The trio pushed their way through the dense throng of shouting bidders and slavers, the chaotic din of the auction fading into the background as they returned to the broader market. Stalls laden with wares of every description crowded the space—spices, silks, and stolen treasures from distant lands. The faint hiss and crackle of a whip still echoed somewhere behind them, accompanied by the occasional wail or barked command.

  Oleksandr found a shaded corner beneath a tattered awning where they could sit on a low bench. He lit his pipe, the faint, sweet aroma of the tobacco curling into the chill air. Ivan and Samorix followed, wordless for now, their faces etched with the weariness of the day. Nearby, the exotic animal cages loomed, drawing attention as always. The leopard from the day before was still there, pacing the confines of its cage, its spotted coat rippling with barely restrained fury. Its snarls were low, rumbling warnings, as if it could smell the rot of the market around it.

  New additions surrounded it—monkeys chittering nervously, a pair of haggard hyenas lying flat against the floor of their enclosure, and a bright-feathered bird that screeched intermittently, its vibrant plumage a cruel contrast to its clipped wings.

  Samorix puffed on his own pipe and gestured toward the cages with a nod. “Even the beasts here look like they want to rip this place apart.”

  Oleksandr exhaled a plume of smoke, his gaze lingering on the leopard. “They’re just waiting for the right moment.”

  Ivan, silent as ever, leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. His gaze swept the market, sharp and calculating. But every so often, it flicked back toward Oleksandr, as if seeing something no one else could. "I'm sick of this place." He mutters. “It stinks like like torture and the perfume of whores. Sickly sweet like a corpse.”

  Samorix grunts in agreement, his pipe clenched between his teeth. "Aye, this whole place gives me the creeps. Too crowded, all these people and their noise. And that stench. I'm ready to leave meself."

  "Aye," Oleksandr responds. "We depart with Oddvarr and his dogs tomorrow. We better find some dinner, fill our stomachs before the icy voyage."

  The trio sat tucked away in the dim corner of the bustling tavern, the scent of wood smoke and freshly baked bread mingling with the hearty aroma of the steaming stew before them. Mugs of frothy ale rested near their bowls, condensation forming on the rough wood of the table. Samorix leaned back in his chair, eyeing Ivan with curiosity.

  “You’ve been quiet, Ivan,” he said, his tone light but probing. “Something on your mind?” Ivan’s spoon hovered over his bowl for a moment before he set it down. He looked up, meeting Samorix’s gaze with a deliberate calm.

  “Just thinking about the journey ahead, that’s all,” he replied, his voice low but steady. He picked up his mug, taking a long drink before setting it down and stirring his stew absentmindedly. “I don’t feel good about this quest, I really don’t. Something doesn’t sit right with me.”

  Samorix raised a brow, leaning in. “Aye? What’s gnawing at ya?”

  Ivan shrugged, his gaze falling to his bowl as he stirred the thick broth with his spoon. “Oddvarr. This whole thing. The way he looks at Oleksandr... I don’t like it.” He paused, exhaling slowly through his nose. “But, alas, I have nothing to lose. I’d love to see that bastard dead.” Oleksandr glanced at him sharply, his own stew forgotten. Ivan’s words carried a rare bitterness, an emotion he rarely showed.

  "I have a lot to lose." Samorix mutters.

  Oleksandr's gaze flickers between the two older men. "You two speak of this like its a suicide mission." Samorix and Ivan exchange a glance, their faces hardening.

  "Oddvarr ain't some minor bandit," Samorix says. "He's a warlord with a crew of reavers under his control. We'll be sailing straight into the hornet's nest."

  Ivan takes a long sip of ale. "Aye, and he won't go down easy. He's a cunning one, and he knows these waters like the back of his hand. We're in for a hell of a fight."

  "We've survived worse." Oleksandr affirms, looking over at Samorix. "You remember the fall of Constantinople. You remember how we fought, hoards of thousands, for a week straight, no rest, no hope." Samorix’s gaze dropped to his half-empty mug, his knuckles tightening around the handle as if the memories Oleksandr conjured were ghosts clawing at his mind.

