Oskar flopped down on the long bench in his hall, feet kicked up before a blazing fire, worn through as an old mercenary's shoe soles. It was a few days' hard riding from Ermenik to Ltava, and he was thoroughly exhausted. Servants fetched him wine and bread while a full meal was prepared. A small feast by the distant sounds of the kitchen. All hustle and chaos like a miniature battlefield.

He grimaced. Not that I deserve a feast with how fucking useless this all was. How long had he spent out in the plains? A week? Almost two? It was brutal and unproductive, is what it was. A score of dead men and little to show for it besides galvanizing the enemy. Damn stubborn is what they were. How could he be blamed for that?

"Oskar?" came a voice he recognized from the open doors.

He about jumped to his feet at the sound, turning with a grin. Oh, how he needed this. Milava strode toward him, black hair wrapped up in some kind of braided bun, dressed in fine wool for the chilly air—weak though the Veterian winters were—and wearing just enough silver to look rich without being an ostentatious bitch like the last one who ruled over the city. Most boyars were that way—ostentatious bitches, that is. But not him, for he was determined not to be, and not her, for she couldn't be. Too direct, too honest, too… well… good. He loved her something fierce. In a way he hadn't felt in a long time or even ever before. And she was his as he was hers. What a turn, that was.

He looked into those dark eyes as she approached and felt something shiver and crack inside his chest. Oh no. He swallowed a gasp, emotion threatening to bubble up as the memories struck him like fist blows. Those screams of terror. The flames. The dead. That woman with her clothes alight, falling through the air.

What kind of monster was he? If only she knew… If only she saw. It would be over.

Oskar accepted her embrace but had a hard time sinking into it. He felt fragile and confused—a shitty sensation, to be sure. He much preferred anger.

"Are you okay?" she asked, pulling back, hands on his shoulders.

Her face was all blurry. Oh, right, stupid fucking tears. He blinked and looked away. "Of course I am."

"Oskar…" She hugged him again, and he closed his eyes, feeling pathetic. "It's alright. You don't need to do that with me."

He looked around. The hall was empty right now. Still, he worried someone might walk in and see him, so he pulled away and sat down, pulling closer to the fire, head in his hands, cupping his face to hide his eyes. They'd just think him tired, right? Not trying to hold it together? Milava sat beside him but didn't speak, just rested a hand on his knee and looked into the flames with him.

"Has all been well here?" he asked after a long moment of gathering himself as best he could.

She took a deep breath. "The trading house has been a nightmare, but I've kept it going. Some of my trading partners have been substantially more petulant recently. There's a lot of bed-wetting over the war. Too much price variance for my tastes… But it's been fine. I shouldn't complain."

"And your, uh, health?"

"Some sickness, tiredness, nothing I can't handle."

"Anyone have any issues with the debts?"

She gripped his knee comfortingly. "We don't have to do this right now."

"I want to." He bit his lip and snuck a peek at her. Dammit, she looked concerned. "It… uh… helps," he said, leaning back, trying to appear nonchalant and in control. "It's what I get paid for, you know."

"Fine, but we will be coming back to the issue," she said, raising an eyebrow and offering a slight conspiratorial smile that wilted away, replaced by a grimace. "We creditors are managing fine. Yes, there's uncertainty. Yes, there's some spite. But the issue… Well, the issue is the voivode." Milava leaned in, that soft, needlessly compassionate side gone, and something serious as a bare blade in its place. "I think he's pocketing the money, Oskar."

"What?" he hissed, staring at her. "Why would you say something like that?"

"I have informants in the towns all around to update me on prices, trends, and other relevant pieces of information—"

"You spy on the voivode."

"They are informants. They are necessary in my line of work. Regardless, some of them I pay extra and they… Well, they keep their eyes open, let's say." She ignored his pointed look. "And I heard the voivode was trading coins for gold and jewels in large quantities. He was trying to do so quietly through intermediaries, but honestly, the man is no merchant. As soon as I found out, one of my competitors did as well. Guess what he did?"

"Your competitor? I don't know, Milava—"

"He came to my trading house and told me. He told me."

