After sending off the most powerful woman alive, he continued sifting through Roman’s thoughts. Pages ordered like a labyrinth on the floor, he traced the timeline of the czar’s journals. Some events Roman wrote about years after they happened, others, even important ones, he hardly even mentioned.

“Life imitates art…” - the bard whispered to himself - “There has to be a structure to all this”

He tip-toed through piles of paper, pointing, whispering to himself.

“I need to mention this at the beginning for it to make sense…” - he tossed a page to one side, balancing on one leg to avoid stepping on the rest.

“I’ll fill in the gaps, make them up. But where’s the ending, there’s no ending.”

Having read through most of Roman’s writings, ending the story with his calm passing in his chambers would feel like getting thrown off a horse mid-gallop.

“Let’s just hope something comes up and it writes itself.”

He pressed the quill to the paper’s surface, turning food and water into ink, sleeping out of necessity rather than desire. Roman’s thoughts buzzed in his head, louder than his own. The sun and the moon took turns peaking through the curtains, but he paid them as much attention as he did to the people bringing him food.

“You are Bozmaroff, right? The bard?” - a maid asked him after she left a platter with food.

But the storyteller, biting his lip from the inside, holding a trembling pen, showed no sign of hearing her.

“I’ve listened to your stories. In the Speared Boar, I was there one night” - she continued - “You told that one about the man who turned into a crow”

The quill’s unmoving tip strill pressed to the paper, Bozmaroff made no sound, and the girl took it as a sign to continue.

“I don’t think everyone got it, but I did. I did.” - she continued eagerly

“I’m sorry you heard it” - Bozmaroff uttered from the writing table.

“Why? It was a great story, I loved it!”

“No, it’s not. It’s a pile of dunk, hidden under a facade of meaning. And I’m one of the worst writers who ever lived, because I thought I could pull off such a cheap trick”

The maid blinked a few times, flustered. She expected him to jump out of joy having met one of his fans.

“But people wait in line, to listen to your stories. There were some on the street, pressed against the windows, hoping to hear a word or two”

“Hoping to hear the same old stories, time and time again… I used to write the whole night. I couldn’t stop the words, they came pouring out of me.” - he trailed off, looking out of the window - “I can’t remember the last time I wrote something new”

“But you’re writing something now, aren’t you?”

“Yes, someone else’s soulless story. And I’m only doing it because your queen will have me thrown to the hounds or something if I don’t.”

They shared the silence for a moment.

“But worry not my lady, I always find the muse when there’s a fat purse or a knife to my throat. She never comes to bless my own ideas” - he said, slumping over the page.

“Maybe it’s just because you’re forced to write? I haven’t seen you move for days, have you spent that much on your stories lately?”

“Aren’t you a know-it-all? I feel like I’ve done my part. They say a writer keeps making the same story until he’s able to tell it well. I think I’ve told mine and I just have nothing else to add. Now if you’ll excuse me.”

“This doesn’t sound too bad, does it? Maybe now you’ll be free to write another. A new one!”

“You’d do well if you leave now.”

“I’m just saying that maybe the czar wanted someone to write his story, not to be used in someone else’s”

“What’s your name, girl?”

“Maria” - she answered, confused.

“Maria, leave, or I’ll tell the queen you gave me wine”

The door rattled behind the maid, but maybe, just maybe she had a point. And perhaps, Roman didn’t pick him by chance after all.