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Chapter Text

Winter in Bohemia laid a white and silent blanket over the fields and forests, concealing the world beneath a cloak of deceptive peace. A profound silence that whispered icy secrets to those who dared to listen. Riding side by side, Sir Hans Capon and Sir Henry of Skalitz advanced along the road hidden beneath the snow. The jingle of their horses’ bridles echoed like distant bells in the frozen vastness, a lonely melody for a pair who were, in themselves, a complete universe.

The invitation from Sir John of Liechtenstein had been an unexpected ray of light, a Christmas refuge far from the prying eyes of Rattay and all the little towns they had traversed. A promise of human warmth in the midst of a cold that seemed to consume the world. For Henry, each falling snowflake was like a piece of his soul adapting to the happiness of being once more beside his beloved, a frozen pardon melting in the heat of their reunion. For Hans, the immaculate landscape was the perfect setting to strengthen what his own arrogance had almost destroyed, a white palimpsest upon which they could rewrite the story of their love.

The air smelled of pine and frozen earth, a sharp, clean fragrance that cut the lungs like a blade of ice. The world seemed to have stopped, suspended in time, awaiting them, holding its breath to witness their reunion.

Hans and Henry were now errant knights, metallic ghosts wandering dusty roads and shadowy trails, shadows dancing in the light of their own private campfire. They traveled paths, taking on small tasks, helping those in need for a handful of coins or any small thing of value. They lived by their own code of honor, a silent oath sealed more with kisses than with words, a pact written not on parchment, but on the map of scars and memories each carried on his skin and in his soul.

They helped even those who could not pay, and when those who could demanded something vile, they charged exorbitant prices, a tribute for their very souls, a ransom for a darkness they refused to touch. No task was beneath them. Once, Henry rescued a lost sheep from a cliff, his heart beating in time with the animal’s desperate bleating. Hans, on another occasion, slaughtered a pack of boars terrorizing a village, his sword a whirlwind of steel under a leaden sky. An old woman asked for help cleaning her well, and Hans, upon inspection, stated with a sigh of frustration that there was nothing to clean, for the well was dry to the bottom. Henry once dueled for the honor of a young girl deflowered against her will, seized by a smoldering fire of rage that burned hotter than any hearth. Hans obtained justice for a father murdered by a chicken thief, his judicial coldness frightening even his allies in the town guard. But they never fought as mercenaries. Their days of war, pain, and perdition were behind them, buried in the same soil that had once drunk so much blood.

All Hans wanted now was a cozy inn, a crackling fireplace, and a plate of hot food not made by his own clumsy hands. At the inns, he would ask with a theatrical seriousness that hid a private delight for a room with two beds, and would feign profound disappointment when the innkeeper announced, with a shrug, that only a room with a single large bed remained.

"You shall have to sleep on the floor tonight, Sir Henry. A pity, for the straw seems particularly damp," he would say, the corner of his lips trembling with a suppressed laugh that lit his eyes like beacons in the dark night.

Henry, playing along with the solemnity of a young squire, would reply that a bit of hay was all he needed to dream of angels. In reality, of course, he slept entangled with the other knight, his face buried in the nobleman's flaxen-gold hair, breathing his scent of cheap soap, horse, and something inherently Hans, an aroma that was to him the smell of home.

They did not hide who they were, but neither did they shout it from the rooftops. Their language was made of touches too brief to be casual, of prolonged glances that defied time, of private smiles that eclipsed the sun itself. The world, in its haste and naivety, saw what it wished to see: a brotherhood-in-arms, a loyalty as fierce as that of ancient heroes like Achilles and Patroclus, or the Kings of France and England, Philip II and Richard the Lionheart, who shared a bed and a battlefield. It was a convenient façade, a fairy tale they themselves wove for protection, a castle of glass built in the air, beautiful and fragile.

Their heavy winter clothes, made of dense, adorned wool, wearied even their horses on the journey to the distant town. They stopped in a nook sheltered by a ravine, where the snow was less deep, almost like a natural grotto the winter had transformed into an intimate sanctuary. Pebbles and Caballus nibbled at the half-dead pasture under the white mantle, their breath forming ghostly clouds in the air, ephemeral little spirits of the cold. Henry had leaned against the gnarled trunk of a willow, arranging his supplies with agile hands that knew every piece of leather and metal, every groove left by battle and labor. He knew they had enough for the short journey remaining to Vyšší Brod.

The snow fell strangely, in large, lazy flakes, landing on Hans's upturned face as he stared at the opaque sky like one thanking the heavens, every day, for the simple miracle of being alive and loved. Henry found the scene one of such raw, vulnerable beauty that a pang of love, fierce and strong, tightened his chest, a sweet and necessary pain. He approached and softly touched the blond's face, the icy skin under his rough fingers a contrast that was the essence of them. He brushed off a flake that stubbornly refused to melt on Hans's forehead and kissed the spot, a seal of warmth against the cold, an exorcism against all the demons of the past.

