A month passed after Roman’s historic siege and the shameful terms the imperials signed. Twice he rewrote them before he gave them to his messenger to make sure they were humiliating enough to make every historian, poet, or bard write about them for centuries.

His scars were turning pink, where new skin took the place of old. Only the nasty pain in his leg didn’t go away, making him limp. Maybe his bones were not aware of his god-like status in his nation yet. So to avoid looking like a mere mortal, he had to greet his flock of visitors sitting. Nobles, merchants, and rulers from neighboring countries came to his doorstep the moment he was back, trembling every time they heard the sound of thunder.

“Sire, it’s about the task you gave me!” - a boy wearing a city watch uniform busted into his hall.

His royal guard held him by the hair, pressing blades to his throat.

“Sire, the man claimed you knew of his arrival. Are you expecting him, or shall we cut his tongue off for lying?” - the czar’s guard asked.

“Leave us.” - Roman responded and brushed his visitors and guards aside with a wave of his hand, like crumbs on the table.

Blades retreated from the boy’s neck and left him alone with the czar. That watchman wore no gold, no silk, and no titles, but he had something more precious to the czar.

“I’ve found her.” - he said when the door shut behind the last of the czar’s visitors.