Fallen Eagle

Chapter 100: A Pledge of Loyalty and Obedience

The rustle of coarse fabric grated against Cassandra’s skin.Not only because the rough wool scratched at her arms and neck, but because of what it meant. It was plain and dark, a disguise she had to wear in her own home. It made her something small and forgettable, one more servant girl slipping through the castle halls with lowered eyes and reddened hands.

She stared into the rough bronze mirror she had tucked beneath her pillow, gazing at the distorted, hazy version of herself she saw trapped in the dull surface. The reflection was warped at the edges, her face stretched and dimmed by the metal’s poor polish. There was no wide silver-backed mirror here, no maid arranging her hair while Cassandra pondered idle thoughts.

She had once spent her mornings choosing what to wear with almost sacred care - combing through silk and cloth each and every morning.

Now there was only the dark, monotone dress of a scullery maid, and a faded spare folded beside it.

Putting it on felt like a defeat, and leaving to face the world felt like another. One she could not bear right now.

Cassandra wanted to stay hidden in this damp little stone closet they called her room, to curl beneath the thin blanket and let the day pass without touching her.

Three sharp knocks rattled the door.

The world, as ever, did not care whether she was ready.

“My lady,” It was Stefanos.

“What is it?” Cassandra asked, the words flat.

“You are required in the courtyard. I was told to escort you there.”

Cassandra almost scoffed. That the jailer to her prison was a one-armed servant boy only made the absurdity of her situation all the more keenly felt. They had not needed chains to make her helpless. Only fear, suspicion, and the quiet agreement of everyone around her.

“I was told we must hurry,” Stefanos added.

“And what would the lord of the castle want with a poor scullery maid like me?” Cassandra asked, and she could not keep the bite from her voice.

They had sequestered her in a little stone room she was certain had once been a closet when she was still a Lady within these walls. It sat close beside the Captain’s servants’ quarters, placed there so they might keep her under watch without too much fuss.

“All servants are to be present,” Stefanos said from the other side of the door. “They are to pledge vows of loyalty to the new rulers of Suyren.”

For a moment, Cassandra simply stared at the warped mirror.

Bile rose in her throat, hot and sour. They wanted her to stand among the servants and bow her head before the men who had taken the castle her family had held for generations. To pay subservience as a common maid?

“Well, you can tell him I am currently indisposed,” she said and the lie felt almost true after what she had just heard. She would rather remain in this miserable room and weep until her eyes burned than step into that courtyard and face the moment. “Give my apologies to your lord.”

“I am afraid that is not a valid excuse, my lady.” There was no softness in Stefanos’s voice, no trace of sympathy she might have seized upon and resented all the same. “I have given you plenty of time to let you gather yourself, but it is nearly midday, and you have not left your room. Not in days, in fact. You must come out now.”

“I am sorry if I have delayed you, Stefanos,” Cassandra said, trying to hide the frantic beating of her heart beneath the sharpness in her tone, “but I am not accustomed to dressing without aid. A lady’s clothing is quite complex.”

Or it had been. The rag they had given her scarcely took five minutes to put on, even with the stiff, hateful fumbling of her own fingers.

“Then I will assist you.”

The door opened before Cassandra could answer.

Stefanos burst through the door to Cassandra’s amazement. She was still half dressed, the coarse dress gathered awkwardly against her body, her hair loose over one shoulder.

For one stunned second she could only stare at him. Then she let out a sharp, furious screech.

“What in God’s name do you think you are doing?” she cried, snatching at the nearest object within reach. Her hand closed around the bronze mirror, and she hurled it at him with all the strength she had. “Have you no shame? You lecherous pervert!”

Stefanos caught the flying projectile cleanly with his left hand.

The movement was swift enough to feel almost insulting. His face remained still, implacable, as though she had not just thrown hard metal at his head.

“Dress yourself,” he said. “And stop making a scene. Now.”