Oskar grasped the situation immediately, scoffing in disbelief. "That's like sharing battle plans. What's in it for him?"

"Avoiding mutual annihilation." She leaned in further, whisper dropping down to something nearly inaudible. "If he fucks us, Oskar, we're dead in the water. We all have long-term expenses we expect his repayment to cover. Do you understand?"

"He's not that kind of man, Milava."

"No? What other explanation is there for him trading vast quantities of minted coin for gold and jewels? For things as valuable here as in, say, the East? He's going to cut and run. Why he hasn't already, I couldn't say. But he'll be long gone from Vetera by Spring when the tsar comes with his army."

Oskar found himself gritting his teeth, fists clenched. There was no way, no fucking way Vetesky was going to knife them in the back after everything. After Oskar lost good men out there, killing and burning like a stupid savage sent off for the dirty work! He's a good man. You saw it, didn't you? He meant what he said. Oskar stood, ignoring the ache in his legs and back, and stalked up to the fire, glaring into it. He saw the woman's hair swirling in it. Her face and eyes pale and bright.

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"You can see why I wanted to wait to talk about this," Milava said.

"I need to go to Vetera."

"Do you think confrontation is wise?"

"I don't give a shit," he barked, a little too harshly. A big deep breath. "I just have to."

She stood and went to his side, hand coming up to the back of his neck, rubbing the tense muscles. "What happened out there?"

The anger withered away like water tossed on flames. What do you say to that? How do you explain such a thing? "I was… at war. It's not something I can explain."

"Try. Please."

"I killed a lot of people." He looked up and into her eyes. "You don't want to know about it, Milava."

"I expected you might. That's war."

"And how far does that excuse get me?" he asked.

"I don't know. But they knew what they were signing up for."

Oskar turned away from her. So that was what she believed? That they were warriors he was fighting? He didn't want to tell her differently, but she'd find out anyway, and besides, that's not the kind of feeble trust he wanted her to have in him. "I raided villages, Milava. Burned towns, killed peasants who ran away from me. It's still war, yeah, but that doesn't mean it's right." His brow furrowed with the new thought. "And the voivode steals from us to run from it?" He wanted to throttle something, to break something, the anger was so cold and deep and cutting.

"We need to be smart about it," she said, voice tentative.

Tentative? Milava?

He couldn't look at her lest she see the anger in him. "You can stay here."

"I am the boyaress—"

"You've got a business to run, don't you? And a town to help manage in my absence? You'll stay."

A hand on his arm, pulling slightly. With regret, he turned to look at her. Instead of blame, fear, horror, or some other soul-crushing thing, he saw concern in her eyes. Concern. For him. "You're worried about me being there, just in case it goes bad?"

"Yeah," he admitted. "I need to confront him on this." How did he explain how necessary it was? A life of betrayal by voivodes, and he just couldn't handle the potential of another. The lingering uncertainty. Not when he could face it.

She seemed to chew on that for a moment. "Fine. I will stay. You're right. Ltava must keep running, and if one of us isn't around, it most certainly won't." Milava pulled him in and kissed him. "Be careful."

He wanted to ask her how she could bear him. How she could look past his evil. It didn't make sense. But who was he to complain about things working out for once? So Oskar smiled and took it in stride as best he could.

He ate, rested for a few hours, took some time alone with Milava, checked in with a few boyars and merchants of the town, and then left with some of his better-off men from the raids for Vetera. He also brought a few fresh druzhina from town he trusted at Milava's encouragement.

As much as he just wanted to sleep, he spent the next few hours riding southeast. It was evening by the time he arrived, exhausted, annoyed, and stiff as Raizak constricted by serpents in perpetual torment. Well, maybe not that bad.

He did, however, stop dead in his tracks when he saw the camp outside the city. Not just men gathering for the war in a few months…. No, it was far too big for that. Hundreds of tents, horses, and men bustled about in a clearing hastily made on the northern side of the river by Vetera. Thousands. There was no mistaking it: the tsar was already here. A whole four fucking months early.

