They forced Oskar to his knees before Voivode Vetesky's chair. Why do they all look like fucking thrones? he wondered, lip curled in a half-snarl, half-sneer at the man who sat upon it. The so-called tsar, Laczlo Vilsky. What was the world coming to? Well, maybe it was always this way: cruel, corrupt, and broken. Oskar was betrayed by the only voivode he thought he could trust, but Vetesky was just another power-snatching snake. No, he was worse than that. He was a coward and an oathbreaker. Even Oskar hadn't sunk to such lows.

He shrugged off his minder's grip, scowling around the room, anger frothing up like white-capped waves in the storming sea. Rage bubbled in him, hot in his veins, behind his eyes, vision swimming with bloodlust. They were all complicit. Every last one of these bystander pricks, bitches of the new tsar, insider friends of the voivode, or even some of the merchants he'd been forced to borrow from. Steal from, more like. They watched on with expressions of antipathy, guarded confusion, or mistrust. As if they didn't know what to make of this. No, they had to know. They were just cowards for hiding under their covers and refusing to look.

"Oskar Koyzlov, boyar of Ltava," said Isak, that druzhina lapdog of Laczlo's. "Face your tsar."

He wanted to spit at the man's feet, maybe challenge him to a duel for his freedom, or even just rush him and fight his way out. How many were there anyway? He froze, still kneeling, jaw so tight it ached. Stanilo stood to Laczlo's other side, arms crossed, face stern and tight, eyes watching him closely. There was concern there. Oskar saw it. And, gods be his witness, maybe even fear.

He pulled his eyes away from his old friend and looked at Laczlo, the thought of fighting and running fading away like a bad dream in the harsh light of morning. What was the point?

The boy Oskar knew was now a man, wearing mail like a warrior and carrying the scars to prove it. He had his sword across his knees—the old tsar's blade, if Oskar remembered right—with one hand on the hilt and the other strumming the steel. Fuck, he even looked like a proper tsar these days. Indeed, what had the world come to?

Laczlo turned his head and nodded. To the side, Voivode Vetesky stepped forward, hands behind his back, standing straight and tall with the kind of authority you had to trust. Lying pig. Vetesky cleared his throat, having the gall to look disappointed. "Oskar Koyzlav, you've been charged with the high crimes of theft on a grand scale, conspiracy of collusion with the enemy, and treason. You attempted to steal away my druzhina for minor rebellion. They, of course, will be dealt with in time—"

"You lying whoreson!" Oskar shouted, rising from his knees, only to be forced down and cracked in the side with the butt of a spear. He coughed, hands braced on the cold ground, eyes watering from the pain, the indignation. "Don't you touch them! I'll rip out your godsdamned lungs like a pair of—"

"Silence, Oskar!" the voivode shouted. "Do not make this worse for yourself."

"Yeah? How can I? You're going to execute me on lies already, aren't you?"

The voivode stared at him threateningly. "You're a traitor of the realm, not once, not twice, but three times over. I believed a man could change, but my optimism was cruelly rewarded with betrayal—"

"Go fuck yourself." Oskar turned to the crowds. "He was planning to steal that silver, and you all know it! What am I, a sacrifice for your—"

The guard jabbed the sharp end of the spear into his back, shutting him up.

"Is this true, Voivode?" Laczlo asked, not even leaning forward with interest, uncaring.

"Great Tsar, we found silver hidden in his chambers, distributed among some of his men. I have testimony from many merchants who told of Oskar's visits, threatening them if they didn't submit to his exploitation, claiming it was in my name." He shook his head, lips bent in a frown so damningly genuine. The bastard was a born liar. "Yet I had reserves for this day. A loan was unnecessary for me. And running away with the proceeds? Pardon, but to where? The hand of Vasia reaches far, and I do not doubt our imperial might's ability to take these Free Cities with ease. No, Great Tsar, there is no shred of truth to his claim, and I am afraid none could possibly verify this traitor's lies."

Laczlo nodded and raised a hand from the blade to his chin, stroking it in some display of consideration. All a lie. "Is there no one who can verify Oskar Koyzlov's words? No one?"

Oskar looked up at Stanilo, but the man remained silent. Of course, how could he ask Stanilo to say something? What could he say? What could anyone say? He was screwed. Dead in the water, sinking to where he belonged.

They might be cowards, but so was he.

"I can," came a voice from the back of the chamber, throaty, out of breath, lovely, and yet the most horrifying thing he could possibly hear.

Gods, no, please, he turned despite the spear in his back and saw his wife, Milava, step into the empty stretch of the hall, people pulling back from her as if afraid of catching something. She strode forward with confidence… no, with indignation and determination. Black hair braided up, slightly windswept, fine clothes of a successful merchant, a little wrinkled. It was the look of someone who'd made a mad dash on horseback. Dammit, of course she'd figure it out.

Oskar tried shaking his head at her, catching her eye, whatever it took to tell her to leave, that spearpoint mighty sharp through his clothes. Vetesky was already going to kill Oskar and some of his men. If she earned too much of the voivode's ire, he might… She might…

He faced forward. "Please," he begged. "You promised me! You swore!"

