The sound of the bustling castle below barely reached Oleksandr’s ears, drowned out by the storm raging in his mind. The weight of the upcoming wedding pressed on him more than he had expected, as if the walls themselves were closing in. The anticipation, the emotions… he wasn’t entirely sure what to expect. The bond he shared with Vidosavka was unspoken, yet undeniable, but this wedding felt like a new, uncharted territory—one where everything could change.

  His eyes wandered over the old chamber, a room that held the echoes of the man he once was. The wooden walls, the simple furnishings, the bed that had been a place of solitude before he had intimately known her—it all felt like a lifetime ago.

  He stood up, walked toward the window, and looked down at the busy courtyard. There had been a flurry of movement—servants, guards, all preparing for the grand event that would forever change his life. Yet, despite all the excitement around him, he had felt an emptiness. He hadn’t seen Savka in a week, and the longing for her presence, her touch, was palpable. Tradition had called for their separation, but it felt like torture. He had seen their son during the week, held him, rocked him to sleep, kissed his tiny head more times than he could count—because he couldn’t bear to be apart from them both. And yet, without her, even those tender moments felt incomplete. Her absence gnawed at him like a wound that refused to close.

  His hand tightened on the windowsill, his knuckles white, as his thoughts drifted to her—the woman he was about to marry, the mother of his child. He had never been one for words or grand gestures, but this union meant more to him than anything he had ever known. And yet, the fear lingered. Fear of failing her. Fear of not being enough for the family they were about to build together.

  With a sigh, he turned away from the window and sat back down on the bed, his fingers brushing over the rough, familiar fabric of the sheets. He wasn’t sure how to put into words the weight of what he felt—pride, fear, love… so much love. His hand rested over his chest, where his heart beat fiercely. A heartbeat he shared with Savka and their son. He wondered, as he had so many times, if he was truly ready for what came next.

  As the cool water splashed against his face, Oleksandr stared at his reflection, his eyes lingering on the image of a man who, in so many ways, felt like a stranger to him. He had grown accustomed to seeing the reflection of a warrior, a mercenary—someone used to the blood and the battle, hardened by a life of conflict. But today, as he stood before the mirror, meticulously grooming himself for the wedding, he couldn’t help but reflect on the transformation that had come over him.

  His fingers worked with precision as he shaved, the blade against his skin a ritual, a way to ground himself amidst the storm of emotions swirling inside him. He combed his long, flaxen hair, parting it neatly down the middle, giving a rare thought to his appearance. The battle-worn, barbarian look that had always defined him had been replaced by a polished, almost noble presence.

  He ran his fingers along the smoothness of his face, feeling the contrast between the man he had become and the man he once was. His strong features—his wide jaw, sharp cheekbones, and piercing, deep-set blue eyes—stared back at him with a kind of rugged charm, a charm that had always been there, though it had been overshadowed by the harshness of his life. He was, undeniably, a handsome man. A man who had never been destined for gentleness, but who found himself on the cusp of a new life, one defined by love and responsibility.

  As he finished grooming, his thoughts drifted to Thekkur, his twin brother, the one who had never lived to see this day. A wave of sorrow gripped his heart. The brother he had shared his life with, the one whose face had always been his reflection, now only existed in memories. A memory that was reflected in the mirror before him—the face of a man who had carried both of their spirits within him. Thekkur’s face still lingers in his mind's eye, a face that mirrored his own in every way but one: age. His brother never lived to see the man Oleksandr had become, the man standing before the mirror now. Almost a decade older than Thekkur would have been, yet the hole his absence left still aches as if it was only yesterday that Oleksandr watched him fall.

  He imagined what might have been. The wedding his brother was supposed to have. Thekkur, with his infectious charisma and boundless energy, would have walked down the aisle with Amalthea, the beautiful Greek dancer. Her bronze hair would have caught the sunlight, and her laughter would have filled the air, as it always had when she danced. Oleksandr could almost hear her soft voice, the way Thekkur’s face would have lit up whenever she was near. He had been on the verge of asking her to marry him—an end to a long and passionate courtship—but fate had decided otherwise.

  The loss of that dream weighed heavily on Oleksandr. He could feel the sharp pit in his stomach, the gnawing ache of regret that he had been the one to survive. His twin, his other half, had been full of life, of promise. He had so much left to give. But that promise, that potential, had been torn away before it even had the chance to blossom. Oleksandr often found himself imagining what his brother’s life could have been—a future full of joy and love, children of his own, the steady beat of a life lived in full.