  "Aye, I remember," he mutters, his voice low and rough. "Seven days of blood and fire... and watching the walls crumble all the same. Also, I didn't have a little son waiting for me then."

  Ivan’s brow furrowed as he swirled the last of his ale in his mug. "It’s true, we’ve seen worse odds," he concedes. "But we weren’t marching into his den, were we? Oddvarr’s not some mindless horde, lad. He’s a serpent, clever and coiled tight. You underestimate him, and you’ll be dead before you know it."

  Oleksandr leans forward, his elbows resting on the table as his sharp gaze shifts between the two older men. “I’m not underestimating him,” he says firmly. “But I also won’t let fear dictate what comes next. Oddvarr’s a warlord, yes, but he bleeds like the rest of us.”

  Samorix grunts, his expression softening just slightly. “You’ve got fire, lad. I’ll give you that. But fire alone won’t see us through this. We’ll need cunning—his cunning. And more than a little luck.”

  Oleksandr lets out a huff. “Pfph. Luck? I don’t believe in luck. I believe in God’s will. We’ve had worse hands dealt before. Or have you two gone soft in your old age?”

  Samorix barked a short, humorless laugh, and even Ivan allowed a faint smirk to flicker across his face. “Careful now,” Samorix said, pointing a thick finger at him. “That sharp tongue of yours might be the first thing Oddvarr takes.” Oleksandr smirks slightly, affectionately squeezing the Scotsman's shoulder.

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  "I don't want you two getting cold feet on me. Are you not both seasoned warriors? Since when did Samorix of the Highlands, former leader of the mighty Varangian Guard, lose hope? Hell, these are words you instilled in me, captain."

  Ivan shakes his head. "It's not that I fear Oddvarr will defeat us, Olek. I fear what I don't know, and don't want to know." Oleksandr's eyes narrow, picking up on the hesitation in Ivan's tone.

  "Are you having doubts?" He asks, his voice steady but betraying a hint of concern.

  "No. I've fought worse foes. It's the mind games I'm not fond of. I don't like his personal interest in you, Olek. It's not natural."

  "Ivan’s got a point, lad," Samorix says, his tone measured but serious. "Oddvarr’s the kind who plays with his food before he eats it. This ‘interest’ in you… It’s gots a stink to it I don’t like." Oleksandr’s brows furrowed as he glanced between the two older men.

  "What are you trying to say?"

  Ivan sighs, his hand gripping his mug as though grounding himself. "I’m saying he’s probing. Testing you. Not just your story, but you. Like he sees something in you that’s got him... curious."

  Oleksandr’s gaze hardens, his lips pressing into a thin line. "Curious about what? My strength? My resolve? Let him. He’ll regret it."

  "It’s not just about strength, boy," Samorix interjects, his voice dipping lower. "He’s too sharp for that. He’s been around long enough to read men like books. And you," he jabs a finger in Oleksandr’s chest, "are one he’s read more than a few pages of already. It’s like he’s looking for something he thinks he’s already found." The words linger in the air, the unspoken tension settling heavy between them. Oleksandr sits back, his jaw tightening as the implications swirled in his mind.

  "Let him wonder," Oleksandr finally says, his voice firm but quieter now. "It doesn’t change our mission. We’re here to finish this, not play his games."

  Samorix tilts his head, studying the younger man with a mixture of admiration and concern. "Just keep yer head on straight, lad. This isn’t a battle of swords alone. It’s a battle of wits. And if yer not careful, you’ll lose it before the blade is even drawn."

  Ivan grunts in agreement, his gaze lingering on Oleksandr for a moment longer than usual. "Watch yourself, Olek. Not all scars are on the skin.” He pauses. “Even if you were to back out now, I don't think he'd let you."

  Oleksandr’s brows furrowed as he leaned forward, his tone resolute. "I wouldn’t back out."

  Ivan shakes his head, his expression grim. "That’s not what I mean." His voice drops lower, barely audible above the tavern’s hum. "I think Oddvarr wants you, Olek. Not just for this deal. I think he knows something. Something about you. Something that hasn’t been said yet… but he’s seen it."

  Oleksandr stiffens, the words hanging in the air like a blade poised to fall. "What are you saying, Ivan?"