"Enough," his guard hissed, spear drawing blood.

The tsar raised his hand. "Stop. Let the woman speak. What's your name?"

"I am Milava of Ltava, Owner of the Lunar Trading House, a loyal citizen of Vasia, boyaress, and Oskar Koyzlov's wife," she said, immediately igniting the room with surprised whispers.

Sure enough, their marriage had drawn attention, but it was a rushed thing, and people from outside Ltava might not have heard. He wanted her gone, far, far away from this. It would be hard enough for her to see him beheaded, but the thought of something happening to her… He wanted to collapse on the floor, he was hit with such a wave of dizzying fear and weakness.

Whatever his supposed courage and bravery in battle, this was something far more frightening.

Milava carried on anyway, courageous, unstoppable, and uncharacteristically naïve, "Boyar Koyzlov lacks the authority to demand a forced loan on any scale, let alone of every prominent merchant in Ltava. We would be fools to accept this without confirming with Voivode Vetesky that this came from a higher authority. Yet he claims ignorance until now?"

"I said no such thing," the voivode replied, voice almost breaking into a growl. Oskar didn't see it before, blind to it in his stupid, hopeful optimism. This was no man of forthright competence and quality, but just another conman with too much power. Every voivode was. "Oskar is a mercenary. I could not endanger the people of Ltava by forcing an armed conflict—"

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"Even if he allegedly stole your subjects' silver?"

"I waited until the time was optimal," he replied, then his brow wrinkled in annoyance. "You should pay proper respect to your voivode, woman."

Oh no.

Milava likely stiffened at that, chin raised in a challenge. And sure enough, though Oskar couldn't see her, it came through in her voice, "And you should think of a better lie to sell, Voivode. We received confirmation that this was a directive straight from you. Or do you deny this obvious fact as well?"

"Enough!" He marched forward, hand on his sword, not that he was any kind of warrior. But it didn't take training to strike down an unarmed merchant. "You disrespect Vasia with your belligerence. This is no open trial but an execution, but as it seems you are complicit in Oskar's lies, then perhaps you should join him!"

"No!" Oskar shouted, shoving his guard away, jumping to his feet. "You even so much as touch her—" Immediately, he was surrounded, and by force of arms and rough hands, he was brought down and shackled. Damn them all!

"More threats? Oh yes, that would fit your history, traitor." Vetesky turned to Laczlo, hands sweeping in grand gestures. "He has crossed you personally on multiple occasions, has he not, Great Tsar?"

Oskar couldn't read the man's face, vision blurry with tears as it was, everything swimming, but Laczlo did reply clearly, "He has."

"Then will you take such a man's word? His wife's word?" he asked, voice dripping with disgust and condescension. How had he lied so damn well before? "Or will you take mine? Your sworn voivode ready to commit to the field of the east? We have greater perils before us. Unity is important now more than ever, and this brute threatens it! Please, Great Tsar, let us move forward."

Oskar blinked away his tears. He had to see. He had to see what his executor would look like. He had to look the man in the eye. The one Oskar… The one Oskar betrayed all those years ago, ruining everything. He thought he was doing something right, back then, but was he? By all the gods and the Dead, what even was right? He swore not to hurt her. Did Oskar deserve to be forgiven? He swore as a husband!

Laczlo stared at him. Laczlo's expression was not of a scared, weak man-child but something different. Like the man he met in the cell, maybe even a little different. Colder. Harder.

Dammit, had Oskar truly been wrong to support this man's uncle over him, the rightful heir? Who could say how he'd turn out? How any of it would? Tsar of Vasia now, eh? he thought, almost ruefully, yet far too frightened to smirk at himself. Not too weak to rule after all, it seems. But was his regret just because Laczlo turned out strong? Or was it because breaking his oath was just the wrong thing to do? Did he regret his actions in principle or just a convenient consequence? Did it matter?

It had to. By all the gods, it had to.

Then, at last, Laczlo Vilsky spoke, "Is there anyone else here who would support Milava of Ltava's claims?"

"Tsar?" Vetesky asked, then catching himself and sounding almost genuine when he faced the crowds and echoed his lord's question. "Yes, is there anyone who would speak in favor of this woman? Of this man, knowing what he is?"

Silence. It stretched on for eternity.

Oskar closed his eyes.

Of course it will end like this. Not with rage and rebellion and violence, but with quiet surrender. He should have known. It was what a traitor like him deserved, after all. A killer like him.

It was justice.

"I do," came a voice.

Oskar craned to look back, and the guards didn't even stop him this time.

The first was immediately joined by a second. "So do I. She speaks the truth."

Milava's old partners! He thought they'd left for good, pissed and despising him. What was going on? Soon after, others began stepping forward, starting with a man he thought was Milava's main competitor. The room was quickly filled with half a dozen dissenters, all of whom stepped forward. People he spoke to in Ltava—merchants he figured hated his guts for prying away their coin. Even Gaiek and Pravez from Stent stepped forward, claiming he was too good a man to do as the voivode claimed. They said he fought alongside the people of Stent, faced Dead on his own. But he was just doing what any boyar should do. What did that have to do with anything? Druzhina he'd fought alongside, somehow not in captivity, swearing by his honor as a warrior.