Hans was pleased, an easy smile lighting his face, and returned the gesture, kissing the tip of Henry's cold nose. "What do you think we should do?" the blond knight asked, his voice a murmur meant only for the two of them, lost in the whisper of the wind.

"I think at the very least, Liechtenstein should know the truth. If they decide to burn us, he could be accused of complicity," Henry replied, his serious eyes fixed on Hans's, seeking in them the same courage he felt pulsing in his own veins.

"Whatever you think best. My Christmas spirit is ready to face the pyre for you if need be," said Hans, with a bravado that could not hide a core of true dedication, a loyalty that transcended his title and his lands.

"At least in those fancy clothes, you'll catch fire quickly," Henry jested, smoothing the velvet collar of Hans's heavy woolen doublet, feeling the soft fabric under his fingers, a luxury that once symbolized the distance between them and was now just part of the man he loved.

"Idiot, that's no way to speak to your lord," Hans retorted, but the affection in the word was as palpable as the cold in the air, a term of endearment weighted with unconditional love.

“Forgive me, milord. Perhaps there is some way I can make amends for my poor behavior?”.

They kissed then. Something tender, caring, gentle, yet charged with a deep desire and a need that was the secret driving force of their world. It was a flame amid the blizzard, a fire warming the cold night, something that kept their hearts from stopping. Henry, in some remote corner of his mind, still compared Hans's touches to that one special night with Sir Bartosch, not from longing, but like a connoisseur appraising a rare piece, always seeking to refine the other's technique, to make his handsome devil ever more irresistible, more uniquely his. Henry's hands wandered over Hans's torso, slipping beneath the layers of wool and linen, seeking the warm skin. His icy touch made the blond shudder, a tremor running down his spine, before he broke the contact with a laugh that echoed in the silent valley.

"We really must press on. Otherwise, we'll arrive only next year," said Hans, his voice slightly husky, laden with an unspoken promise for later.

Henry nodded, a sigh of resignation escaping his lips, and they returned to their horses, heading for the horizon that swallowed the road. The minimal distance between them and their mounts was filled by a force field of mutual understanding, a silent energy that bound them together even when apart. The horses' hooves sank with each step into the dense snow, in a slow, hypnotic rhythm. The world was different from this perspective, reduced to white, to silence, and to each other's presence, a glorious simplicity.

*****

Four days later, the blizzard was but a memory. From afar, they finally caught a glimpse of the town of Vyšší Brod, covered in a thick, untouched layer of snow like a cake dusted with sugar under the weak winter sun.

Hans broke into a wide, genuine smile. "Do you think we'll see your brother at this party?"

Henry looked at him, a shadow of surprise and nostalgia crossing his face. "I hadn't thought of that. It wouldn't be bad to see Samuel again. Liechtenstein said nothing in his letter?"

"Nothing. Only that he's throwing a small party for his closest friends. And that the food he offers will be better than mine," replied Hans, shrugging. "And that we'll have to endure his terrible Austrian jokes. He's still fixated on calling me the Prince of Poachers. Can you believe it?"

Henry laughed, remembering when his lord and beloved had almost lost his life poaching. “Sounds like something Liechtenstein would say,” he whispered in a teasing tone.

The town was, in truth, a small fiefdom run by a few families of wealthy merchants. Despite the biting cold, a feverish energy pulsed through its veins. Caravans and traders poured in from all sides, offering everything from exotic spices to fine cloths, goods the knights neither wanted nor could afford. Sweating men, faces flushed from effort and cold, were paid to clear the snow from the central square, shoveling load after load of that dense, frozen water. The cold was less intense there, in the heart of the commercial fervor, dissipated by the heat of bodies and trade.

Hans couldn't resist the insistence of an old woman, wrinkled like a fruit dried for too long, and ended up buying a green apple, which the woman insisted would bring true love within seven days. The blond smiled after the first sour, reviving bite and offered the rest to Henry. "Here. Its true love ought to arrive with mine," he said, with a mischievous glint in his eyes.

Henry laughed, a clear sound lost in the hubbub of the square, and accepted the apple, biting it directly from the other's hand. The intimate, unpretentious gesture initially shocked the old woman, her jaw dropping in astonishment. Henry, after swallowing, smiled at her with calculated innocence. "My lord is fond of these... unconventional jests. But what won't we do to humor these brat lords?" The lie, smooth and gentle, calmed the woman, who rolled her eyes with a mutter about the eccentricity of nobility. They then set off in search of information.

“Someone must know where the house of Sir John of Liechtenstein is,” Hans was certain of it.

But the name was strange to most merchants and residents. Henry described the man: tall, broad-shouldered, light brown hair, and a gaze that seemed to see right through you. Nothing. Frustration was beginning to set in when a familiar face emerged from the crowd like a rosebud in a field of snow. A sweet, intelligent smile illuminated her face as she called out: "Henry! I can't believe you're here. What mad journey brought you to this place?"

