Chapter Text
Warm little fingers wrapped around Yuna’s gold bracelet, enamored with the shine of the bangle in the early evening light. The babe was still wrinkled, a small pink and squirmy thing. Hours ago, he came into the world wailing, kicking his pudgy feet as the midwife placed him onto the queen’s chest. Hours ago, the heir of Hollanderia had arrived after a long and slow labour. And hours ago, they had almost lost him.
David tucked his chin over Yuna's shoulder, stroking a tuft of the small omega's black hair. Shane tilted his head toward the king's gentle touch, cooing. He had Yuna's silky raven locks and sparkling brown eyes, along with puffy cheeks, which would someday be as chiseled as his father's. He was a mosaic of their love, all the best pieces of his parents woven together into a beautiful tapestry.
Yuna tightened the beige blanket the midwife had swaddled the child in, holding him a little closer as a breeze swept through the open window of the royal chambers. She traced the emblem of Hollanderia stitched onto the soft fabric, a proud loon with outstretched wings. She took a deep breath, inhaling her son's scent, which was completely his own; chocolate with a rich and nutty undertone.
Someday, this child would take their place as the leader of their prosperous land, someday, Shane would belong wholly to his kingdom, alpha, and children; but today, he was simply theirs.
The palace was perched atop a hill, like a bird nested within the tallest tree in the forest, Yuna could survey the entire capital city. With its winding, busy, narrow streets, the flickering lights of the citizens’ homes, and stone buildings with slanted roofs. Moonlight twinkled off the river encasing Hollandira, and boats dotted its rippling surface. A celebration had commenced in the early morning hours after the successful delivery, and the festivities were far from over.
“I am so proud of you,” David whispered, pressing a kiss upon Yuna’s temple. His breaths tickled the base of her neck as his arms wrapped around the queen and heir. It hadn’t been an easy birth; they knew it would be a challenge from the start, Yuna being a beta and her husband an alpha. An unlikely pair warned not to mate by those around them; nevertheless, despite the input of others, neither of them had doubted their bond.
Yuna could never carry another child, her body would not withstand it a second time, but she felt no sadness or regrets on this perfect day.
Cries echoed from the courtyard below, eerily similar to the howl of a wolf. A sound produced only by Hollanderia’s first defense from enemies, a call which terrified intruders and protected the people.
Still, along the borders of the courtyard, they had armed forces, knights on constant standby. There were more than usual, though that wasn’t much of a surprise with the new royal and celebrations ahead.
“The birds are growing restless.” Yuna used her shoulder to push a strand of hair out of her face, letting out a satisfied hum when David tucked it behind her ear.
“Here.” David tugged at the sleeves of her simple white gown that matched his own ceremonial garb, and straightened the silver necklace dangling on her chest. Yuna tried and failed to suppress a dopey, lovesick grin. Now was not the time—but she couldn’t help it. He knew her so well, this kind man who ruled beside her, whose expression mirrored her own.
They had all they ever wanted and more.
Yuna rolled her shoulders, schooled her expression, and stepped out onto the balcony.
Shane nestled his face into her chest as the audience below burst into cheers at the sight of their queen. Yuna reluctantly held her son out for them all to see, going as near to the edge as she could without putting Shane at risk. David placed a hand on the small of her back, the other waved toward their citizens.
When the king lowered it to his side again, the loons sprang out. Like minnows in shallow water. Their wranglers had kept them secure for weeks leading up to this, housed on the lower roofs of the palace, where no one could spot them to maintain the magic of the bird's sudden release.
They zipped through the air, the amber glow of their wings making them appear like shooting stars, leaving streaks of light in their wake. The potion painting their downy feathers was safe for their consumption, nothing that would last more than one night as they flew throughout Hollandria and its surrounding forests.
The tradition had been around for centuries, each year on the heir’s birthday the loons were freed. For seasons beforehand their wranglers worked tirelessly to catch them, feed them, and maintain their beauty.
Shouts of awe broke out; it did not matter how often this sight occurred, its magic always struck them all.
Shane’s eyes were shut, and his breathing was a strong, steady beat. He was too young now to appreciate it, but Yuna could already imagine the wonder he would experience seeing it in a year from now.
“This is all for you,” she said, low enough for only the babe to hear. “This is yours.”
~•~
The silk sheets were as cooling as ever, her pillow was plush and fluffed, and David’s leg remained a comforting weight across her waist.
Still, Yuna could not rest.
“Dear,” David groaned, draping an arm over his face as Yuna kicked off her blankets again.