  Ivan’s eyes meet Oleksandr’s, a flicker of unease in their depths. "I’m saying he’s not just taking your bait. He’s pulling the line into the water—and you’re the fish, Olek. From the moment he laid eyes on you, it wasn’t just interest. It was recognition."

  Oleksandr’s jaw tightens, his fingers curling around the edge of his mug. "So he knows who I am."

  "Aye," Ivan says with a slow nod. "I’ve felt it since you first stepped foot in that tent. It’s in the way he watches you. The questions, the way he draws you in. That’s not just curiosity."

  "And you think he’s playing some kind of game with me?"

  "He’s playing along with ours. For what reason, I cannot say. But a man like Oddvarr doesn’t play unless he knows the stakes—and how to win."

  Oleksandr’s frustration simmered beneath his words, his patience wearing thin. "But what does he gain from that? What could he possibly want from me?"

  Ivan’s gaze doesn’t waver. "It’s yet to be revealed."

  "This is all just guesswork," Oleksandr grumbles, his voice edged with irritation. "Can’t you offer me anything more substantial?"

  Ivan leaned forward slightly, the flicker of a weary smile touching his lips. "I’m not a sage, Olek. Just a Cossack."

  Oleksandr snorts, a hint of irritation and impatience in his voice. "You're the one who started this theory in the first place," he grumbles. "So is there anything else you can tell me, other than what might have already been obvious? What do you think this man has in store for me?” Ivan’s sigh was heavy, as though bearing the weight of thoughts he’d rather not voice. His grave expression deepened as he fixed his gaze on Oleksandr.

  "I can tell you this, lad," he began, his tone low and measured, "Oddvarr's no ordinary slaver. He’s a dangerous man. And from the way he looks at you, I reckon he’s got an agenda in mind, one that involves you." Oleksandr's brows furrow as he listens to Ivan's words, a silent acceptance of the warnings and truth behind them. The tension in his broad shoulders was palpable, his hands clenching into tight fists.

  "Perhaps he's heard of yer bounty," Samorix says, glancing around the tavern.

  Oleksandr’s face hardens at the mention of the Ottoman bounty. The thought of falling prey to a bounty hunter is a constant thorn in his side, a weight that never lifts. "Perhaps," he agrees gruffly, his voice taut with tension. "It wouldn't be the first time someone has tried to claim that bounty."

  "That's what Oddvarr is infamous for," Samorix continues. "Capturing people and making coin for it. Perhaps that's why he's trying to lure ye out of the bounds of the market. For the same reason ye want to lure him."

  Oleksandr grinds his teeth, the muscles in his jaw clenching as he listens. It’s a grim possibility, and one he hadn’t considered before. Oddvarr's reputation as a cunning slaver fits the profile of a man who wouldn’t shy away from such a lucrative target. The possibility of being captured for the bounty is something he’s always known, but now, standing on the edge of that reality, it twists his stomach into knots. Ivan, resting his head in his hand, looks away, his expression unreadable. Yet beneath his composed exterior, his intuition nags at him. He doesn’t voice it yet, but the unease lingers, heavy in the air between them.

  "Perhaps you and Oddvarr aren’t so different," Samorix muses, his voice low but cutting through the tension. Ivan looks up sharply at this, his expression unreadable. "Ye both want each other’s heads. Ye both intend to lure each other back to Norway. Ye both play along with the business deal shtick because yer aware of each other’s fierce reputations and know it won’t be an easy feat. Perhaps Oddvarr is wondering now why the famed Flaxen Reaper, the Turk-slayer, wanted by his biggest customer, is here in Estonia searching for him."

  Oleksandr is taken aback by Samorix’s observation. For a moment, he falls silent, mulling over the Scotsman’s words. The parallels between himself and Oddvarr are uncanny, and the realization of it all sends a cold shiver down his spine.

  "It will reveal itself, in time," Ivan mutters, breaking the quiet as he lifts his goblet. Samorix nods and raises his glass, though his gaze remains on Oleksandr. Reluctantly, Oleksandr follows suit, his goblet brushing against theirs in a subdued toast. The clink of metal against metal is a hollow sound, one that echoes the uneasy truce between the three men and the unknowns that lie ahead.