You don’t become a man of power by being polite and gentle with others. You may show an aura of dignity and honor, but if you let these things make deeper roots in go, oh, you’re in trouble. There’s no czar who didn’t stand on a mountain of corpses, no czar whose tongue has spoken more truths than lies. But there is another class of men with cruelty and viciousness unrivaled by any czar or emperor. The nobility.

The bolyars were a slice of society that’s ever scheming and plotting. They seem to have no other purpose in this world than to spend their lives trying to grip a little bit more power, a little bit more influence. It’s a game to them, playing people and events like pieces on a board. Some accomplish their desires through alliances and trade, others through war and malice. They claim small victories - marriages, alliances, and deals. But drop by drop, you can make a sea, and when you look back ten generations, a family who knew little more than how to deal with sheep can find themselves in the czar’s most trusted advisers.

Kaloyan was one of the czar’s most trusted bolyars, the result of a hundred years of work. The instinct to follow orders blindly, throw lives in wars without a second thought and pay any taxes regardless of the sum ran deep in his veins. In the same way, the bird knows how to fly, he knows how to please.

The selective breeding of his ancestors silenced his conscience, making it easy for him to make decisions that his people paid for. Each time the warring ceased, the mothers didn’t get their sons back. Farmers didn’t get their grain. But Kaloyan still held the czar’s favor. The only thing needed of him was to say yes and make sure there was no one around who could say no. Kalo the honorable, Kalo the true - that’s what the rest of the nobility called him. He knew how to play the game to retain his rule over the patch of land he had and the bag of souls living on it.

Being a bard was a profession with many benefits. Getting a free bed at every inn you stop by in exchange for a story or a song, enjoying the company of local women who wondered at the lies spilled out of your mouth. But the biggest one was that even though you had to spend time around the nobles, you held immunity against their machinations.

You weren’t an ally to be impressed or a foe to be destroyed. You were the bearer of art, the creator of beauty. And while blacksmiths forged just the same as you, their work was dirty and sweaty, not to the taste of the bolyars. They enjoyed the bards’ company for their work was clean. And the lords’ wives enjoyed them even more once their husbands had fallen drunk on their beds.

Builders made things for the body, but bards took care of the soul, and for that, they were respected or at least tolerated because even the halfwit offspring of a noble keen on incest understood the power of a song and a fairytale.

When Bozmaroff walked into Kalo’s dining room, the guests had already put on their masks. They faked looks of happiness around the tables, and servants tried to imitate calm people as hard as they could. They were all actors in a play, and the boyar was the only person in the audience.

“Welcome, bard! We’re honored by your presence tonight.” - he roared with greasy lips.

“I hope my work lives up to your expectations, my lord.” - Bozmaroff replied.

“If they’re good enough for the czar, they’re good enough for my men and me.”

In the name of the czar, as the war cry called. In his name, they die, and in his name, they endure stories they can’t hope to understand.

“Where’s your instrument? I don’t see you carrying anything. Or do you plan on whistling with your mouth?” - Kalo asked.

“I don’t play any instruments, my lord.” - Bozmaroff replied.

“You sing then?”

“I’m afraid not. I tell stories. I’ve told three tales to all the noble houses I’ve visited. One that speaks of patience, one that speaks of mercy, and one with meaning left to you to decide. The first tale, my lord, speaks of a huntress from the tribes in the north.”

“Let’s hear it then.” - Kalo said.