It was Rosa. Rosa Ruthard. She was the very essence of contrast. Her hair was the color of fire and amber, braided with finest silver threads that shimmered under the weak winter light as if made of ice and light itself. Her eyes, a blue-ice so pale they seemed almost translucent, observed the world with a sharp, somewhat detached intelligence, like one analyzing a rare specimen, a queen contemplating her kingdom of snow. She wore a heavy dress of dark green velvet, simple but well-cut, trimmed with sheep's wool, which accentuated the porcelain pallor of her skin.

Around her neck was a golden necklace with a pendant in the shape of a rose, made of pure gold. At her waist, a thin leather belt held a small bag of intricate embroidery and a dagger with a mother-of-pearl hilt—not an ornament, but a tool. In her hand, she carried a small, thick book, bound in dark leather with brass clasps. Thesaurus Pauperum by Peter of Spain, a rare and dangerously progressive work for a woman.

Hans was initially surprised, not by her beauty, which was undeniable, but by the air of cultured seriousness she emanated, an aura that went far beyond that of a wealthy merchant's daughter. She was the very legend that traveled the roads: the Ice Maiden who had refused one rich suitor after another, from Prague and other great cities of the kingdom, leaving them livid, horrified with hatred. The legends said she would decline, with glacial calm, saying that "if she wished, she could find better than gold." They called her the Ice Queen, unattainable, desired by all.

As Henry explained the invitation from Sir John, Rosa maintained constant physical contact with him. Her gloved hand held Henry's arm with a familiarity bordering on possession, clinging like a barnacle to the hull of a ship. Hans watched, visibly annoyed, her fingers resting on Henry's doublet. He knew she had once nurtured an intense passion for the young man, a passion that Henry himself, with his clumsy kindness, had eventually discouraged without ever truly hurting her. But Hans also knew, from bitter experience, that the human heart is stubborn, and that girls, especially the intelligent and determined ones, could be as insistent as the tide, attacking a rock daily, for centuries, until it yields to the sea.

"And you?" Henry inquired, changing the subject. "What brings you here?"

"My father," she replied, and for the first time, her tone lost some of that crystalline vivacity, gaining a metallic, cold note. "He decided to negotiate with some local goldsmiths. His business brought him to town so often he ended up buying a house. Which was a great surprise, considering how tight-fisted he is." The comment was made with an analytical coldness, devoid of any filial warmth.

Henry, curious, indicated the book. "And this? Some new passion?"

Rosa smiled, and this time the smile reached her eyes, melting the ice for an instant. "In part. I am to be betrothed to a local artist. A cultured boy, who worships me like no other. This," she raised the book, "is a gift from him. Radek says I should study the secrets of the world, for a mind like mine must not be confined to domestic papers. He says we are destined to be a couple of artists who will conquer the world."

“A revolutionary gift, despite being a book written by a pope,” pondered Hans, still fascinated by the young woman's hand on Henry's arm.

Henry seemed impressed. "He sounds like a remarkable man."

"And he truly is," she agreed, and then, with a lightness that sounded deliberate, turned the question back: "And you? Is there finally some special girl in your life, Henry?"

Henry did not hesitate. A gentle, genuine smile illuminated his face. "There is one, yes. Stubborn as a mule, bossy as a noble lady, who can't cook or wash to save her own life. But by God, she is so beautiful, so exquisitely delicate, and has such a captivating voice... I cannot resist being near her." His eyes met Hans's for a fraction of a second, a private message in a code only they knew. The blond blushed, looking away at his feet, a whirlwind of pride and embarrassment agitating his heart.

Rosa seemed genuinely pleased. "How wonderful. I should love to meet her one day. A woman worthy of Henry of Skalitz's heart must be someone truly worthy of respect. Someone out of the ordinary." Her acceptance was swift and total, without a trace of residual jealousy, only a genuine intellectual curiosity.

Before Henry could say anything more that might give them away, Hans interjected, forcing a farewell. "Rosa, a pleasure, but we must find..."

"...the house of Sir John of Liechtenstein?" she completed, with the air of one who holds all the secrets of the game. "Of course. It is indeed hard to find. He is a cunning rat, hidden well in plain sight. Come, I'll show you the way."

She guided them through side streets to an imposing yet discreet mansion hidden behind a high stone wall. The atmosphere changed; the market's bustle gave way to a respectful silence, broken only by the crunch of their footsteps in the snow. They stopped before the door, smiles were exchanged, and Rosa made to leave.

"Until later," said Henry in farewell. "I'd like to meet your intended as soon as possible."

Rosa nodded, a quick blush touching her cheeks. "By the New Year, certainly. After all," she added, with a glint in her eyes that was not of joy, but of pure intellectual anticipation, "we shall see each other at the party later. My father was invited. All the great merchants were." She then bid farewell with a formal kiss on each of Henry's cheeks, a touch of ice against his warm skin, and a perfect, but distant, curtsy for Hans. Then, she turned and walked back alone, her slender, upright figure disappearing into the whiteness of the street like a determined ghost.

Hans looked displeased at Henry as soon as she was gone. “I know she was useful, but…”

"Not a word about it.” Henry laughed, softly. “You know perfectly well which of us truly fancies the town girls."