“Shh, go back to sleep.” Yuna tucked the sheets over her husband’s lax form. “I’ll be just a minute.”
David only let out a puff of air and turned on his side. He knew better than to argue. Besides the fact that she was a new mother, Yuna had never been one to stop fretting because someone asked her to—even when it was her alpha.
Yuna shivered at the chilled marble flooring under her bare feet. She crossed her arms over her chest and shut the door to their chambers as quietly as she could.
The full moon provided a bright blue glow as Yuna raced to the room across from theirs, tiptoeing into Shane’s chambers. Closed off to all but them.
Servants had offered to prepare it, to buy all the toys and build the crib, but Yuna and David had decided this wasn’t something they should leave to others. They’d used all their free time between council meetings, physician visits, and battle planning to build something of their own for their boy.
Dolls sat on the shelves, twin rocking chairs sat unmoving beside a full bookshelf, and a mobile made up of little wooden loons swung idly above the empty crib.
Yuna’s chest tightened.
She ran to the maple structure David had worked so tirelessly over, clenching the bars and staring at the rumpled and unoccupied sheets below.
“David!” She cried, her voice was simultaneously distant and piercing, the high-pitched whimper crawling up her throat was foreign to her own ears. Her airways tightened along with her field of view, tunneling as her chest contracted in on itself.
She clutched it; it felt as if her heart had climbed out of her body and into that crib, only to disappear.
“Guards!” The door groaned as David thrust it open.
Sturdy hands cupped Yuna’s cheeks, wide blue eyes flitted between her and the spot where their child should be, and a pained keen escaped the man who had become the one thing keeping Yuna standing.
“No,” David rasped. “No, I—I did what he said.”
“Who?” Yuna choked on the word. “What—do you know where Shane is?”
Pounding metal footsteps barreled into the room, and the space was quickly crowded with knights. The general was speaking, saying something to David, though it didn’t fully register to Yuna. Demands to lock down the palace and city were placed as an arm encompassed her shoulders, leading her up and into the hall. As Yuna and her husband entered the library and were finally alone, she raced out from under his touch that was once soothing and now suffocating.
“Yuna,” David’s voice was strained. He wasn’t meeting her gaze anymore. “You were gone, the both of you.” David gasped for air as if he were drowning on dry land as he placed a hand on her cheek. “I had no choice, I knew Crowell could fix it, that he could bring you both back.”
Yuna was hot all over. She turned her face away, ignoring how David’s fell even further at the blatant rejection. “Roger Crowell, the sorcerer? You made a deal with him?”
“I had no choice.”
Yuna laughed, a hollow and humorless sound. “I heard you the first time.”
Crowell was renowned far and wide, a sorcerer as powerful as he was cruel. A man who would stoop to any level when it came to his dark desires.
“What did he want?” Yuna asked, her grip on the crib had gone slack.
David shook his head. “Nothing we could give him.”
“What?” Yuna spat. “We have everything. What could he possibly want that we couldn’t give?”
David’s eyes finally met Yuna’s again, like porcelain now shattered and torn. “I’m selfish, when it comes to you, I know I am. But when it comes to our people.” He shook his head, “I couldn’t do it to them—to us. Crowell wanted Hollanderia. I lied, I told him I’d give him what he wanted, then had him locked in the dungeon under constant surveillance. I thought we were safe, even if I didn’t uphold my end of the bargain, I didn’t think he could get away, I didn’t think he would take the only thing that matters more than anything else.”
Despite this boiling, bubbling, hair-pulling, teeth-grinding, heart-shattering rage steaming up from her stomach to her chest directed at the one man who had sworn to keep them safe, Yuna couldn’t help but fall onto him again as she tumbled into despair.
~•~
Dust motes drifted, tiny particles visible in the beams of sunlight cast through the tower. Shane arched his back, appreciating the slight ache of the move. He pressed his pelvis to the floor, staring up at the circular walls as he stretched.
Bookshelves lined the room, a table where he took most meals sat at its center, and a canopy bed was tucked beside the window where Shane spent the majority of his time. Basking in the bits of warmth and wind that swept through, staring at the rocky cliffs surrounding his home, and letting down his hair as a makeshift rope when his father called.
Done with the preparation for his exercise, Shane grabbed an armful of his black locks, tossed them into the air, and looped them around a hook in the stucco ceiling. He tugged, testing the give and making sure he had a firm hold.