  The irony of it all wasn't lost on Oleksandr. He, the quieter, gruffer twin, is now the one preparing to marry. He would have never thought that he'd be the one walking this path. He had always assumed it would be Thekkur, the one with the natural charm and easy smile, the one everyone gravitated toward. But now, it is Oleksandr who will stand at the altar.

  There was a bittersweet feeling that settled over him as he looked at his reflection, the weight of what had been lost and what was now required of him. He could almost feel Thekkur’s presence beside him, as if he were standing there in the room, watching over him. In a way, Oleksandr thought, no, knew, that Thekkur’s spirit would be with him on this day, even though his brother’s hands will never hold his widowed bride…

  Oleksandr stood in front of the mirror for a long moment, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his lips as his mind wandered. He wished, more than anything, that Thekkur could be there with him now. He could almost hear his brother’s voice, boisterous and full of life, cutting through the quiet. He would’ve been the first to brazenly mock him for his nerves, and Oleksandr could already picture it clearly in his mind.

  "What are you so nervous about? You’re only going to have, like, the rest of your life to impress her."

  Oleksandr chuckled softly, the sound almost foreign to his own ears. Thekkur’s teasing would have lightened the air, his carefree attitude a sharp contrast to Oleksandr’s more somber nature. The laughter, the banter, it was all so alive in his mind.

  "You’re getting soft," he imagined his brother saying with that easy grin of his, "Don’t tell me that little girl is making you shake now."

  Oleksandr shook his head, a breath escaping him like a sigh of relief, as if Thekkur had truly just spoken to him. There was something so comforting in imagining his brother’s voice in his mind, even if it was only a memory. He could almost see Thekkur’s mischievous grin, teasing him without a second thought, never allowing him to dwell too long in his own anxieties. He moved over to the bed and laid out the tunic he was to wear for the wedding, the finely tailored garment shimmering in the light. He imagined Thekkur picking it up, inspecting it as though he’d never seen anything so ridiculous, yet he would be secretly impressed.

  "Look at you, all dressed up for the princess," Thekkur would quip, holding it in the sunlight to examine it. "I hope you’re not planning on wearing a corset to impress her too."

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  Oleksandr chuckled softly, the sound warm and laced with a touch of sadness. "This isn't half bad actually," he could almost hear Thekkur say, his voice full of mock surprise. "You don't look like a complete ruffian in this. But, don't get too smug. We both know I'll always be the cuter one." Despite the ache in his chest, a smile tugged at Oleksandr’s lips. He could vividly picture Thekkur, striking some dramatic pose, tossing his braids back with that roguish grin, all while flexing his muscles just to get a rise out of him. It was the sort of thing his twin had always done, a perfect blend of confidence and mischief. "Asshole," Oleksandr muttered under his breath with a half-smile, shaking his head as he tied the laces on the embroidered velvet tunic.

  The tunic, a deep shade of crimson, fit snugly against his frame, the fine threads of gold glimmering in the light. It was long, going past his knees. He pulled it together with a belt that cinched it just right, the delicate embroidery almost mocking the hardened warrior beneath. Oleksandr couldn't help but picture Thekkur’s teasing grin, the way he would’ve rolled his eyes at him in that light, calling him soft for dressing up in such finery. With a sigh, Oleksandr pulled on his boots, the familiar leather creaking beneath his fingers as he fastened them up. Then, followed a thick, sheep pelt cloak, a common sight among the region's inhabitants. He fastened it over his shoulders with a large pin.

  As he stood there, adjusting the pieces with careful precision, Oleksandr let his mind wander to his brother again. "I'm proud of you, Oleksandr." The words settled into him, a bittersweet feeling latching onto his heart. He could hear it so clearly now, the unspoken affection in the words, the recognition of everything they had been through together, and the bond that still remained. Oleksandr exhaled slowly, blinking away the feeling that threatened to swallow him whole.

  It wasn't fair. It was never fair. But the memory of his brother's words, even if just a whisper in his mind, gave him the strength to continue forward.

  “I’m proud of you too, Thekkur,” he whispered, a quiet vow to the brother, the love of his life that he would never forget.

  In just a few hours, he'd be wed. Not to just any girl, but to a princess. Not just any princess, but his own. The beautiful She-Raven of Montenegro, the mysterious beauty who had haunted his dreams for so long. As he stood before the mirror, adjusting his tunic one last time, Oleksandr couldn’t help but feel a swell of pride. He had come a long way, from the blood-soaked sands of the gladiatorial arena to standing here, a man about to marry a woman of pure royal blood. A few years ago, such a thought would’ve seemed laughable, a cruel jest of fate. The rough, barbaric warrior, the renegade slave, marrying a princess? It was a notion so far beyond his grasp that it hardly seemed real. And yet, here he was. Not just a prince of fortune, but a man destined to be a king’s son-in-law. A prince consort. And perhaps at some point, even a regent.

