“Suits him for dabbling in things he doesn’t understand. These witches from the old days were no joke. My father’s told me about them. What happened to the healer?” - Kalo said.

“This is the end of his story.” - the bard replied.

“You sure? He doesn’t die?” - the boyar asked.

“Death is not the worst thing that can happen to a man.” - Bozmaroff replied.

“I don’t know what to make of this one, bard…”

“That’s the beauty of this tale, sire. You decide the moral of the story. Everyone I’ve told it to has made a different conclusion.”

“You should be careful with women. That’s what I’d tell you about it.”

The bard smiled and took another sip of the sweet wine from Rhana. Another page in his own story was written in the halls of yet another boyar. He sat at the end of a long feasting table and caught a smile from a woman whose husband was too focused on the chicken leg in his hands. He smiled back and tilted his glass. The guests spoke about his stories, going over the one they liked best, but most of them echoed Kalo’s jokes. Those who didn’t stood silent so they wouldn’t get any attention on them.

He started telling stories with the hope of changing the world. If not all of it, then maybe touching the mind of a few men in power would be enough. To teach them patience, to teach them mercy. That’s what he told the czar, but the ruler knew his people better.

“Go and see what your stories will do. People don’t change, bard.” - czar Roman told him - “They’ve got a mind for a full plate and a full bosom, and unless you bring any of them, your words will fall on deaf ears.”

But the bard kept walking, and he kept telling stories. Two for the nobles and one for him, to remember what the czar had said to him - regardless of what he does, his stories will be nothing but cawing in the forest.