My honor? He had none. He was a drifter, a mercenary, a traitor! Why would they lie? Why would they sacrifice themselves for someone like him? Horror and dread filled him with each new voice as if they raised their hands to condemn themselves. Didn't they know what they were doing?

Didn't they know who they were sacrificing themselves for?

"You all would lie on his behalf?" Vetesky called, sounding hurt. "What did he pay you?" He turned to Laczlo. "Great Tsar, this is clearly a coordinated conspiracy to ruin us in our time of weakness. Whether it be plots of the Free Cities or the Targul, it stinks of a scheme—"

Laczlo raised a hand, and the voivode quieted. He looked into Oskar's eyes, weighing, judging… deciding. But what? What was there possibly to decide?

And then he stood. "Oskar, born within the domain of Vilsi, of Koyzlov, boyar of Ltava, as Imperial Tsar of all of Vasia, I forgive you for your past crimes." The words were spoken heavily, each bearing the weight of something impossible. They struck Oskar with equal strength that he gasped, almost gagging as his gut twisted and chest tightened. The tsar approached him, sword held to the side. "Furthermore, I clear you of any accusations here today. The facts are clear, and the true criminal should be evident to all."

"Great Tsar, please," Vetesky pleaded to the side. "The Free Cities are a conniving, sinister—"

The tsar ignored him, standing over Oskar, looking down on him not with the malice he expected but with wet eyes. They carried pain. He knelt down so they were face-to-face and whispered, "I understand now, Oskar. I do."

"You took it, didn't you?" he asked in a whisper, despite his better judgment, words fleeing his lips. "The tsardom? You… broke oaths."

"I did."

"Because you had to."

Laczlo Vilsky nodded. "I thought so."

"Did it fix things?"

"No." He let out a long sigh. "But I won't let it be for nothing. I'm ready to move forward, but you need to promise me something."

"What?"

"You'll help me. We'll need all we can get in this war, Oskar. And the boyaress. Your wife. I need her running things. She gets as much a say as you do. Heed her advice."

"Fine. Sure. If it's someone else you want as boyar, I don't care."

"You've got it wrong, Oskar. As usual." Laczlo straightened and raised his voice as he placed the blade on Oskar's shoulder. "Oskar Koyzlov has brought us the head of the Overseer of Ermenik, prime supporter of the Free Cities' coalition against us. Ermenik has agreed to a stance of neutrality in the coming conflict, swearing oaths of fealty to Vasia."

What? He frowned in confusion, then shock, as it truly hit him. His attack worked. All those lost lives… They weren't wasted. By all the gods, old and new, he actually did it!

"For this and other acts of good conduct," Laczlo said, voice booming over the chamber, "I am raising Oskar Koyzlov to the title of Voivode of Vetera."

What? he thought again, eyes bulging.

"What?" Vetesky screamed.

"As for you…" The tsar turned, glaring down at the voivode, who shirked back, the charade fading quickly. "Come forth and kneel."

…

He stood before Voivode Vetesky, who was forced to kneel on the ground much like Oskar was, crying tears of disbelief and blubbering excuses. How could he have almost convinced Laczlo of this lie? This pathetic creature? All resolve dissipated like smoke in the wind, the stench of a battlefield clear given enough time and distance.

"I bear responsibility for this failure," Laczlo said to all the people staring on. Voivodes, commanders, druzhina, boyars… There were many here observing this madness, and he had to set it right. Even Vida was there, in the back, eyes on him, watching almost incredulously. Would she approve of his sentimentality? Did he care? He looked at Oskar, held by his wife, her inspecting Laczlo with satisfaction, Oskar with a shock that hadn't yet settled.

"This is my charge as Tsar," he continued, voice almost cracking. "But I am not perfect. I am a flawed man, as imperfect as any, and yet I am trying… Trying to be better, to be stronger. To be a tsar to live up to what you all deserve. More than a Warrior Prince or a rebel-slayer. By the grace of the gods, of Deus, of the tsars before me, of my ancestors and yours, I promise you that. I serve the Imperial Tsardom as much as you serve me. And I swear an oath, before all of you, my voivodes, my boyars, my druzhina, my good people of Vasia, that I will lead with honor, dignity, and justice." The words were hard to get out, but he managed. Not dissimilar to the oath he'd sworn when first becoming tsar, but more honest, empowered with emotion.

Laczlo looked down at the traitor before him, cowardly, unlike the honorable voivode Kolomsa, who argued for his people upon the field outside his besieged, doomed city. A good man slain unjustly. Laczlo was not a leader of justice that day, but he could be better.

He could be more.

Laczlo raised his sword to the man's cries, his begging of mercy, as the voivode was forced further down by Isak and Stanilo, neck bared to the ceiling. "For your treason, Voivode Vetesky, your life is forfeit. And without direct heirs, your title is mine, bestowed upon the one you betrayed. This is my justice." He brought the blade down as hard as he could.

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