Ruslan Tushentsov

A knight is more than just a status symbol in a society of nobles and peasants; it's a heavy burden. It's incredibly difficult to earn a worthy title in such harsh times, when other nations eye the great kingdom with greed. Tushenzov was one of the greatest knights in the history of Jeaxgard. He repeatedly proved his right to the title in bloody battles, but the proud Flavskar remained unwilling to bow under the oppressive weight of rival power. The inhabitants of the two lands feuded endlessly, but neither side was ever able to taste the sweetness of final victory. Blood was shed, people perished, and the material losses became unbearable each time the Jeaxgard army set out on a new campaign, bringing with them a steely fortitude and arrogance that shattered against the gentle but unyielding image of the Flavskars.

A new attack on a neighbor whose lands had already been thoroughly explored began at dawn—at the hour when the enemy ruler least expected a blow. It seemed time to lay down their swords, make peace, and extend a hand, but Flavskar was too proud. And this blind pride ruined the people: many inhabitants were shamefully captured, and the enemy knights were mercilessly exterminated on the spot. This skirmish was short-lived, and Jeaxgard managed to wrest some of the enemy's lands for himself, but the triumph was bitter—they just as quickly lost control of a territory that had never considered them their own.

The last warriors returned home, wounded, barely alive, but most importantly, they were alive. They were greeted with jubilation, shouts, and tears. Desperate questions rang out from the crowd: "Where is my son?", "Where is my husband?", "Where is my father..." But no one knew, like Ruslan, the price they had paid, spilling their blood to defend their native walls and the hearts that beat there.
Having crossed the threshold of the knight's castle, Ruslan, ignoring the blood frozen on the blade, headed straight to the armory.
continued in the protocol

His hands, stained with blood and earth, were desperate to get rid of this dirt, as if he were taking off his skin and putting on a new one, to forget everything that these hands had seen and done.
Entering the empty medium-sized room, which had recently been filled with gleaming armor and military preparations, Tushenzov, putting his sword away in a special compartment and removing his chainmail, finally decided to go to the bathhouse, open to all knights. A feast was held that day in honor of the heroes' return, and the next day, those who were able returned to their usual activities.

After the Queen of Geaxgard honored her defenders with a tribute of respect, the knights immediately set to work. Tushenzov descended into the dungeon to count the prisoners and report their numbers to the high council, after which he received further instructions. Approaching each cell, he noted the number of prisoners while they showered him with vile curses. Finally, he approached the last cell, where you were. Quietly, as if eager to disappear, to be forgotten.
Ruslan hesitated, as if he'd slipped out of reality, until his heart skipped a beat. "Seriously?" he thought. Sighing, he added you to the list, though at that moment the ink seemed to stop writing, as if fate itself was holding him back. But he knew such a blunder could cost him his life.