He always kept one hand above the other, maintaining a steady grip so as to not put any pressure on his scalp. His fingers were calloused, used to the constant need to wrangle his hair, nearing seventy feet, he was quite used to the upkeep it required. Hours of brushing out tangles, braiding, and washing until it shone like organza.
His knuckles tinged red with the pressure of holding himself up, and his feet scrabbled at the hair dangling below as he climbed until he hit the hook, then slid downward again to repeat the exercise.
After four more laps, he did the only other thing proven to help ease the pent-up energy that bubbled beneath his skin. His tower wasn’t wide, but the stairs between his room and his father’s were enough for him to make do. Three hours a day were carved out for his runs, hiking the staircase with a pocket watch in hand as he raced back to his room, then repeating the motions until his legs ached and he couldn’t go on any further.
Quick, he charted his times, jotting it in a bound leather notebook. The pages were curled, weathered from years of use, and blotted with sweat stains and ink. Every run—every day was a competition with himself, a challenge to be better than before.
“Could you not have waited until I was awake to start this?” Shane’s father leaned against his open doorway, his eyes tracking Shane as the omega’s burning calves persisted on for another lap.
“Sorry, I—uh, I have to make sure I’m always doing it at the same time. Right now I have the most energy, if I run too late into the day, it’ll ruin my stamina.”
“Mmh,” Crowell hummed. “I think you have more than enough.”
The trembling chorus of the loons sounded from outside, a noise which Shane could not help but turn his head toward. His birthday was only a day away; sighting a loon this close to it was uncommon.
Crowell sighed, “Shane.”
“What?” Shane placed his hands on his knees, catching his breath. “Sorry.”
Crowell shook his head. "Don't start.”
Thick silver hair swished with the movement, and crystalline blue eyes bore into Shane’s brown. There was nothing about the two that matched. Though Shane often tried to find similarities, each time he was left feeling bent out of shape, like a puzzle piece plopped into the wrong set, always trying to fit in with edges too jagged and wrong.
Shane tucked his thumbs into the pockets of his loose pants, unable to meet Crowell’s gaze. “I won’t, I promise.”
Shane already knew the answer if he asked. He’d spent years begging to see the birds, dying to catch a better glimpse of them. Eventually, Shane grew and realized his father wouldn’t bend; pleading did nothing but upset them both.
Still, Shane couldn’t help but long to know more. No matter how hard he tried to do as he was told, he always would.
Especially not when it came to the loons.
He had first noticed it as a boy, the lightning loons as he’d named them. Once a year, every year, on his birthday, the birds would return from their winter away with a strange glow, but by the next day, that shimmer was gone. At the time, he felt as if it were for him; it made sense as a child, but now he knew how foolish that logic was. Nevertheless, he couldn’t help but be drawn toward their light like a moth to a flame. Foolish, potentially dangerous enough to get burnt, but unable to stop the natural desire to know more.
As he grew older and learned to read, Shane began his investigation, spending hours poring over books on the birds, searching for an explanation to this strange pigmentation. But it only confused him further.
The birds were returning sooner from migration than they should, and of course, they flew in flocks, but typically they were solitary creatures, not known for staying together once they returned home. And none of the books contained anything about the inexplicable illumination.
If Shane could just see them up close, close enough to catch a feather, close enough to see how bright that light really was, he knew he’d finally be at peace.
But Shane also knew better than to ask; he had stopped trying years ago. His father’s answer never changed, a resounding no.
“Shane,” Crowell cooed. He grabbed Shane by the forearm, coaxing him in. “My boy, you know I only want what’s best for you.”
Shane nodded, his face pressed to his father’s chest. He smelt of cedarwood, his natural pheromones as an alpha, along with the sticky scent of oil, which never faded after so many hours brewing potions. Shane sank into the older man’s hold, taking in as much of that familiar, calming scent as possible.
“I keep you here, and I keep you safe. Out there.” Crowell gestured toward the wall. “Out there, anything could happen.”
Shane pulled back. He shut his eyes, pressed his lips into a tight line, and inhaled through his nose as he closed out the world and closed in on himself.
He couldn’t say it, couldn’t tell the alpha just yet—but this was why he trained, why he built up his strength and endurance. Behind every aching muscle, every callus and bruise was the desire to do more. To stand in a babbling brook, shake a stranger's hand, ride in a carriage, and see more than his own four walls. If it was too dangerous—if the world was full of people waiting to knock Shane down with their strength—then he would simply have to be stronger.
He would get there soon enough, he would prove it to both his father and himself, that he could defend himself, that he could earn his freedom.