The coldness in his voice stopped her momentarily. Cassandra stood rigid, one hand clutching the loose front of the dress against herself, her breath coming shallow and uneven.

“You are not a high noble lady anymore,” Stefanos continued. “There are demands placed upon you now, and expectations you will meet. Flimsy excuses will not change the work you have been given.”

He spoke with a seriousness that frightened her more than anger might have done. This was something harder and colder, a wall she could bruise herself against without moving it an inch.

“I was told to bring you to the courtyard,” he said, “and I will not have us be late.”

“I did not ask for any of this,” Cassandra hissed, drawing the dress tighter around herself, as if wool could serve as armour.

“None of us did.” Stefanos took a step toward her. “But we must do these things regardless.”

Cassandra retreated before she could stop herself. Her bare heel brushed against the edge of the pallet, and then her back struck the damp stone wall. There was nowhere farther to go.

“There is no room left for sentimentality, wishes, or pretty make-believes,” Stefanos said, a shadow drawing over his face. “You will accept your new purpose, or you will die.”

Cassandra felt her throat tighten.

“I do not much care if you mean to throw your life away,” Stefanos said, his gaze holding hers without mercy, “but I will not have you impede my Lord or sabotage him.”

There was something buried in his tone then, something raw beneath all that discipline. It flickered in his eyes and vanished before she could see it clearly.

“I was told to watch over you,” he whispered, low and mean, “and I will make certain nothing happens.”

Cassandra withered under his stare despite herself. She had once danced in open ballrooms and commanded a cadre of loyal Ladies. Here, in this miserable closet, half-dressed before a one-armed servant boy, those things felt like faded paintings of something old.

“Now dress,” he commanded.

Cassandra’s hands trembled as she pulled the dress properly over herself, fingers fumbling with the fastening, clumsy from anger and shame. Stefanos did not turn away. He watched with the same pitiless attention he might have given a task he meant to see completed properly.

“The wimple too.”

She hesitated, staring at the folded cloth as though it were a hideous shroud.

“Put it on.”

Cassandra obeyed, and by the time the cloth was secured around her hair, tears had slipped free despite every effort to stop them. A sob escaped her, small and strangled, and she hated the sound of it almost as much as she hated him for hearing it.

Stefanos looked on without visible pity.

“Let's go.”

He turned and marched out of the closet, fully expecting her to follow.

Cassandra had only a moment to drag in a breath and wipe at her face before she stepped after him.

The corridor beyond felt colder than her room, though perhaps that was only because there were eyes here - doors, corners, the risk of being seen. She kept herself half a pace behind Stefanos, her hands clenched in the folds of the servant’s dress, forcing herself not to tear the wimple off. Every step toward the courtyard seemed to take something from her.

By the time they neared the open space, she could hear the murmur of uncertain voices and the shuffle of people trying to arrange themselves into obedience.

As the courtyard opened before her, she saw servants standing assembled in ordered clusters, and saw that their faces were mostly unfamiliar. Her family had taken many of the castle staff with them when they fled, especially those in senior positions, many of whom were tied to the household by blood, marriage, or long service.

That had left Suyren shorthanded, but as Cassandra understood it, the Captain and that Zeno had spent the last few days recruiting from the local populace. Even so, the number gathered before her suggested they had not taken just anyone. The selections looked careful. Local men and women from Suyren, most likely, chosen not only because they could cook, scrub, carry, and fetch, but because their presence served another purpose.

It was a clever way to foster goodwill, Cassandra thought. A person was far more likely to accept the lord who held the castle if his son carried water there or if his daughter worked in the kitchens. They served as hostages in one hand, and an opportunity for the family to climb on the other.

Cassandra also noticed then that some of the old servants who had stayed behind were absent. Shuffled elsewhere, or perhaps even dismissed, which was odd. She wondered whether that was the Captain’s attempt at dismissing any servants who might recognize her. So no one would look too closely at what he didn’t want them to see.