Hans pretended to be offended, and in response, gave a firm, resounding slap to Henry's backside, right in front of two laborers stacking wood in a side alley. The men looked up, surprised, but then shrugged and returned to their work. After all, it was just another eccentric behavior from lords. Hans's hand left a warm mark on Henry's skin, even through all the layers of clothing.

*****

The interior of Sir John of Liechtenstein's mansion was a total contrast. The exterior cold was abruptly replaced by a wave of heat that smelled of pine, beeswax, mulled wine with spices, and the sweet aroma of gingerbread fresh from the oven. The clamor of the guests, perhaps thirty or forty, filled the great hall with an animated buzz. Liechtenstein saw them enter and made his way through the crowd with the natural authority of a commander, his face lit by a genuine smile. He exuded a sweet, smooth air, as if the world around him were merely a pastime.

"Finally!" he boomed, embracing first Hans and then Henry with a strength that surprised them both. "Sires, you are late! The festivities began days ago!" His eyes scanned them, taking in the road dust and the weariness on their faces. "A room has been prepared for you upstairs," he said, and there was a veiled insinuation in his voice, a thread of complicity that did not go unnoticed. "And a tub of hot water, should you wish to wash off the grime of your journey before joining all these people."

“I thought it was only for your closest friends, Liechtenstein?” questioned Hans in a playful tone.

“When we seek something, everyone becomes our closest friend, Lord Capon.” Sir John of Liechtenstein whispered with an air of complicity. “I thought you knew that by now.”

After the wordplay, so traditional among noble lords, Hans and Henry accepted the offer of a hot bath with gratitude.

*****

The wooden tub, placed in a room adjoining their quarters, was large enough for two, and the steam rising from it smelled of herbs, lavender, and perhaps a touch of rosemary. The water was almost scalding, an indescribable luxury. Their clothes, wet from melted snow and grime, formed a pile on the stone floor, and the knights slid into the water with groans of pure pleasure. Henry leaned back against the curved side, the heat seeping into his travel-weary body. Facing him, Hans smiled, his blond hair darkened by moisture and plastered to his forehead.

The heat was a balm to aching muscles. Their hands found each other beneath the cloudy water, fingers interlacing from opposite sides of the tub. The cold air of the room contrasted with the steam, creating an intimate mist around them, a private Avalon. Thick clouds of vapor rose, filling the small bathhouse with a damp, woody scent.

"That Rosa..."Hans began, tilting his head back against the rim and closing his eyes. "You truly never...?"

"Never," Henry confirmed, his voice a hoarse murmur. "You know of everyone I've lain with. Bianca, Theresa, Bartosch..."

Hans opened one eye. "You've forgotten the handsomest and most gallant knight, Sir Hans Capon."

Henry laughed, a low, relaxed sound.

They continued their bath calmly, scrubbing each other's bodies with the luxurious soap Sir John had provided. Though Henry was tranquil, Hans could not hide his excitement, nibbling at the other knight's torso, provoking him with touches and light scratches. Henry could not stop comparing him to the exotic feline from the previous autumn. "Two magnificent creatures, exemplars of the Lord's perfect work," thought the young man from Skalitz.

"You still smell of the road and horse, Henry," Hans teased, his voice a low rumble.

"And you smell like a lady of the night's purse, my lord," Henry retorted, a tired smile playing on his lips. "Nothing but rosewater and the purest arrogance."

Hans laughed again, a joyful, genuine sound, and in a quick movement, splashed a handful of water directly into Henry's face, droplets clinging to his lips.

Henry sputtered, shaking his head and sending water flying. "You idiot!" He instantly retaliated, cupping his hands and throwing water back at Hans, who laughed even louder, shielding his face with his forearm.

The playful battle escalated, water sloshing over the sides of the tub, drenching their hair and beading on their faces. They were two knights reduced to boys, the weight of their titles and armor left at the door. Hans, with a mischievous glint in his blue eyes, launched one last, precise jet that hit Henry square on the mouth, silencing his laughter. For a moment, they just breathed heavily, chests rising and falling, the only sounds the dripping water and their own harsh breaths. The air changed. The playful energy dissolved, replaced by a thick, palpable tension. Hans's gaze settled on Henry's still-wet lips. The brunet's eyes were fixed on Hans's, seeking the next move.

Hans moved first. He leaned forward slowly, the water shifting around his torso. He said nothing, merely closed the small distance between them and pressed his lips to Henry's. It was not a kiss of conquest or haste. It was warm. Slow. A deep, penetrating connection that felt more like a homecoming. Henry's eyes closed, his hands rising to cradle Hans's jaw, his thumbs stroking the damp skin of his cheeks. His taste was pure, mingled with a faint remnant of apple.

Their mouths moved together with a practised ease that spoke of hidden moments stolen on battlefields, in silent forest clearings, on that last journey to Vyšší Brod. It was a kiss that said, "I know you. I am yours." They lost themselves in that kiss, the world outside the steaming bathhouse slowly ceasing to exist.

