The wind whips through Oleksandr's hair as he stands on the deck of a sturdy vessel, its sails billowing against the brisk sea breeze. The salty air fills his lungs, and the rhythmic crashing of waves against the hull provides a soothing backdrop to his thoughts. For the first time in weeks, the oppressive cold of Scandinavia is behind them, replaced by milder winds as they sail further south.

  He leans against the railing, his sharp eyes scanning the distant shores they pass—rugged cliffs, unfamiliar villages, and sprawling hills cloaked in green. These are lands he has never set foot on before, their beauty as alien to him as the constellations above. The western edges of Europe. Lands he has heard of in passing but never dreamed he would see.

  Samorix joins him, a steaming mug in hand, his red beard now flecked with streaks of salt from the spray. "So, what do ye think of the west, lad?" He asks, his voice carrying over the rush of the wind.

  Oleksandr doesn’t answer immediately, his gaze fixed on a distant shoreline where a village clings to the cliffs. "It’s... different," he says finally, his tone thoughtful. "Not like the icy wastelands of the north. And not like home either. It’s something else entirely."

  Samorix chuckles, clapping him on the shoulder. "Aye, that it is. Every shore has its own soul. But ye’ve got the look of a man whose soul is still wandering, Sasha. What’s on your mind?"

  Oleksandr sighs, his hands tightening on the railing. "Just... everything. My father. The blood on my hands. And now, heading back to Montenegro. There’s so much waiting for me there, but... part of me feels like I’ll never truly leave what happened behind." He pauses, his gaze turning inward. "Every new land we pass feels like a reminder of how far I’ve come—and how far I still have to go."

  Samorix nods, his expression softening. "That’s the way of it, lad. Every man carries his ghosts. But ye’ve got something to look forward to—a bride waiting for ye, a future to build. That’s more than most men get in this life."

  At that moment, Ivan approaches, a faint grin on his face as he leans casually against the railing. "Don’t let this old man fill your head with too much wisdom," he teases, motioning to Samorix. "You’ll give yourself wrinkles thinking too hard about it all. Enjoy the moment. Not every day you get to sail past the edges of the world."

  Oleksandr allows himself a small smile, though it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. "You’re right. But it’s hard not to think about what’s behind me... and what’s ahead."

  The three men stand in comfortable silence for a while, the horizon stretching endlessly before them. The journey southward takes them past bustling ports and quiet fishing hamlets, the crew trading tales of distant lands and seas teeming with opportunity. Oleksandr, ever curious, asks questions about the cultures of these shores, their gods, their warriors, and their histories. He learns of the Frankish kingdoms, the fabled wealth of the Spanish, and the sea raiders who once terrorized these coasts.

  One night, as they anchor near a quiet cove, Samorix shares tales of his younger days as a Varangian, recounting battles fought and cities seen. His booming laughter carries over the deck as Ivan chimes in with his own embellished adventures in Eastern Europe and the Steppe, painting a picture of camaraderie that momentarily lifts the weight from Oleksandr’s shoulders.

  By the second week, the weather grows noticeably warmer. Oleksandr finds himself shedding layers of clothing, his body adjusting to the change. The cold winds of the north feel like a distant memory as they sail closer to the Mediterranean. Another week passes.

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  The ship cuts steadily through the calm waters of the Adriatic, its bow breaking the glassy sea with gentle rhythm. Oleksandr stands near the prow, the salt air filling his lungs, his sharp eyes fixed on the distant shoreline. The landscape grows more familiar with each passing hour—steep, rugged mountains capped in white, their majesty mirrored in the sea below. Villages and towns dot the coastline, their terracotta roofs glowing under the winter sun. All lands he knows like the back of his hand. Small fishing boats and trader vessels bob nearby, the occasional wave of a hand or shout of greeting from their captains breaking the quiet.

  Oleksandr feels a tug in his chest, both comforting and unnerving. A knot of anxiety sits in his gut as he thinks of Savka. It has been so long since he has seen her, since he has held her in his arms and whispered her name. Will she cry? He is sure of it. His poor Savushka, her tender heart must have endured so much waiting for him. The thought of her waiting, worrying, not knowing if he is dead or alive—it hurts him in a way no battle wound ever has.

  He runs his hand through his hair, gripping the railing as the sea breeze kisses his face. He can almost hear her voice in the wind, can picture her running toward him the moment she sees him. He thinks of scooping her up, of burying his face in her soft hair, of kissing her and telling her it is over, that he is home. Behind him, Ivan and Samorix stand near the mast, sharing drinks and a loaf of bread the crew has offered. Ivan calls out, breaking his thoughts.

  “You look like you’re about to jump overboard, Oleksi,” he teases. “Don’t worry, she’s not going anywhere.”

  Samorix chuckles, shaking his head. “Poor lad. Ye can see it written all over his face. He’s already imagining his bird waiting by the door, tears in her eyes.”

  Oleksandr nods, his gaze turning back to the horizon. The mountains are clearer now, their rugged beauty a symbol of his journey’s end. Soon, he will disembark, his boots on familiar soil once more. Soon, he will see Savka. And for the first time in a long while, the ache of loneliness will fade.

  As the ship glides closer to the coast, the faint sound of gulls crying above reaches his ears. Oleksandr closes his eyes and whispers under his breath, a quiet promise to the woman he loves: I’m almost home. The boat rocks gently as it slows into the harbor, the bustle of dockworkers and merchants filling the air with life. Oleksandr stands at the prow, his hands gripping the railing so tight he feels he might snap it. In his mind, she is as vivid as the day he left—her dark hair cascading like silk, her slender form framed in sunlight. Her laugh, soft and sweet, echoes in his memory, filling the void that has plagued him for so many months. He silently reaches out to her across the distance, his soul calling to hers as though she can hear him.

  I'm almost there, darling. My sweet princess. Wait for me.

  The boat anchors with a soft jolt, and Oleksandr’s eyes immediately scan the shore. He knows she won’t be here. He knows she’s in the castle, anxiously awaiting his return, but his gaze darts from face to face regardless, as if searching for her. His feet itch to move, to close the distance.

  As the gangplank lowers, Oleksandr is the first to step off, his long strides purposeful and unrelenting. Behind him, Samorix and Ivan linger, still bidding farewell to the crew, but Oleksandr barely notices. His mind is already leagues ahead, picturing her waiting in the palace, her soft eyes filled with tears of joy.

  He moves through the bustling streets of the harbor town, his towering frame parting the crowd with ease. Every step quickens, his anxiety driving him forward. When he reaches the royal stables, he doesn’t hesitate. He throws open the doors, finding the finest of the king’s horses—a strong, proud stallion with a brown coat that gleams in the sunlight.

  As he grabs the reins, Samorix’s voice rings out behind him. “Sasha! Wait! At least give us a chance to catch up!” Oleksandr nods, not even registering the words. He swings onto the horse’s back in one smooth motion, his body taut with anticipation. The stallion rears slightly, sensing its rider’s urgency, before bounding forward.

  The cold wind rushes past his face as he spurs the horse on, the world blurring around him.