That still did not mean Cassandra could lower her guard. A few of the older servants might recognize her beneath the wimple and plain dress, and she could not afford that.

She could not afford that? Was she protecting the Captain now? Preserving his plans by hiding obediently among the servants? Why?

What if she revealed herself? The worst that could happen was death, and she wondered whether that was worse than living beneath the shadow of the man who had ended her family and betrayed her.

All it would take was one shout. She could cast off this ridiculous headwear, raise her chin before them all, and name herself Cassandra Nomikos. She could ruin his deception in the open and taste one drop of revenge before she died-

The doors opened with a heavy groan, and from the castle proper emerged two figures dressed in fine livery.

Zeno wore dark blue hues lined with golden yellow - Makris colours. That he was a scion of the house which had led the revolt was surprising enough, but that he wore them openly after the rebellion’s defeat was bolder still.

Ahead of him came the Captain, clothed in dour black and grey, with a face to match it. His eyes swept over the gathered servants, cold and assessing, and Cassandra felt herself growing as tense as those around her.

An unassuming military captain stepped out ahead of them, square-shouldered and plain-faced. Cassandra recognized him, she thought. He had served as one of Suyren’s guards before all this, the sort of man she might once have passed without a glance. Now he stood before them as if the castle had always belonged to his new masters.

“You will step forward one by one,” he called, his voice carrying across the courtyard. “You will kneel and pledge your loyalty to the new Lords of Suyren, before returning to your duties.”

No one moved at first, as if scared to take the first step. Then the servants nearest to the front were singled out and forced to walk forward.

“I, Melissa of Suyren, pledge my loyalty and obedience to Lords Theodorus Sideris and Zeno Makris.” An old laundress said as she lowered herself onto the stone.

Others followed, some stiff with shame, some frightened enough that their words came out as whispers.

Cassandra watched one person after another bow their heads to their new masters. The reality of it settled over her slowly. Her family’s pride, their rule over the north, the name that had once seemed strong enough to bend whole rooms around it, had been broken. Nothing would ever be the same again.

“You,” Stathis barked in her direction. “Step forward.”

Cassandra obeyed, each step heavy. She kept her head bowed, refusing to look at the Captain. That the gesture also hid her from Zeno mattered little. She did not care about the mission, and she did not know why she continued to move as ordered - perhaps due to some half-hearted self-preservation instinct.

Her knees met the cold courtyard stones. For a moment the oath would not come. To say it felt like driving a blade into the grave of her father, into her brother’s trust, into every lesson that had taught her what the Nomikos name meant. But silence stretched, and the Captain’s gaze pressed against her hidden head.

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“I, Carissa of Suyren, pledge my loyalty,” Cassandra said at last, voice thin but audible, “and my obedience to Lords Zeno Makris and Theodorus Sideris.”

The words left her, and something inside her seemed to go with them.

“This wind is a menace,” Izzet remarked, gazing upon the valley below them, and Edae had to struggle not to roll his eyes. If his brief foray into war had taught him anything, it was patience, though not the patience of hunters waiting through snowfall or warriors enduring thirst, as he had done little of that.

“And it strikes at us as if from below,” Izzet went on. “I wonder why.”

It came, ironically enough, not from any battle itself, but from having to endure the constant, redundant, and superficial commentaries Izzet was prone to providing.

“The wind often follows the land,” Nikos, son of Celil, said, gesturing to the ridge they sat upon.

Why Nikos bothered to answer was beyond Edae. Some men heard the steppe speak and understood hoofbeats, rain, hunger, and distance. Izzet heard only air moving past his ears.

“But to come as if from the earth…” Izzet dismounted and dragged his hand through the dirt as though he had uncovered something sacred rather than a handful of wind-dried soil.

Had the words come from anyone else, Edae might have laughed. Even the All-Father, with all the breadth of sky at his disposal, would find himself tested trying to explain the idiocy that coursed through Izzet’s skull.

