He looked through the window again. Everything he ever wanted was in the shadow of his own keep - a house full of love, a child’s laughter, and a hand to fill the gaps between his own fingers. A kiss on the forehead and sharing a warm bed together were more precious than any jewel in his vault. Riches weren’t found in his brother’s grave, nor around the bodies of falled soldiers. Only now could he see the colors of life, and his had always been black and white.

“You can trade love for stones and water, but not the other way around, Roman.” - the woman in white said.

Every war, every betrayal, every time he blackmailed a noble or poisoned an enemy, he did it with the hidden hope that one day he’ll be free and she’ll wait for him. He imagined how he’ll find her alone, waiting for him by the door, but people don’t wait forever. She never wanted lands, nor to marry a god. She wanted love, and he couldn’t give her half of what that poor bastard inside did.

“So this is how it ends? No glorious charge?” - the czar asked.

“I’m afraid not.” - Morana answered.

“It’s funny isn’t it? You fight so you can be remembered, only for your death to be a footnote in a bard’s story.”

“It’s our actions in life that define us not the circumstances of our death. I’ve found many beautiful souls butchered in the dirt, and not few monsters whose old age betrayed them in their sleep. At least you got your statue and your dreams. Is this not what you wanted?”

“I would’ve preferred to die surrounded by people I love rather than on top of the corpse pile of my enemies. I hope I’m not the only one to brood over old love only after he’s died.”

“No, you’re not. But you’re one of the few who had a choice.” - Morana smiled - “Come Roman, you’ve listened to the voice of ambition long enough, now it’s time to listen to the voice of regret.”