When they finally parted, both were breathless. Hans rested his forehead against Henry's shoulder, a sweet, but mischievous, laugh escaping him. "God, I would do anything to hear that laugh every day of my life," Henry thought, immersed in that shared moment. It always awakened something deep within the brunet, reminding him of safety, of the small cabin in Rattay, of the good times they had shared there. "Perhaps we should give that life another chance," he pondered, lost in the deep blue of the other's eyes.

Hans's touch was like that laugh, familiar and comforting. His hands, calloused from fencing and archery, slid from Henry's face, down his neck, over the firm muscles of his shoulders. The touch was a reclamation, a slow exploration of a territory that was already his. His palms caressed Henry's chest, brushing over his nipples, making him draw a sharp breath. Then, under the water, those confident hands slid lower, over the tense surface of his stomach, through the coarse hair that led south.

Henry's own cock, which had been hardening since the kiss began, was now fully rigid and throbbing. Hans's fingers closed around it, and Henry's head fell back with a moan. Hans's grip was firm, knowing exactly how to stroke him, his thumb sliding over the slick head that breached the waterline.

"I have an idea," Hans murmured, his voice rough against Henry's ear. "A terrible idea, mind you."

Before Henry could formulate a question or a protest, Hans sank beneath the water.

The world became a silent, liquid blur. Henry could only feel. He gripped the rough, splintered edge of the wooden tub, his knuckles turning white. The hot water swirled around him, but it was nothing compared to the heat of Hans's mouth. He felt impossibly soft lips encircling the head of his cock. A tongue, broad and wet, licked a firm stripe from base to tip. Then Hans took him deeper, even while fully submerged.

Henry cried out, the sound echoing in the small chamber. The sensation was blinding. The water created a unique pressure, a warm, fluid resistance that made the suction of Hans's mouth even more intense. Hans's head broke the surface, just for a second, before start up and down movements. His moves creating gentle currents that lapped at Henry's belly. The Skalitz boy could feel every movement of that talented tongue against the most sensitive parts of his shaft, the gentle scrape of teeth, the way Hans's throat opened to accept him.

Just as Henry thought he might explode from the excitement, Hans surfaced with a gasp, water streaming from his hair and face. He drew a deep breath, his lips swollen and red, his eyes dark with lust. He stared at Henry for one thrilling second, a wicked smile on his face, before diving down again.

This time, he went deeper, his nose buried in the brown hair at the base of Henry's length.

Henry could feel the head pressing against the back of Hans's throat, and the subsequent swallow was an erotic, muscular ripple that milked his length. Henry's hips bucked involuntarily, driving him even deeper into that wet, delicious heat. Moans were torn from him, raw and unfiltered. He arched his back, offering himself more fully to Hans's devoted mouth, his mind empty of everything but the building pressure.

Hans worked him with a relentless, passionate rhythm. Up for air, a gasped breath, a look of pure hunger, then down again to devour him. Each descent was a fresh shock of pleasure that reverberated through the water like a storm. Henry could only surrender, his body trembling, his grip on the tub the only thing anchoring him to reality. He was hurtling towards his peak, each pull of Hans's mouth bringing him closer to the edge.

Hans surfaced again, panting, water dripping from his chin.

"I want to feel you spill down my throat," he growled, his voice ragged.

Hans didn't wait for an answer. With a hunger that stole Henry's breath, he broke the surface again, his lips sealing around Henry's cock once more. He went deep again, swallowing Henry's entire length. The water muffled everything except the sound of Henry's ragged breathing and the faint, wet buzz of Hans's mouth stimulating him, forming small bubbles on the water's surface.

Henry's hands flew to Hans's head, his fingers tangling in the soaked blond strands. He held on as if the world might come undone without that anchor. His hips began to rock forward in shallow thrusts, driven by instinct, seeking the heat of Hans's mouth. The sensation was overwhelming, a firm, pulsing suction around his member. It was too much, and yet he wanted more. Hans did not relent. His head bobbed rhythmically, taking every inch of Henry without hesitation. The water churned around them, adding to the sensory chaos, and Henry felt himself teetering on the brink. When Hans gripped his buttocks and sucked with all his might, the pressure became unbearable.

"Hans... I..." Henry's warning was cut short by a sharp cry as his release hit him like a thunderclap. His body went rigid, his hips jerking forward as his seed poured into Hans's willing throat. The pleasure was blinding, an incandescent wave that left him gasping and shuddering.

Hans stayed under, swallowing in voracious gulps, his hands still gripping Henry's hips to hold him steady. Only when Henry's cock softened did he finally emerge, water streaming down his face, his lips swollen and shining. He looked at Henry with an expression so tender it made Henry's chest ache.

Without a word, Hans kissed Henry's lips softly, and the shared taste mingled between them. Then, he wrapped his arms around Henry, pulling him into a tight embrace. The water lapped gently around them, the steam enveloping them in warmth as they held each other, hearts beating in unison. In that moment, nothing else existed but the two of them and the silent comfort of their love.

"We should go," Henry murmured, though his arms tightened around Hans as if contradicting his own words. "Liechtenstein is waiting for us."

