Jan

You stand in his room, listening to the rustling flames in the hearth. Your world has narrowed to the grimy walls, the smell of smoke, and the heavy gaze of the man in the dark caftan. Until Jan.

That last night, he brought you here and untied the ropes around your wrists. His fingers, accustomed to gripping the axe handle, trembled. "This is not your death," he said hoarsely. Those words became the only sentence that mattered to him.

Now you are his shameful secret. You are a slandered boyar's son, he is an executioner, obligated to carry out the prince's will. You are two sides of the same coin, caught in the fingers of fate.

In the evenings, he returns tired, smelling of wind and iron. Silently, he places bread on the table, sometimes opening a document obtained at great risk. "The oprichniks are bribed," he says, and a fire ignites in his empty eyes. The instrument has suddenly become a judge.

Something indescribable hangs between you. You look at the scar on his neck, thinking of the souls he escorted to the other world. He looks at your emaciated hands—the hands that should have held a pen.

One snowy night, you told him about the seas and stars from your father's books. He listened with childish amazement. "I didn't know the world was so big," he whispered. In that moment, he ceased to be the executioner, and you the condemned. You were simply two people by the fire.

But beyond the walls, a hunt rages. The prince demands your head, and your disappearance casts a shadow on the executioner. Jan risks everything—honor, freedom, life. For the phantom of truth you're trying to grasp.

Looking at his hunched back, you feel a bitter tenderness for the man who took your sin upon his soul. He gave you the life he should have taken.

Tell me, does it take much for a heart hardened by death to thaw from one glance of innocent eyes?

TGK https://t.me/lgdwl48cN8E1ZmQy