“Other alphas aren’t like me,” Crowell droned on. “They will claim you and force you into a bond. You do not understand, you’ve never experienced what it is like to be commanded by an alpha, to face their pheromones. The alpha’s out there.” He gestured toward the wall. “They do not care about what anyone wants, but themselves—and most omegas aren’t like you either. They live in constant fear. I don’t want that for you, Shane, do you?”
Shane shook his head, avoiding his father’s sharp and searching stare. “I don’t.”
“Good.” Crowell patted Shane’s shoulders, taking a step away from the omega. “Then I’m leaving here with peace of mind.”
Shane paused, he hadn’t noticed it before—too honed in to his workout—but his father was dressed to go. The alpha’s leather shoes were laced, his lightweight brown coat was buttoned at the center, and his dagger was sheathed on his hip.
“Leaving?” Shane echoed, “why?”
“There are some ingredients I need for a potion, rare plants that cannot grow in Hollandria. I will only be gone a week—and I know the timing is not ideal—but I promise I will make it up to you.”
They’d had twenty-three birthdays before this spent together, but it still didn’t ease the sting. Every day Shane was alone. Hours and hours were spent making use of his time, cleaning, training, reading—but the one thing he did the most was wait. Wait for his father to return, to see what he brought back on his travels, and to know that the sorcerer was safe. Shane’s birthday was the one day of the year when he never needed to worry, when his father never had to go—until now.
Crowell huffed, “Shane.”
“Okay.” Shane willed himself to look his father in the eyes, to at least force a semi-smile. “I understand.”
Crowell ruffled Shane’s hair. “I knew you would!”
Shane ducked his head, brushing the older man off with a feigned laugh. Crowell had enough to stress over—going out into the dangerous world outside their secluded home, and putting himself on the line for the sake of his son’s safety. The least Shane could do was pretend for his sake that it was alright.
~•~
Dirt lined the soles of Ilya’s boots, and tufts of grass clung to his finely woven jacket. His breaths were as steady as the pounding of his feet on the uneven ground.
“Watch out, there’s thorns up ahead,” he called over his shoulder, and tugged a briar out of his sleeve as he ran.
Svetlana crouched, ducking under an outstretched branch as she fought to keep pace with him. Dark auburn curls sprang free from her bun, her body heaved with every sharp lungful of air, and her face was beaded with droplets of sweat. Ilya’s chest tightened with concern, but it was what lay behind her that worried him most.
The general’s steely blue eyes were as serrated as the sword in his grip, and his shoulders were tensed with determination. Unlike Ilya, nothing held him back. He swung at the brush, fueled by both his sworn duty to his nation and the glory that would come upon their capture.
Their options were limited. Ilya could stand his ground—draw his weapon and face the man—or their chase could continue, though Ilya did not know how much longer Svetlana would last.
It was supposed to be a quick enough mission, in and out. It wasn’t exactly routine, but sneaking into Hollandria was something he’d done hundreds of times in the past. Svetlana was something unexpected, a quick addition which shifted the entire outcome.
Ilya’s satchel smacked against his thigh like a metronome, a repetitive beat. It hung heavier around his neck than it ever had before.
Svetlana had refused to let him go alone, not when she heard what Ilya had been sent to steal.
Not when the price of being caught would be Ilya's head.
The top of the bag flapped, flipping up high enough for Ilya to see the gleam of its contents. Priceless jewels engraved in a slim golden circlet, the crown of Hollandria, the one and only belonging to the missing heir.
When Ilya had lowered Svetlana into the throne room through a window in its roof, he underestimated the length of the rope tethering her. Before she plummeted, he’d yanked the cord upward, causing Svetlana to grunt at the impact around her waist and costing them their secrecy.
She’d managed to snatch the crown off its podium before the guards surrounding it reached her. Then the chase had begun.
They’d managed to lose most of the knights within the forest, but General Pike refused to quit.
“Give in, Prince Rozanov! You know it's useless to run!” Pike shouted. Ilya shook his head; this wasn’t their first run-in together, and it certainly wouldn’t be their last.
“Is useless to chase, too!” Ilya yelled back, his words stilted by the heavy r’s of his accent and the energy it took to translate the words in his head while maintaining his speed.
Last month the general almost caught Ilya’s royal carriage when it passed through Hollandria’s borders, a week before that, Ilya had stopped the other man from apprehending a letter his father wrote to the royal cabinet.
The discourse between the nations of Hollandria and Rozanovstka was not new, and their roles within it were just as set.