The nobleman groaned softly, nuzzling into the curve of Henry's neck, his warm breath against damp skin. "Just one more minute," he pleaded, his voice low and sweet. "Let him wait."

Henry sighed, but there was no real resistance in him. He wondered, "how could I deny Hans when we're wrapped up like this?" The heat of the water, the steady rise and fall of Hans's chest against his, the lingering scent of lavender and sweat—it was all too easy to let the outside world fade. One minute became five, then ten, until the crackling fire in the corner died down and the steam hung lighter in the air.

Their bodies fit together so naturally, as if carved from the same wood. Hans's hands traced lazy patterns on Henry's back, fingertips brushing over muscles, while Henry's fingers curled into Hans's damp hair. They did not speak. They didn't need to. The silence between them was filled with unspoken truths, with gratitude for this stolen hour.

When Henry finally stirred, it was with reluctance. "They'll send a search party if we don't appear," he said softly, though he made no move to pull away.

Hans chuckled quietly, the sound vibrating against Henry's chest. "Let them search. I'd rather stay here forever."

"You wouldn't last a day," Henry teased, though his voice was laden with affection. "You'd miss the wine and the feasts."

"True," Hans admitted with a smile, planting a lingering kiss on Henry's collarbone. "But I'd survive on just you if I had to. My personal milk-cow."

Henry laughed, a deep, rumbling sound that mingled with Hans's softer chuckle. Reluctantly, they disentangled themselves, the cold air hitting their skin as they rose from the tub. Their movements were slow, deliberate, as if neither wanted to sever the invisible thread still binding them. As they dressed, their eyes met, and Henry felt that familiar warmth bloom in his chest. A few hours were not enough, but they were theirs—a secret pocket of time where the world waited, and they simply existed.

*****

The hall was a whirlwind of colour, sound, and motion. The wealth of John's family was palpable, not in ostentation, but in the silent quality of everything: from the Flemish tapestries that drank the light to the silver jugs brimming with dark wine, from the musical instruments played by skilled hands to the food itself, a veritable feast for the eyes and the palate.

The blond knight found himself wondering, not for the first time, how a man of such obvious wealth and influence could remain so utterly unknown to the majority of the town. He focused on the conversations around him, trying to sate his own curiosity. Henry was never more than a step away, within touching distance. They exchanged glances, complicit, a silent code forged for emergencies. Henry smiled and winked, a quiet signal that all was well.

It was then that Henry spotted Samuel, his half-brother. A smile of pure, unguarded happiness illuminated his features. His brother was conversing by the great fireplace, where flames danced in a fierce rhythm, with an elderly, pompous lady who observed him with the indiscreet curiosity of one who had likely never seen a Jew before. Spotting Henry, Sam excused himself with a graceful nod and made his way through the guests. "Bruder!" he called out, the Hebrew word for 'brother' cutting through the murmur.

The brothers embraced. It was a clasp of a familial nature, something only brothers could share. When they parted, both still smiling, Henry asked, "What are you doing here?"

"Accompanying Liechtenstein. He asked for my help in a delicate matter," Sam replied, his reticent gaze a half-open door that refused to shut completely.

Henry looked at him, a silent question hanging in the air between them. Sam did not hurry to reveal more, letting the silence speak for itself. After a moment, however, his face softened into a smile, and he gave his brother's shoulder an affectionate pat.

"You're a knight now, Hal. Liechtenstein told me."

"Yes," Henry confirmed with a quiet pride. "Sir Hans knighted me in Skalitz last autumn. I still await the written confirmation from Prague, but before God and all men, I am a knight."

"Sir Henry of Skalitz," Sam tested the sound of the name in the air. "It suits you, bruder. But does this mean I must bow or some such thing?"

Henry laughed, a low, comforting sound. "I think we can safely forgo that, always."

Seizing the moment of familiarity, Henry lowered his voice to a more intimate tone. "And Christmas? You here, in this Christian celebration... isn't it strange for you?"

Sam shrugged, a gesture of sweet resignation. "It is the price of shalom bayit," he said, the Hebrew term for 'peace in the home'. "Sometimes, we stay silent about small things so we can speak loudly about the things that truly matter. For mishpacha." He finished with the word for 'family', his understanding smile laden with a layer of meaning only the two of them could comprehend.

Across the hall, Hans found solace in the drinks, sipping from a goblet of wine, heavy with the scent of ginger and cinnamon. Musings on the exorbitant cost of it all wandered through his mind. His attention was captured by the great tree in the centre of the hall, an impeccable pine adorned with shimmering candles and gilded nuts, as the oldest German traditions dictated. This mansion was a discreet palace, this party a private gathering of the local elite—the magistrate, the guard commander, wealthy merchants, an abbot or two—and yet its walls seemed to guard their secrets with avarice. His concentration was broken by the silent arrival of Sir John.

"I see your eyes wandering," said John, his own goblet held firmly. "Asking silent questions. Tell me, Lord Capon, what is passing through that gilded head of yours?"