  He thought about his beloved, her soft laugh, the way her eyes always seemed to see right through him. She had found him—no, he had found her—in a dream that had haunted him, a vision of a life beyond the bloodshed, beyond the chains. It was a wild journey, one he would never have imagined. But it had been his, and now it was unfolding before him.

  Savka, he thought, a quiet warmth settling in his chest. She is mine, and I am hers.

  Oleksandr adjusted his belt and cloak anxiously, smoothing out the wrinkles of his attire as he prepared to face his destiny. He had no illusions about what would come next. Marriage to a woman of her stature would not be without its challenges. But he would meet them with the same resolve, the same tenacity that had seen him through his past battles.

  He wondered what she was doing now. He imagined her in the chambers, surrounded by handmaidens, as they meticulously prepared her for the grand occasion. First, the long soak in the baths, the hot steam swirling around her delicate skin, infused with exotic oils and perfumed waters that clung to her like the scent of flowers in the wind. Her skin would be scrubbed and polished, glowing with an ethereal radiance. He could almost picture the soft sound of water splashing against the stone as they bathed her, the attendants' quiet murmurs as they worked. He smirked, amused by the thought, though he knew it was no light task. But she was worth every bit of the effort. He would have never imagined being the man she did all this for. Her handmaidens would then apply the pale powder to her face, transforming her already beautiful features into something even more striking. The rouge, the kohl to her eyes, the lip stain—each stroke and brush designed to enhance her natural beauty, to highlight every curve of her cheek, the soft arch of her brows, the gentle shape of her lips. Next, her dark, luxurious hair would be brushed and oiled, the soft gleam of it catching the light like polished obsidian. His hands itched to touch it, to run his fingers through it again. Finally, she would don her wedding dress, the elegant fabric, the intricate stitching, the fine embroidery that would make her look like a queen, a goddess descending from the heavens. He could see it in his mind’s eye, the way it would hug her form, the delicate lace, velvet and silk that would cascade to the floor. It would be like nothing he'd ever seen, a dream come to life.

  All of this—this effort, this time, this painstaking care—just for him. A lowborn man. A warrior from the wild, who had once been a slave. She was doing all this, all these rituals, just to be his wife. The thought both humbled and electrified him, a rush of emotions flooding through him. Here he was, the man who had fought and bled for every inch of his life, now standing on the edge of something so far beyond him that he still couldn’t fully comprehend it. A princess, the light of Montenegro, a woman of grace and power, would soon be bound to him, a barbarian of the harshest lands. He was so damn nervous.

  A knock on the door shook him from his racing thoughts. "Come in," he called out. The door slowly opened, and Samorix's large frame filled the doorway. The Scotsman was already dressed in his ceremonial clothing, looking almost regal himself in his emerald green clothing and silver sporran. He grinned broadly at the sight of his friend.

  "Ye clean up well, lad," he said. "Looks like ye're about to marry a princess, eh?"

  "Sure does look like it." Oleksandr murmurs, adjusting his armor and tunic again. Samorix chuckles, stepping into the room and closing the door behind him.

  "Ye don't sound too happy about it," he teases, raising an eyebrow. "Most men would be doing cartwheels at the thought of marrying a lass like that."

  Oleksandr grunts in reply, running a hand through his long hair. "It's not that," he says, though he doesn't deny Samorix's observation. "I'm just... not used to all this finery, you know? I feel like a fool, all dressed up like this."

  "Well, I'll reckon its more for your lass and the guests than it is for you."

  "I know, I know. I'm just... nervous. I don't want to disappoint her." He sighed, looking at himself in the mirror. "And I just feel like a bear in a dress."

  "Because ye are one, boy. Might as well embrace it."

  Oleksandr couldn't help but laugh at that, a deep, rumbling sound. Samorix had a way of lightening even the heaviest of moods with his bluntness and humor. "Yeah, it is what it is. Where's Ivan?"

  "Last I saw him, he was distributing guards for the royal wedding." Samorix replied, strolling over to the window and peering outside.

  "And Thekkur, he's with Savka, right?"

  "Aye," Samorix confirmed. "Yer little one is with the lass and her father. All fed and happy. He's in good hands." He glanced back at Oleksandr with a smirk. "You worried?" Oleksandr nods, adjusting his sleeves nervously. Samorix slaps him on the back, a gesture of encouragement. "Now, let’s get ye down to that altar before the princess thinks ye’ve run off to join the other bears in the woods."