His Benelli stood by the headboard, safety off. Under the pillow, his hand found the cold comfort of the cocked Glock.
Morning found Dmitry shattered and irritable. Realizing sleep was a lost cause, he struggled to his feet, his joints popping with a dry crunch, and performed a brief, agonizing stretch. His hand habitually dove into his pack.
"Almost empty," he hissed through clenched teeth, eyeing the half-depleted blister of Diclofenac ampules.
The body’s biological reserves were draining faster than the fuel in the tanks. If he didn't reach the "Ark" soon, he would simply lose the ability to walk.
His companions were already in the main hall. Hans, the old war dog, was morosely cradling his right arm in its splint. There was no sign of the host or his gargantuan shadow-guard.
"Good morning, Master Dmitry!" Cohen leaped up to meet him, radiant with enthusiasm.
The dark circles under the Baron's eyes suggested his night hadn't been easy either, but some youthful fire managed to override the exhaustion.
"Morning," Dmitry grunted. He silently handed Hans the pills. The veteran no longer asked questions; he simply took the medicine, recognizing the "stranger" as the ultimate authority on pain.
"Perhaps you can tell us how the negotiations went?" Cohen flooded him with words. "Everyone was so exhausted yesterday... Will Bruno give us the money? Will he help?"
Dmitry didn't answer. He sat at the table, resting his head on his folded arms. The dry voice of the moneylender echoed in his memory, along with the truths he had dumped out regarding the Prast lineage.
"Wait, Your Lordship," Dmitry interrupted the flow of words, looking Cohen straight in the eye. "Did you know that Hoof was your father's best friend?"
The young Baron faltered. His jaw dropped imperceptibly.
"No!" he finally blurted out. "Friends don't send a bill for help! My father borrowed money from him, I know that, but Hoof demanded it back with interest! Friends don't act like that! Commoners know nothing of honor, Dmitry. How could there be friendship with them?"
Dmitry watched this "theater of stupidity" and felt a cold rage bubbling inside. He glanced at Hans. The old soldier didn't move, but his eyes held an infinite, bitter regret. Before, Cohen had seemed a "noble martyr" to Dmitry, but now the diagnosis was clear: he was looking at a conceited aristocrat whose world was built on sappy novels and illusions.
Dmitry lost his patience. Because of this boy’s stubborn idiocy, he had walked fifty kilometers through the mud with a broken back and fought off the living dead.
"Enough!" he barked, the sound making the Baron flinch. "Your pride isn't worth a damn, boy! All you have left is an empty title. Everything else, including your life, is a debt you haven't even noticed. You are the last of your line, and the burden of power has fallen to you. And power is responsibility, not a privilege!"
Cohen looked at him as if Dmitry had suddenly transformed into one of the monsters roaming outside the city walls.
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"But... I..."
"Quiet!" Dmitry was done playing at etiquette. "You are my debtor now. And you have two choices. Either you do as I say and become a man, or you stay alone and die for the amusement of your neighbors. I’ve proven I can do much. Have I lied to you once? Have I failed you?"
"No... but... I can't..."
"Don't mumble! Answer the question: do you trust me?" Dmitry stared intensely into the boy's eyes.
"Yes, Master Dmitry. I trust you," Cohen looked away, staring at the floor. His ears burned with either shame or resentment.
"Then listen and remember! You aren't just an 'heir' anymore; you are the core of your house. You aren't responsible for your imaginary honor; you are responsible for the lives of your people. If what you do isn't for the good of your subjects, you aren't a ruler—you’re a piece of shit. Look at Hans! He’s crippled because of your stupidity. Remember Toby and his sisters—they could have died because of you! You’re lucky the gods like you enough to have me driving by. You must be strong and flexible so that those who follow you don't suffer for nothing. You will marry Hoof’s daughter."
"What?!" Cohen screamed, jumping to his feet. "How dare you!—"
The ringing crack of Dmitry’s slap cut the sentence short. A dead silence filled the hall. Cohen collapsed back onto the bench, clutching his cheek.
"Understand why?" Dmitry asked, leaning over the stunned Baron. His voice was terrifyingly calm. "You weren't listening. You must think of your people. And they are on the brink of death. You will do what must be done."
Dmitry straightened up. Inside, he was vibrating with tension, but outwardly, he remained a stone. Hans didn't even flinch. The old warrior continued to study the tabletop, and in his silent approval, there was a sense of relief: his Baron had long needed a heavy, fatherly hand.
Instead of answering, Cohen simply sobbed, leaped from the bench, and bolted for his room. Dmitry watched him go, listening to the heavy slam of the door upstairs, and wondered if he had overplayed his hand. After all, in this world, slapping a Baron could get a man executed on the spot.
"Got anything to say?" he asked Hans without turning around.
"Nope," the veteran replied shortly.
Dmitry turned and saw sharp glints of amusement dancing in the old soldier's eyes. Hans was clearly enjoying the fact that someone had finally knocked the dust of chivalric romance out of his master.
"I, however, have plenty to say," Bruno’s dry voice came from the doorway behind Dmitry. "You appeared in this boy's life at exactly the right moment, Master Dmitry."
"Good morning, Master Bruno," Dmitry greeted him, feeling the adrenaline of the clash slowly fade, leaving only the familiar ache in his back.
"Decidedly good," the moneylender chuckled. "I’ve just sent Claude for the wagon. We’re heading to Hoof’s. He’s expecting us. Now we just have to coax Cohen out of his hole."
"I think I may have overdone it with the 'coaxing,'" Dmitry admitted, glancing at his reddened palm.
"Nonsense! That was the least amount of damage he could have taken. Let him sit and think," Bruno waved toward the stairs. "In the meantime, let's have some tea."
The moneylender went to the kitchen and soon returned carrying a heavy, soot-stained kettle and several simple clay mugs. He poured a hot liquid that filled the room with the thick, pungent scent of wild herbs. Bruno took Cohen's seat and gestured for his guests to join him.
Dmitry took a mug, the heat warming his palms. One question had been nagging at him since the previous evening. "You are clearly not a poor man, Master Bruno. Why are there no servants in this house? Only you and Claude."
The moneylender smirked over the rim of his mug. "You don't look like a beggar yourself, Master Dmitry. Where are your servants?"
"I have no use for them," Dmitry replied, somewhat caught off guard as he thought of his "Ark," where he was driver, doctor, and mechanic all in one.
"And I have no use for them either," Bruno snapped. "I can wipe my own ass. Unnecessary ears in my business mean unnecessary holes in my body."
"And what about Claude?" Dmitry remembered the gargantuan guard reading a book by candlelight.
"He is not a servant. He is my nephew," the old man’s voice suddenly turned hollow and sad. "My sister asked me to look after him before she died. He was a restless boy, but loyal."
"I'm sorry..." Dmitry said, feeling slightly embarrassed. Accustomed to cold pragmatism, he found it jarring to see this human side of the "shark" of Nordcross.
"It’s nothing; those are matters of the past," Bruno quickly regained his business tone. "Think on this instead. If Cohen listens to you and marries Hoof’s girl, then our deal from yesterday loses its meaning... The barony is saved, and the money will flow through other channels."
Dmitry immediately tensed up. He understood where the moneylender was going. Bruno was testing the waters: would the "stranger" stay true to the contract now that the situation had shifted?
"Absolutely not!" Dmitry looked the old man straight in the eye, his voice firm. "An agreement is worth more than gold, Master Bruno. Everything stands. Five hundred crowns, the information, and your percentage. We started this business together, and we will finish it."
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