Oskar's palms began to sweat as he rode slowly toward the voivode's hall. If the tsar's here, then that means the dance is over. Why would the voivode protect me if he's planning on running? He sighed, shaking his head. Of course, you naïve old ass, he's going to pin it on you to buy enough time to flee. Gods, why were things always so needlessly grim? Couldn't it just work out for once, truly?

Oh well, maybe there was a chance he could convince Tsar Vadoyeski that he was a man to be forgiven and trusted. Sure, the raiding expedition didn't go as planned, but he'd done damage, sure enough. Hungry, desperate people were one good way to screw a besieged city, and he prepared them just for that. That'd be worth something, right?

Right?

"Wait for me," he muttered, having the men stand outside as he ventured into the voivode's hall like a prisoner facing execution. A brave face, big chest, and a last bit of pride to take him home. The voivode would treat him fairly as long as he was honest and forthright. Being the kind of man he ought to be. Oskar opened the massive doors, prepared for the worst.

Except he wasn't. Not. One. Fucking. Bit.

Because instead of the worst being Tsar Vadoyeski, spineless and shameful, he saw so-called Voivode fucking Laczlo Vilsky, his whore who'd stabbed Feia in the fight in the tsar's hall, and Isak the druzhina, good friend of Oiir, whom Oskar betrayed and killed. And then there was Stanilo. All joined by half a dozen other druzhina bearing expensive armaments, as well as attendants and servants only fit for a…

"Oh shit," he whispered, feeling light-headed.

Voivode Vetesky smiled a sad smile and gave a slight shrug as if to say, 'Sorry, but it is what it is.'

You son of a whore, Oskar thought, dizzy, knees about to give in. Instead, he took a few steps forward, as if the momentum would keep him standing.

"Oskar, good of you to make it easy for us," Laczlo said, raising his chin. The conceited bastard. "You had your opportunity to redeem yourself, and this is what you do? Steal from your own people? Well, I can't say I am too surprised."

Oskar stopped, wobbly, scowling at the group of them, wanting to throttle each and every one. Even Stanilo gave him a look of doubt as if he couldn't trust him to have done the right thing. Gah! And the one time he was accused of doing something he didn't do! He took his hand off his sword and stood tall, facing everyone with some shred of dignity left. "You've caught me. I'm a thief and a traitor and all that he conveniently claims me to be. Now, what's it going to be?"

"Execution, most likely," the druzhina Isak replied.

Stanilo stiffened. "Not before hearing his side of things. A fair hearing."

"A hearing?" Isak asked, almost with a laugh, the prick.

"He's a boyar. Tradition demands fairer treatment." Was it just Oskar's naïve nostalgia, or did Stanilo look… questioning? Suspicious? As if he didn't quite believe what was happening.

He better. I don't steal, and everyone knows that, he thought, then decided to be a bit fairer. Well, at least not from my own people.

Of course, Voivode Vetesky was the one to speak up against it. "Oskar has allies and paid warriors. It might be best to keep this quiet and be done with it."

You little bloody worm. Oskar scoffed, shaking his head. "Of course."

"No need to be hasty with this," Laczlo replied as the spy woman whispered in his ear. "Besides, it's been a long day. Best not to make decisions when tired from a hard journey."

The slimy voivode bowed. "Of course, Great Tsar, I didn't mean to insinuate rushing anything… Just caution. These are delicate times. Who's to say what the merchants might do if they heard he planned to steal their silver?"

"Your advice is heard, Voivode."

"Thank you, Great Tsar."

Oskar wanted to rip off the head of the two-faced ass, but what was the sense in that? More useless fighting? He was too tired to consider that. In fact, his exhaustion was probably what saved him from himself. "Listen, I've got men outside. They're not here to make any trouble, but a misunderstanding could be bad, if you follow me."

"I'll see to them," Laczlo, the tsar, replied. "They'll be treated well."

Oskar nodded, not that he trusted the man one bit. But what else was there to do? Stanilo took his sword with a grimace and escorted him away. Well, things had to end sooner or later. He did what he could, after all, trying to be the man he wanted to be. The one Milava deserved. Dammit, maybe even what his people deserved, if he could think so grand. Unfortunately for all of them, it was a matter of time until reality caught up. Sometimes, you just lost, and that was that.

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