Hans confided his doubts. How was Sir John capable of throwing a party of such scale, filled with what seemed the cream of local society, and yet remain a virtual stranger beyond his own walls? What was all this? A coup? A spy mission? An intricate plot?

Sir John smiled, visibly pleased by the shrewdness. "Finally, someone with a bit of true wit in this land. Tonight, we enjoy ourselves. Tomorrow, we talk. Perhaps I have a service for two errant knights. Something that might interest men who... understand the need for certain refuges." There was a deliberate weight in those last words, an insinuation that made Hans raise an intrigued eyebrow.

But Hans smiled in return. A smile of malicious calculation, from one who savours the sweet taste of stepping into the heart of a conspiracy.

*****

Later, Henry found himself surrounded. A flock of merchants' daughters, dressed like peacocks in full display, had cornered him near the fireplace. They were like elegantly plumed vultures, circling their prey, waiting to scavenge a morsel of attention. Each one touched a part of him—an arm, the sleeve of his doublet, the scabbard of his sword—pleading in shrill, artificial voices for a tale of adventure.

"A newly appointed knight! How thrilling!" said one.

Henry was courteous by nature, but a mute desperation was beginning to take hold. It was then, amidst the siege, that his gaze met Hans's from across the room. And he made the signal. The distress signal, a mute plea for an urgent rescue. He raised his arm, passed a hand behind his ear, and scratched his neck, as if bothered by an insect bite.

Hans smiled, the smile of a predator sighting cornered prey, and approached with the deliberate calm of a great cat.

"Excuse me, ladies," he said, his voice projecting over their collective chirping. "But Sir Henry and I have matters of chivalry to attend to. Questions of swords and honour. I promise I shall find you later and recount the tale of how Sir Henry of Skalitz found himself stuck in a quicksand pit up to his neck."

"That was you, Sir Hans!" retorted Henry, with well-practised indignation.

The girls laughed, a crystalline, empty titter, but they dispersed, attracted by some other shiny object across the hall.

"A true lifesaver," murmured Henry, once they were alone in a relatively quiet corner.

"You know," said Hans, closing the distance between them until the sleeves of their doublets almost touched. "I made a round earlier. I found a little-used pantry, down in the depths. Isolated. Away from curious servants." His voice was a thread of silk, an invitation. "If you wish, I could show you. I thought you might need... to relax a little."

"I definitely need to relax," said Henry, feeling his stomach leap with anticipation.

*****

Discreetly, the nobleman led the way, descending a side stairway of stone that plunged into the earth. The atmosphere changed instantly; heat and light gave way to a cool penumbra that smelled of damp earth, wine aged in oak barrels, and cured meats. The corridor was narrow and seemingly forgotten by time. Hans opened a heavy wooden door and pulled Henry inside the welcoming darkness.

The pantry was small, crammed with sacks of flour, barrels, and hams hanging from the low ceiling. They could barely see each other inside. The air was thick with the sweet, earthy smell of fermentation and spices.

Hands found each other in the gloom, anxious, hungry. Skin on skin, finally. Hans's lips began on Henry's neck, then his jaw, finally finding his mouth in a collision of pent-up desire. The nobleman's hands started on Henry's hips, rising to his torso, finally coming to rest, both, on his neck, thumbs caressing his jawline with a familiarity that stole his breath. The kiss grew more intense, more urgent. Henry reversed their positions, pushing Hans against the wall, making the provisions rattle softly on the shelves. With his hands still on Henry's neck, Hans gently scratched the skin and hair at his nape, a possessive gesture that drew a low moan from Henry against his mouth.

But then, Henry felt something strange. "If Hans's hands are on my neck... who is squeezing my right buttock?"

"Who's there?" he asked in a breathless whisper, breaking the kiss.

An electric shock ran through their entangled bodies. Hans, with a combat reflex, shoved Henry aside and lunged at the shadow moving in a darker corner of the pantry. The brunet, his heart pounding uncontrollably in his chest, went to the door and opened a crack, letting in a faint ray of light from the corridor.

The light revealed a scene of pure absurdity. Hans had immobilized a man against the shelves, an arm pressed to his throat. Another man stood frozen beside him, his trousers pooled around his ankles, an expression of petrified terror on his face. Henry recognized them instantly. The man restrained by Hans was his brother, Samuel. The other was Sir John of Liechtenstein.

For a second, the world stopped. Henry took in the scene—the four men, clothes dishevelled, trapped in a dark pantry—and a wave of absurd disbelief washed over him. He let out a laugh, a muffled, incredulous sound that echoed in the cramped room.

Hans, still holding Samuel, heard the laugh and looked at Henry. His fierce expression dissolved into a mixture of perplexity and barely contained amusement. He too began to laugh, a rough sound, releasing the pressure on Samuel.

"It seems pederasty is a family affliction after all," said Hans, between laughs that relieved the surreal tension of the moment.

*****

A short while later, with tempers soothed and a cup of strong wine to steady their nerves, the four men conversed in a small, isolated study adjoining the library. The atmosphere was thick with embarrassment, disbelief, and a sliver of fragile hope, like the first thread of ice forming on a lake.

