Bozmaroff hurried through the keep’s empty halls, surrounded by heavily armed guards. Two in front of him and two behind, they moved as if they were a single entity that had swallowed the bard. Heavy footsteps echoed on the stone floor, while the slender storyteller tried to match their rhythm. Occasionally, he bumped into the men behind him or stepped on the heel of a guard in front. Being rushed to the czar’s chambers was hardly the best time to learn how to march in unison.

“What did I do?” - he asked for the tenth time this morning but the only answer he got was a palm on his back, reminding him to keep the pace.

The first light of sunrise glinted off the guards’ armor, blinding his already hungover eyes. He squinted, scanning his surroundings for any clue, any reason for his presence. Those armored brutes had stormed into his room at the Speared Boar earlier that morning, and since then, all he’d done was walk. A glance at any maid or noble would be enough to decipher his unexpected visit. Yet, the halls were deserted, and the guards seemed to know only three or four commands, mostly urging haste.

“At least tell me what the czar wants from me! I can’t go in there stinking and ignorant. Either is fine, both are not.”

He was men with silence again, and that was never a good sign. Like a child fearing punishment, Bozmaroff forced his weary mind to remember everything he’d done in the last few weeks that could get him an urgent meeting with the czar. At least everything he was sober enough to remember.

Spinning tales at the Speared Boar most nights, drowning his sorrows until he passed out - the usual routine. The inn offered him the bed typically reserved for the resident bard, but Bozmaroff decided to splurge on a whole room. His purse had grown heavy after the czar sent him to entertain the boyars, who always made sure he didn’t leave with empty pockets.

Ah… the boyars…

Any chance someone’s wife had got a spark of consciousness after he had left her bed? But was some casual adultery a problem worth bothering the czar with? He was about to find out.

The bard almost tripped when the guards made a sharp left turn and stopped before a solid wooden door, polished to perfection. The soldiers halted, their boots scraping against stone, one of them already knocking on the door. A moment later, a voice invited them in, and they lead the bard into the czar’s chambers.

The room was a testament to Roman’s power - high vaulted ceilings adorned with wooden beams, walls draped in rich tapestries. A grand fireplace dominated one side, its flames throwing shadows over a massive wooden table on the other. Bozmaroff’s eyes bounced from one corner of the room to the other. But it wasn’t the czar seated at the head of the table. Instead, a figure, dressed in royal robes of deep blue and silver, her raven-black hair flowing down her back. A slender hand held a wine cup, twirling it on its base, its stem gliding over the wooden surface.

The queen.

“Your Majesty?”

Bozmaroff’s eyebrows took an even more confused form. He had only seen her in the flesh once and she hadn’t so much as spared him a glance then.

“Your Majesty! Excuse my confusion, I expected to be brought to the czar.”

“The czar is dead” - she said with a calm voice, looking at the bard straight in the eyes.

“Oh…”