“Do not dally,” Nikos Celilôglu commanded, “we are nearly there.”

Izzet paused in his reverent inspection of the mundane ground and climbed back atop his steed.

Edae sat uneasily in his own saddle, or rather in the saddle they had lent him. That distinction mattered more than any of the highlanders would ever understand.

All of their steeds had been massacred in the ambush that had turned them captive to the Theodorans, and though their captors had lent Edae and the nomad remnants mounts for the journey home, the animals were pale substitutes for what Yildirm and Yele had been.

He wondered how his family would receive the loss. How they would weigh the shame of a son returning without coin, without spoils, without the mount that had carried his name across the grass.

He would not have to wonder long.

His family’s hut came into view below, a squat, low thing that seemed to sway beneath the heavy breath of the valley wind. Edae knew the sight well. His grandfather had always settled in places where the wind spoke strongest. His father, though lacking the old man’s gift for listening to it, had kept the tradition all the same.

As they drew closer, Edae caught the familiar mingled smell of dirty wool, sour milk, old smoke, and the stale heaviness that clung to things too long enclosed. Even the wind could not strip it away.

It was the staleness of a people trapped.

“So you settle in this valley for late spring before the migration into the open steppe,” Izzet remarked from the side. “We usually take the one two ridges over,” Izzet added, gesturing vaguely towards them.

It seemed cruel that they’d been saddled together in this mission, that Izzet’s own people ranged nearby.

“We do not head for the open steppe anymore,” Edae said quietly.

Izzet frowned, genuinely confused. “Then how do you fatten your sheep on good grass for the summer?” After the spring births and the weaning of lambs, families were meant to brave the open steppe, chasing the abundant grass that gave strength to the herd and breadth to the soul.

“We don’t.”

Nikos Celilôglu took note of the slight hint of resentment in his tone, fixing his eyes upon him.

Edae urged his mount ahead. He would rather not speak of such matters before outsiders.

His father was in his usual place near the hut, watching for wolves, strange men, and ghosts.

These days he rarely ranged far from the tent, leaving younger cousins to drive the herds toward the few patches of this land that had not yet been grazed down to stubborn roots. By the time he realized who approached, he already had his bow in hand and was ordering Edae’s sisters inside.

When recognition came, his father did not lower the weapon. He only gripped it tighter.

“You have a lot of nerve coming back,” he said by way of greeting.

“We need to talk,” Edae answered, unfazed by the hostility. He hadn’t left on the best of terms with his father.

“We can talk as soon as you give back the horses you stole,” his father said, eyes tightening around the words.

“I did not steal them,” Edae replied calmly.

He had also not asked for his father’s permission to join the war when the pale men came jingling full silver pouches, promising coin for swift mounts and warriors atop them.

“And you have not brought them back either,” his father said, gaze sliding over Edae to the poor, thin beast he rode now.

“Yildirim and Yele have perished,” Edae did not shy from the truth.

Whenever he tried in the past, it seemed to summon ill winds after him, the way it had the last time he had chosen to deceive someone. Lies were like meat hidden beneath a saddlecloth in summer. One could conceal them for a while, but the rot always found the air.

“So you have come to deliver yourself unto my arrows,” his father drew an arrow and set it to the string with an eerie calm.

“We are destitute now,” he said. “You have brought ruin to this family, and you will pay the price for your betrayal.”

Edae knew there was no argument that would move him once an idea had taken root. His father’s thoughts were like old trees clinging to a cliffside, slow to grow, hard to bend, and more likely to split stone than yield to it.

“You cannot win,” Edae said instead, jutting his chin toward the handful of armoured horsemen who trailed behind him.

His father’s hand stilled.

“Never in my wildest dreams did I think you would come to rob your own family,” he said, voice gone flat with disappointment.

Edae felt the familiar urge to roll his eyes and buried it before it could show.

“We have not come to rob you, honoured father,” Nikos Celilôglu said as the party eased to a halt. “We are here to make you a proposition.”

