can’t afford to be caught out here, not now, not when his friends are imprisoned. His fingers tighten around the hilt of his scimitar, the one gifted to him by the Albanians. Carefully, he slides it through the gap in the logs, the blade scraping slightly against the wood as he passes it to them.

  "Here," he whispers. "Keep it close, keep it hidden. Lay low until the time is right. Are you two alright?" He asks quietly, his voice thick with concern.

  Samorix’s voice comes again, quieter but steady. “We’re alright, Olek. Just tied up. Don’t worry about us. Focus on the task at hand.”

  Ivan whispers. “Oddvarr... he knew, Olek. He knew from the beginning.” His voice is grim, filled with a weight Oleksandr isn’t quite prepared for. “He knows who you really are.”

  Samorix then leans in and whispers through the crack, causing Oleksandr’s blood to run to ice.