Ivan stands behind the longhouse, his back to the warmth of the hearth inside, facing the vast tundra that stretches out before him. The cold air bites at his skin, but he barely notices it. His posture is rigid, tense, as though the very weight of the land itself is pressing down on him. His dark eyes scan the horizon, but they aren't really seeing the snow-covered plains or the distant mountains—he's lost in thought, consumed by the unease that has been creeping up on him for days now.

  He runs a hand through his dark hair, pulling it back from his forehead, but it doesn't help clear the storm raging in his mind. The wind howls softly around him, tugging at his cloak, but Ivan stands unmoving, absorbed in his troubled thoughts. He feels the muscles in his shoulders tighten, each breath coming more shallow than the last. The unsettling thought grows more persistent in his mind, and he cannot shake it. Something isn't right. Too many pieces are aligning in ways they shouldn't. He clenches his fists at his sides, but the discomfort only grows. The realization gnaws at him, turning his insides cold. His mind refuses to accept it, but the signs are too clear to ignore. He shakes his head sharply, trying to push the thought away, but it lingers like a shadow in his thoughts, suffocating him.

  A voice cuts in from behind him, slicing his racing thoughts. "Can't sleep?" He whips his head around and his hand hovers over the pommel of his saber, but he doesn’t draw it. His gaze remains sharp, his expression unreadable, as he watches Oddvarr approach. The wind howls between them, but it feels like silence between their words. Oddvarr crosses his arms, leaning slightly to one side, his icy blue eyes gleaming with curiosity.

  "You're awfully quiet, Rusman," Oddvarr remarks, as if Ivan’s silence were more of a challenge than a mere observation. His eyes gleam, as though waiting for something. Ivan doesn’t respond immediately. He stands tall, his dark eyes scanning the older man, weighing the air between them. The tension stretches thick like a taut bowstring. Ivan’s jaw tightens as he finally speaks, his voice low and calm.

  "Some things are better left unsaid," Ivan replies quietly, his gaze unwavering. He shifts his weight ever so slightly, but his body remains poised, waiting for Oddvarr’s next move, his next word. Oddvarr, sensing the edge to Ivan’s tone, narrows his eyes slightly.

  "A man of few words, are you? I thought Cossacks were more... talkative. Or is there something you don’t want to say?" Ivan’s eyes flicker, just for a moment, a quiet storm passing behind them. He doesn’t flinch, doesn't give away anything. His thoughts are still spinning, but his exterior remains calm, like the still surface of a lake before a storm.

  "Some questions have answers I’m not sure I want to hear." Oddvarr tilts his head, studying Ivan for a moment, as though considering his words.

  "Tell me, Rusman," Oddvarr says, his voice carrying a slow, deliberate cadence. "What is it that troubles you?"

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  “You already know, don’t you?” Ivan’s voice is calm, but there’s a weight to it, a quiet accusation. His gaze doesn’t waver from Oddvarr, not giving away the depth of what he’s thinking. Oddvarr pauses for a moment, his eyes narrowing, the faintest glimmer of understanding in them.

  Then, with a knowing smile, he replies, “Everyone’s always wearing masks, don’t you think?” His voice is low, almost conspiratorial. He steps closer to Ivan, the space between them shrinking. "It's just a matter of peeling them back to see what’s underneath." He gestures toward the longhouse, where Oleksandr is still inside, unaware of the weight of the conversation unfolding outside. “The truth is always there, hidden beneath the surface,” Oddvarr adds, his tone almost friendly now, as if they’re just two old men having a drink by a fire. “But sometimes, it’s more fun to let the mask stay on for a little while longer.” His eyes flick back to Ivan, challenging him to acknowledge something unspoken.

  Ivan’s dark eyes narrow slightly as he studies Oddvarr, his thoughts aligning. The truth was there, buried beneath the layers of their feigned roles, and Oddvarr knew it from the start. The way he’d observed them, the way he spoke now—he wasn’t fooled.

  “You knew from the start. I could tell.” Ivan’s voice is measured but firm, cutting through the tension like a blade. “Enough with the games, Oddvarr. Reveal your hand. Why did you bring us here?” Oddvarr pauses mid-step, his broad shoulders outlined by the dim moonlight. He turns slowly, a smirk curling at the edge of his lips, though his eyes are unreadable.

  “Ah, Rusman. Always so direct. But you already know, don’t you?” Ivan narrows his eyes.

  “Because you plan to turn Oleksandr in for his bounty.” His voice doesn’t waver, though his fists clench tightly at his sides. “Isn’t that it? That’s why you’ve strung us along, why you’ve let us into your den.”

  Oddvarr stands still, studying Ivan with an intensity that feels almost predatory. His silence stretches, the weight of it pressing on Ivan like the cold around them. Then, finally, he speaks, his tone slow and deliberate. “That is what your mind tells you, Rusman.” He steps closer, his smirk fading, replaced by something quieter, almost contemplative. “But tell me... what does your heart think?” The Viking chieftain’s words hang in the air, challenging Ivan to confront a truth he doesn’t want to face. Oddvarr leans in slightly, his voice dropping to a near whisper, yet it cuts through the night like a dagger. “The heart has a way of seeing what the mind refuses to. So, tell me, Rusman. What does your heart think?”

  “My heart tells me to cleave your head in two. But I wish to see your secrets revealed.”

  Oddvarr’s smirk only widens, unfazed by the venom in Ivan’s tone. “Your honesty is refreshing. Your heart is full of rage, hatred, and perhaps...” His sharp eyes glint in the dim light. “A touch of worry for your young friend.”

  Ivan’s jaw tightens, his voice measured, but each word carries the weight of his suspicion. “Tell me, Master Trader...” he says slowly, each syllable deliberate as he fights against the thundering in his chest. “What is Oleksandr to you?” Oddvarr doesn’t answer immediately. His piercing blue eyes meet Ivan’s, and for the briefest of moments, his mask slips. There’s something raw there—pride, longing, and a sorrow so deep it feels ancient. He exhales softly, the air between them crackling with tension. Then, he speaks, his voice quiet but firm, like a declaration of faith.

  “Treasure.”