“I refuse it,” his father replied instantly, shifting the aim of his bow toward Nikos. “You have your answer. Now you can leave.”

“You will doom our family if you do not listen,” Edae warned, knowing that soft words would not work on his father.

“Shut your mouth, traitor.” His father turned the arrow back toward Edae’s head. “You do not hold the right to speak.”

The warriors behind Edae stirred, hands drifting toward weapons with the uneasy restraint of men unsure whether they were witnessing a family quarrel or the beginning of bloodshed. Edae raised a hand to forestall them. He kept his eyes on his father and urged his horse a little closer to the drawn string.

“If you hold even a shred of honour for the sacred ways,” Edae said, “then you will at least receive visitors beneath a shaded roof.” His voice was even and he looked on without fear, ready to accept death should it come. He knew his father was well capable of killing him if he thought he had to. “That would be the least would have wanted.”

His father’s face changed at the mention of his grandfather. Fury passed over it and, for a moment, Edae believed the arrow would fly. The old man’s memory had always stood like a grave mound no one in the family dared step across, and Edae had just placed his foot upon it.

For several breaths, only the wind moved.

Then his father spat onto the ground and lowered the bow.

“Come quickly,” he said, turning his glare toward the warriors. “I would be done with whatever foolishness my son has plotted quickly rather than slowly.”

Nikos Celilôglu moved forward first, and the nomad warriors who stood uncertainly behind him followed after a beat.

Nikos stepped down beside Edae and offered no hollow words of comfort, which Edae was grateful for. He gave only a single nod, then walked into the tent.

Edae took the moment to draw a deep breath. He would need patience for what came next, even more patience than he had ever needed before.

“Your father is intense, Edae,” Izzet said as he dismounted on the other side of the horse. “He looked as if he really might shoot you. That was scary.”

Edae closed his eyes briefly.

And his patience was already frayed dangerously thin.

The tent around them was poor, though not neglected. Its felt walls had been patched in several places with pieces that did not quite match, and there were few belongings inside that were not plainly necessary, but everything had been tended to with almost stubborn fastidiousness - worn cushions beaten clean, bowls stacked neatly, and rugs brushed and straightened.

A handful of other clanspeople lingered within, mostly women with a few children tucked close to their skirts. They watched the visitors with guarded eyes, their fear worn openly in trembling shoulders and lowered voices. They were no different than the man before them. The only difference was that his fear had hardened into anger and suspicion.

“So what is it you want?” Edae’s father asked, wasting no time, not even allowing Nikos to sit first.

“Do not be like that, honey,” one of the women said, detaching herself from the cluster at the far end of the tent. “Would you like some refreshments? Yoghurt, perhaps?”

She moved quickly, gathering a few pieces of hard cheese, some flatbread, and dried morsels onto a tray with nervous care. It was a scant offering, and it spoke of the family’s poverty more loudly than anything so far.

There was a craftiness to her that told Nikos that the courtesy wasn’t purely kindness. It was fear wearing the face of hospitality, a woman trying to soften armed men in her home.

“There is no need, but thank you, ,” Nikos replied.

“Nonsense. Fatma, get these fine warriors some-”

She stopped midway through the command as Edae entered the tent behind them. The tray slipped in her hands, and Nikos had to reach out to steady it.

“Edae,” she breathed. “You’ve returned.”

The relief that settled into her shoulders was impossible to miss. She passed the tray to Nikos without truly looking at him and crossed the space to embrace her son.

“,” Edae said.

There was more feeling in the single word than Nikos had ever heard from the boy. It was as though a knot he had kept hidden beneath layers of silence had come undone for the length of a breath.

“Unhand him, Nuray,” Edae’s father snapped. “This traitor has not even returned with the horses he stole. Only armed men and threats.”

“He is still your son, Edige,” Nuray said, turning on him with sudden heat.

“He might as well not be,” Edige replied with a snort.