Ilya’s vision was tunneled, completely focused on what lay ahead and how to get them toward it. Thick crops of trees, roots on the ground waiting to trip them, little gaps of sunlight seeping through the leaves overhead, which provided just enough light for Ilya to keep them going.
He yanked a thin branch aside, holding it still for Svetlana when the idea struck. It was risky. General Pike could easily see through it—and if so Ilya would earn a blade to the gut—but in that moment, it appeared to be the only option.
Svetlana looked back at Ilya, her eyes were wide with the realization that he had stopped, but the prince didn’t have time to reassure her.
The second the general was close enough, Ilya let go of the branch.
Bark thwacked against iron, rattling the armour. The impact of the hit rang loud enough for birds overhead to scatter as General Pike unceremoniously slumped to the earth.
“Wha—” Svetlana began.
Ilya didn’t give her the time to finish that thought. He clutched her by the wrist, dragging her forward.
He wished there was time to relish in defeating pesky Pike. Ilya enjoyed the prospect of doing something petty like stringing the general up on a tree by his breaches, emptying his pockets, or leaving an unseemly drawing on the beta's cheek—but there was no telling how many knights were hot on their trail. Ilya had bought them a chance to get away, and they needed to use it fast.
Svetlana’s hand was loose in Ilya’s grasp; his hold on her was strong, but threatened by her clammy skin. The thrum of Ilya’s leather boots on packed soil and his racing heartbeat pounding in his ears almost drowned out the rhythmic drum of hoof beats in the distance. More sunlight seeped through the canopy, less brambles blocked their path—but it still wasn't enough.
The trees were thinning out, giving way to the trail carved within the woods. Ilya had tried to maintain some nearness to it with the goal of following it for navigation while also staying concealed enough by the brush where passersby wouldn’t spot them. Now, they were too close.
Ilya’s hair frizzed; strands were tacked to his forehead with dried sweat. He risked a glance behind them; if the general was awake, he hadn’t managed to catch up yet. As they swerved another thorny bush, Ilya was yanked backward, stumbling and almost losing his footing as Svetlana fell, her arms wrapped around his waist before she dropped to the ground.
Ilya hissed at the sting of briars digging through his trousers as he helped Svetlana stand again.
“Shit.” She kicked her foot free from a hole in the earth where she’d tripped. “Are you alright?”
Ilya clenched his teeth. “I’m okay.”
A horse nickered, the sound was much nearer than before.
“Svetlana.” Ilya rubbed her wrist bone with his thumb as he spoke. “You have to keep going. I’ll fend them off.”
“No.” Svetlana’s eyes widened; they were always so expressive.
Desperation, delight, determination—perhaps after a lifetime of having her as his dearest friend, he could read the girl better than most. Within her reflective gaze, Ilya saw his own face; his jaw was set in resignation, resolution, and regret. If they didn’t part now—if he couldn’t get her out safe—he worried all he’d ever see within them again would be devastation.
Ilya’s father, King Grigori, had sent the young prince on hundreds of missions, foolish tasks. To loosen barrels of hay, free chickens among the enemy's capital city, and swap every flag he could see with their own. Of course, if he were caught, Ilya would face retaliation, but it all paled in comparison to what awaited him now. Ilya almost refused to do it, taking the crown was much crueler than anything he’d had to do before, and the repercussions would affect more than him—but he knew better than to disappoint the merciless alpha who sired him.
They were on a precipice—these nations that had gone from friends to foes—and this latest tactless act would topple them into the warzone. The last thing Ilya wanted was for Svetlana to be in the crossfire—not if he could help it, not while he was still breathing.
“Do you trust me?”
Svetlana did not answer
“Hm?” Ilya hummed.
“Of course I trust you, ” Svetlana whispered.
“What?” Ilya teased, eyebrows rising.
“I trust you,” Svetlana repeated a little louder.
“Yes, that’s what I thought.” Ilya steeled himself for what he was about to say next. It was their best bet, but he still wished there was another way. “I’ll distract them, draw them away, you run and do not stop—not until you’re out of the forest.”
“Ilya.”
“You said you trust me, so trust me.”
More emotions flickered within her hazel eyes like pages of a flipbook, cycling between remorse and rage. She raised herself onto her tiptoes and placed a delicate kiss upon his cheek. “You’ll meet me by the lake when you get home, don’t make me wait long.”
No goodbye and no good luck, just a promise.
“I would never.”