Sir John poured everyone another cup of dark, full-bodied wine. "For the shock," he said, with a smile that softened his rounded features. His light-brown hair was dishevelled, and his eyes, of an indeterminate colour between grey and green, shone with contained humour. He was the antithesis of Samuel, who sat beside him, his thin, firm face carved in seriousness, his dark brown, almost black eyes and hair contrasting sharply with his pale skin. John's hand rested naturally, uninhibited, on Samuel's knee, a gesture that spoke louder than words.

"So... you are together?" Henry was the first to break the silence, his gaze seeking his brother's, asking confirmation for what his eyes had already witnessed.

Samuel, still a little pale, nodded. "Yes. For a few months now."

"As are you and Capon, I presume?" Sir John said, his calm voice retaking control of the room. It was a statement, not a question. His Austrian accent softened the consonants. "The 'prince of poachers' seems to have hunted something more precious than boars."

Hans nodded, a mocking smile playing on his lips. "You weren't exactly subtle, insinuating we should take a bath... together."

"And yet you took one. And took a good two hours to return," retorted John, raising an eyebrow, his face lit by an expression of pure amusement.

"There was a great deal of journey's grime to wash off," Hans shot back in a tone of mockery that fooled no one.

Henry, sensing the slight tension, rested a calming, familiar hand on Hans's shoulder. "Why didn't you tell me?" he asked, addressing Samuel, his voice gentle and curious, not accusing.

"I was afraid of lashon hara," Sam admitted, referring to the Hebrew concept of the 'evil tongue' or harmful gossip. "And of bringing ayin hara... the evil eye... upon us." He paused, searching for words. "We don't yet fully know what this is. But we know it is true." His hand found John's in a natural gesture, and Henry saw the way their fingers interlaced. It was a gesture of habit, of familiarity, of a love that had already taken root. "And you? How long?"

"A year and a half. Almost two," Henry replied.

The shock that crossed Samuel's face was palpable. He hadn't known such a thing was possible. To love another man and yet live, breathe, exist for so long. In his heart, Samuel had always assumed it would have an end, that it would be a sad footnote in his life, something to be abandoned for the greater good. The revelation was a bolt of lightning cutting through his inner darkness. A silent message of hope passed between the two brothers.

Without a word, Henry opened his arms. Sam stood and entered them, and the two brothers embraced, a tight hug that said everything words could not: "you are not alone". You never were. It was a moment of pure, familial warmth, as comforting as the fire in the hearth, which dissipated the last remnant of tension in the room. Hans and John exchanged a look, a smile of complicity and relief stamped on their faces.

"I've heard rumours," said John, lowering his voice and addressing Hans. "Especially after you knighted him in Skalitz. It was a gesture... let's say, highly significant. Not everyone is... so receptive to that. We must be careful. Even more so with our own project." He cast a meaningful glance at Samuel.

"Project?" asked Hans, his tone more serious, interested.

"Yes. Samuel and I... we have a dream. A dangerous dream."

"Is that why you invited us?" Hans asked, connecting the dots. "You need swords to protect this dream?"

"I need men who understand what it is to be hunted for something they cannot change," John replied, his voice suddenly grave.

The study door opened abruptly, cutting him off. A group of servants stood outside, their faces pale and features distorted by genuine dread. The eldest among them, a man with greying hair and trembling hands, spoke, his voice a thread of anxiety.

"Forgive me, my lord, but the magistrate is calling for you. It's... it's urgent."

"What has happened, Thomas?" asked John, his posture immediately erect, the commander emerging from the host.

"A young woman, my lord... has been found. Dead. Rosa Ruthard, my lord."

The words fell into the room like a stone into a frozen lake, shattering the serene surface of the moment. A silent, violent shock swept through the four men.

Henry felt his legs weaken. The world tilted dangerously. The image of Rosa—alive, intelligent, with her book and her hopeful smile—exploded in his mind. Her sweet soul, her childish games, the innocent obsession she once held for him, all of it came in an agonizing whirlwind. The last kisses she had given him just hours ago on his cheeks now burned like hot iron. He staggered, and it was the hands of Hans and Samuel, supportive, firm, and strong, that kept him from falling. The air refused to enter his lungs.

"And what does the magistrate want with me?" John's voice sounded distant, as if from the bottom of a well.

"He... he wants you to take the case, Sir John. He says it's a matter for knights, not for the town guard. Her father is here... he fainted at the news. He is being attended by the city's physician, but... the horror, sir. The horror."

"Who would be capable of such a thing?" Hans's voice was rough, charged with a cold, incredulous rage. "To kill a woman? A girl so young? So full of... of life?" His gaze, normally so full of presumption or amusement, was now empty of everything except a deep, devastating horror.

The contrast could not have been more brutal. The warmth, the light, the discovery of family and love in the cozy study were suddenly annihilated by the icy, sombre wind entering through the open door. Winter, it seemed, had not brought only peace; it had also brought a deadly silence crying for justice.

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