Nuray rolled her eyes, and Nikos noticed the faint twitch in Edae’s brow that suggested he was restraining the same impulse.

“Sit, you trespassers,” Edige commanded, gesturing sharply toward the opposite cushion, which was little more than a worn pillow flattened by years of use. “Tell me what you are here for, so you can be on your way.”

“I will check on the tea,” Nuray said, though she paused long enough to give Edae’s arm a light squeeze before withdrawing.

Edae caught Nikos looking and pinched his mouth in discomfort, embarrassed to have another man witness such affection. Nikos pretended he had seen nothing and seated himself before Edige, accepting the poor cushion without comment.

“The war has ended,” Nikos began. “The north is now ruled by the Crown of Theodoro, not the Nomikos House.”

“I’m gladdened,” Edige had the tone of a man who had not yet heard anything worth caring about.

“The appointed commander of the north, Theodorus Sideris, has decided to reinstate the market village that once facilitated trade between the nomad communities and Greek-speaking Suyren.”

“That does not matter to us,” Edige cut him off immediately, “We have no wish to step into that trap. We did not before, and we will not now.”

Nikos glanced around the tent again and privately judged that even if they had wished to trade, they likely had little of true value left to bring.

“The other part may matter more,” Nikos reached into his brigandine and withdrew a folded parchment, careful to move slowly enough that no one mistook the gesture for a threat. Edige’s eyes tracked every motion.

“This,” Nikos said, holding it where the older man could see the seal, “is a permit granting right of safe passage and grazing through the northern lands of the Principality.”

Edige took the parchment roughly, with the air of a man already preparing to pretend he had judged it worthless. His eyes dropped to the page, ready to skim a few lines and dismiss the whole thing, only to pause when he saw the script. It was neither Latin nor Greek, but Arabic lettering, written in careful black strokes across the page.

Nikos was surprised the man recognized it at all, even if he could not read it. Most nomads would not have, merely scoffed as if it were a drawing.

“What does it mean?” Edige asked.

Nuray returned in the lull between question and answer, serving small cups of steaming tea with quick, practiced hands.

“It means that any family possessing this document will be permitted to graze and pass through all northern Theodoran territory freely,” Nikos said.

Edige harrumphed, “We can already do that.” He gestured around the tent to prove his point.

“Not legally,” Nikos said, placing weight on the word. “With this document, you could expect safety within our borders, and protection from others who might steal your pastures.”

“And let me guess,” Edige said, eyes narrowing over the rim of his cup, “we would be expected to pay for the privilege.”

When Nikos did not deny it, Edige laughed, dry and humourless.

“The tax paid would be proportional to the means of each family,” Nikos said. Edige shook his head, smiling as though the whole matter had become a joke told badly. “More importantly, that tax would be decided and discussed among the many nomad families grazing in northern Theodoro. Only families that sit within the body of the new formed from the clans forced south into these lands will be allowed to possess the right of free passage.”

It was his commander’s ingenious plan to finally create a bridge between peoples who had spent too long circling one another like wolves around a winter carcass and the Crown. By gathering fringe families, exiles, and displaced into a proper body, they could self-govern their grazing, settle disputes before they turned bloody, and gain more together than they ever could as scattered scraps of a broken people.

With a unified voice instead of a scattering of smaller ones, trade and communication between the two peoples could finally grow. And a status previously unavailable to men like Nikos, suddenly became more than a faraway dream.

“An from exiles and miscreants?” Edige laughed in disbelief. “I would rather cut out my tongue than speak with the snakes who threaten my family.”

“Then you will be driven out by Theodoro, and by those very countrymen you accuse,” Nikos replied. He was tired of the man’s stubbornness.

“I would like to see you try,” Edige said, challenge bright in his eyes.

