The hands that wanted peace suddenly clenched into fists, and what was a fight between two men became a fight between religions. When punches weren’t enough, swords were drawn. The sound of steel coming out of the sheath made the others jump for their weapons too. Blood sprayed the ground, and screams sliced the heavy air. The ordered camp turned into a battlefield in a matter of seconds. Metallic tips flashed in the light of the fires, desperate the captains’ attempts to stop the fighting. Their orders were lost in the fog.

“Stop! I order you to stop!” - Ozren yelled, but his words were a drop of water in a blaze.

The only man whose presence could stop this madness stood in the dead silence of the forest a few hundred meters away, accompanied by a silent old man having no idea what was happening behind him.

“Why are you following us?” - Veran asked.

“Why are you following me?” - the man said.

“I’ve seen you in the trees ever since we left that village. Are you working with the rebels?”

“I am not. I’m just observing. You would do the same if someone entered your home.”

“Did you live in that village? Regardless of what happened, these lands belong to the czar, and we’re fulfilling his will. If we knew you needed protection, we would’ve given it to you.”

“I’m not sure about that. Not if he knew what I was. These lands belong to the czar, but not the one you’re thinking of.” - he said, looking at the sky.

“Is that supposed to mean something to me?”

“No, I know it doesn’t. Otherwise, you’d know to show more respect in my presence.”

Back in the camp, Ozren had no success in stopping the fight.

“Do something,” - he ordered his guards - “Break them off! They’ll kill each other!”

The guards were reluctant to jump in, but they followed their orders. With drawn weapons, they joined the brawl and tried to push people away with their shields. All of his guards but one. One of them stood behind, and the moment he was alone with the boyar, he hit him in the back of the head with the pommel of his sword.

The young knyaz fell to the ground and turned on his back. His vision was blurry from the strike, but he saw the flame flashing in the face of the man above him, his blue eyes so pale as if anger had burned away the color.

“No, stop! Stop!”

“Did the general stop beating my father when I asked him to stop?”

The guard raised his sword and ran it through Ozren’s chest. Blood shot out of the boy’s mouth. He tried to protect himself and reach for his weapon, but the man wouldn’t give him a chance. He pulled the sword from the mail, raised it, and drove it again. Then again.