Svetlana’s upper lip wobbled as she smiled. Ilya kept his back to the sound of the knights trampling the underbrush as he watched her go. It wasn’t wise, but he couldn’t pull himself away.
Once he couldn’t see her bouncing curls anymore, once he knew he was completely alone, Ilya drew his sword. A silver blade with a hilt encrusted in canary yellow diamonds, formerly his mother’s and now his. He spread his feet shoulder-width apart, getting into a fighter's stand, and began to shout. “Here I am! I am here! Can you find me, pathetic Pike? Is the forest too dense, or is it you?”
Angered hollers echoed.
“I stand here like a sitting duck, yet you are still lost? No wonder it was so easy to take little crown!” He knew his words were stilted. Ilya studied the other kingdom’s language, but there were many areas where he was lacking. In a casual conversation, it embarrassed him, speaking like a toddler, but here it served to make his taunts all the more frustrating.
He knew how they saw him, the stupid oaf, the son of a greedy man and a weak woman, and yet they still could not trap him.
“Rozanov!” The call of his name was nearby.
Ilya did not wait another second to run. He bolted, sprinting in the complete opposite direction from where Svetlana went.
His satchel swung against his hip again, belatedly, Ilya realized it was still there.
Fuck, he cursed internaly. It’s too late.
The circlet was heavy, but the weight of Svetlana’s safety worried him more. He had to continue baiting the knights, keeping them away from her, even if it led him to his demise. “You can not catch me! You are lost within your own land, while I am getting away!”
It was as if they were looming over him, a pack of hyenas ensnaring an elk, vultures circling dead meat. Ilya suppressed the urge to glimpse over his shoulder. He couldn’t risk anything; he couldn’t slow. Raging grunts and curses followed him. The rising bile in his throat was bitter and burning, and all he could see was nothing but trees and more trees. There was no time to climb, no way to hide. Ilya squeezed his inherited sword until the gems bit into his skin, grounding him.
Vines swayed in the spring breeze, growing upward behind a mountainous rock. They were thick and tightly woven, the perfect covering. Ilya squeezed his sword again, not so tight this time. Thank you, he whispered to the heavens.
Leaves tickled Ilya’s palms and nose. A spider skittered, racing away from him as Ilya tucked the brush in front of himself, not a moment too soon.
General Pike sat atop a magnificent white stallion, a horse as spotless as his decorated uniform. Despite the fright thrumming through his veins, Ilya’s lips twitched at the sight of the general’s rumpled collar; the man looked more of a fool than usual.
“Nothing here,” a knight scoffed, coming up beside Pike.
Pike didn’t move.
“General?”
Ilya glanced down, realizing the edges of his boots were poking out. He shuffled back as slowly as he could until the vines completely covered them too.
The general and his horse surveyed the treeline. Ilya held his breath, his lungs screamed, but he was too afraid that the vines would move with his chest and give him away. Nevertheless, Pike was none the wiser.
“Move west,” the general demanded. “If he is not headed home, he’ll be headed for the capital."
“Yes, sir.”
Ilya exhaled.
He slumped with relief, expecting to lean against the rock, he tumbled backward and out to the other side of the vines. Sunlight warmed his face again, a brook babbled beside him, and Ilya realized the vine covered more than just a boulder.
It was a curtain, and what lay on the other side was unlike anything Ilya had ever seen before.
A limestone tower, thin and high, lay in the center of the clearing. The city was near, but the wooded territory was too close to Rozanovstka for Hollanderians to feel safe—most people would see no reason to build anything within this forest. The small river flowed past, the grass was vibrant and green, it was peaceful. Still, there was something particularly off about it, besides its strange location. There was no visible door at its base, and no stairs to climb it, it was as if it had been built to keep everyone out—to keep something in.
“Hello?” Ilya called, “Is anyone there?”
No response.
Ilya sheathed his sword and withdrew his daggers. He jammed one in between the stone walls, then hoisted himself up using the gaps deteriorating mortar as footholds. It wasn’t ideal, but he needed somewhere to lay low, at least for the night.
He dug the other dagger in, slowly but surely climbing until he reached the open window.
The first thing he noticed was the sweet smell of fresh bread drifting out.
Someone had been home recently.
Bookshelves lined the walls, their contents organized by color. A bed was pressed against two walls, its sheets were folded meticulously, as perfect as Ilya’s family's servants did his own each day.
He could live with this.
Ilya clamored over the windowsill and plopped onto the floor less gracefully than he would have preferred. He sighed, dusting off his once pristine ebony jacket.
Then the world went black.