“Elder,” Nikos said, forcing his tone lower with a surge of will, “it does not have to be like this. I understand you have no reason to trust the Principality. But I do not come only as their underling. I come as a military captain, a man who rose through the ranks, and as the man who will work with you. Not some foreign Greek sent to speak words he does not understand.”

He gestured behind him, toward the warriors waiting near the entrance of the tent, Turkic one and all. Edige’s gaze flicked toward them.

“You do not have to change your way of life,” Nikos continued. “No one is asking you to abandon your herds, your clan, or the paths your fathers walked. You need only speak your mind at an assembly of clans, claim pastures and migrations openly, and make certain no more skirmishes, no more raids, no more needless blood follows every season’s movement.”

His voice softened further. This was why he had accepted the task of reaching the harder families, the suspicious ones who kept to the edges and trusted no hand extended toward them. He knew how stubborn they could be. He also knew how rare a chance this was.

“Imagine how much bigger your flock could get if you had green grass all year long. Do you not want to stop living in fear of every shadow?” Nikos asked.

He saw the words strike Edige. For the first time, the man did not answer immediately.

“Your son can even join us,” Nikos said. “He has talent, and he can rise through the ranks as I have.”

That, apparently, had been the wrong thing to say.

Edige’s eyes hardened. “Get out.”

“But-”

“Out!” Edige rose sharply, and Edae stood up with him in the same motion. “How dare you suggest such a thing for my son? Do you plan to steal him too?” It was a complete about face. Suddenly he was worried about his son's safety.

“I will go, Edige,” Edae said and there was steel in his voice, quiet but unmistakable.

“Only if I say so,” Edige replied, narrowing his eyes.

“How long will you let fear rule you? Every year the grass is thinner and the herds grow weaker.” Edae asked, speaking not as a son to his father, but as an adviser to a stubborn chieftain. “You cannot keep us trapped in this valley forever. ”

“Out, damn you all!” Edige nearly drove them from the tent with the force of his fury. Nikos and his warriors rose quickly, stepping outside before their presence turned the quarrel into something worse.

Edae gave Nikos a brief look as they passed, one that said he would handle it. Nuray had already moved between father and son, trying to separate them. Words followed behind them as they left, the kind that were best left unheard by outsiders.

“That was… intense,” Izzet said once they had retreated into the wind outside. “Do you think he will be all right?” He glanced back toward the tent, and there was worry there.

“Don’t you think he will need help?”

Nikos looked toward the tent flap, watching its patched edge stir in the night breeze. “There are some things a man must do himself,” he said, and it was from experience that he did so.

His own father had never been an easy man to love, nor an easy man to oppose.

“Go tend to the horses,” Nikos commanded, unwilling to have his men linger close enough to hear the argument still rising inside.

They obeyed, leading the animals farther off while Nikos settled in to wait, however long it took.

…

It was well into the night by the time Edae emerged. More men had returned since sunset, bringing with them a small herd of thin sheep whose ribs showed too clearly beneath their dirty wool. They had entered the tent one by one, drawn into the long dispute until the whole family seemed to have been pulled beneath the same low roof.

Edae walked out with the slow steps of someone who had just trudged through an impossibly long battle.

“Did he agree?” Nikos asked.

He was waiting with a flask of mare wine in hand and offered it without ceremony.

“He did.” Edae considered the flask for a long moment before taking it.

He drank greedily, as though trying to wash the taste of the talk from his mouth.

“And what was the price?” Nikos asked quietly.

“Nothing that could not be handled,” Edae replied, staring up at the high moon, caught for a moment by its pale blue lustre.

The light silvered his cheek and made the swelling around one eye impossible to miss.

Nikos stepped closer and placed a steadying arm around his shoulders. “When an old stallion stumbles, it falls to the colt to find the trail and to lead his family onto it,” he said, squeezing once. “No matter what stones cut his hooves on the way.”

There was a harshness to the words, fitting because they were not meant to be kind.

Nikos pretended not to notice the black eye.

Or the quiet sobs of a boy carrying a family on his shoulders.