Whispers in the Forest

The air inside the kitchen was warm, bright, fragrant with rosemary and butter from whatever Giles had been preparing before the chaos began. The contrast felt almost obscene—like stepping from a war zone into a farmhouse Christmas. The sudden light made Volkov flinch. His men blinked like moles dragged into daylight.

Boetie shoved Volkov down into one of the heavy oak chairs at the head of the long kitchen table. The old wood creaked under the force. Hannes took position by the door, weapon held low but ready, the tight angle of his jaw telling me he was still half in DRC mode. The three farmhands—khaki, sunburned, and built like the mountains—slipped to the windows, rifles raised but steady, utterly unfazed. They were the type of men who grew up shooting jackals at night and fixing tractors at dawn. Russians didn’t impress them.

I holstered my weapon, though I kept my hand close. “Giles,” I said, nodding at our unexpected guest. “Get the Colonel a glass of water. He looks thirsty.”

Volkov stared at me while Giles silently obliged. Sweat glistened on his forehead—not from fear, but from the sudden warmth. His eyes were anything but shaken. They flickered around the room, taking in exits, sight lines, threats. Calculating. Always calculating. He wouldn’t find a weakness, not with Boetie looming behind him like a storm cloud about to break.

“You have made a grave mistake, Mr. Venter,” Volkov hissed, voice low and venomous. “Assaulting a diplomatic agent. Kidnapping a Royal. The repercussions will be ... severe. The Duke will burn this forest to the ground.”

He sounded sure of it. Too sure. But the world was about to tilt under his feet.

“Drop the script, Viktor,” Lena said.

Everyone turned.

She stepped out of the pantry doorway, barefoot on the cold flagstones, wearing my borrowed jeans and the oversized T-shirt. Her ginger hair was now wind dry, curled slightly at the ends, and she looked nothing like a Crown Princess—yet everything like one. The way she held her shoulders, the quiet certainty in her posture ... it shifted the atmosphere. Even the farmhands straightened.

She carried the wooden box in her hands. The Guardian. She placed it on the table in front of Volkov.

He saw the crest burned into the lid and his confidence cracked—just a flicker in the eyes, but I caught it. He knew what it was. Or feared what it might contain.

“You think you are loyal,” Lena said softly, evenly. “You think you serve the Kingdom. You think you serve a Duke who saved us from total collapse. Think again.”

She opened the box.

Her movements were slow, deliberate, the sort that made a grown man hold his breath.

“I am going to show you who you really serve.”

She removed the Red Letter and two of the deeds. The ancient paper made a dry, brittle rustle that somehow filled the room, echoing louder than gunfire. She slid them across the table so they rested inches from his fingers.

“Read it,” she said. “Read it, Colonel. And tell me if a patriot writes letters to Lavrentiy Beria.”

Volkov stared at the paper like it was a coiled cobra. As if touching it might sink fangs into his career, his identity—his loyalty.

“Read it!” Lena snapped.

It was the first time I’d ever heard her voice crack like a whip. Even Boetie grunted softly in approval.

Volkov lowered his eyes.

He read the header. Then the first line.

“To Comrade Beria...”

The colour drained from his face. Not fear—shock. The shock of a man watching his world-view tilt and fall off the table. He read the rest in silence. His breath hitched when he reached the signature.

Ivan Zoryanovich.

His hands trembled.

“This...” he whispered. “This is a forgery.”

“The paper is eighty years old,” I said from the corner. “The ink is period. And the seal is authentic. We found it inside the Guardian.”

He looked at his men—one injured, two confused, one trying to vanish into the shadows. Alexandru met his eyes and shook his head slightly, lost.

“He sold them,” Volkov murmured, voice cracking. “He sold the King to the butchers.”

“And his grandson is doing the same thing,” Lena said. “Selling Volynia to his cronies. Using you to keep a stolen throne.”

She leaned forward, placing her palms flat on the table. Her eyes were unwavering.

“You have a choice, Colonel. You can be the man who drags me back to a traitor so I can be silenced ... or you can be the man who helps me take my country back.”

The kitchen went quiet.

The kind of quiet you only hear in the mountains at night—wind through pines, far-off crickets, the crackle of the old Aga stove somewhere in or around the château structures.

Volkov didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Didn’t blink. He was still in charge of the Royal Guard – about one hundred men and women. He had the power to swing the vote. He still has the ear of the General, the head of the Volynia Defence Force.

He stared at the letter and the land deeds, and I saw something I never expected: the slow collapse of a lifetime’s loyalty. It broke him—not loudly, not dramatically, but in the smallest of ways. A breath. A sagging of the shoulders. A soft curse under his breath.

Then, carefully—as though handling scripture—he folded the letter. Perfectly aligned edges. No creases out of place. He placed it back in the box together with the deeds and closed the lid.

When he lifted his head, his eyes had changed.

The fury was gone. Replaced by something cold. Something sharpened.

“My oath,” Volkov said, voice steady as stone, “is to the Crown. Not the Regent.”

He stood.

Boetie tensed, shotgun rising slightly, but Volkov didn’t even glance his way. He straightened his jacket with the dignity of a man rediscovering his spine.

He looked at Lena—and bowed. Deeply. Correctly.

The bow of a soldier to his monarch.

“Your Majesty,” he said.

Then he lifted his chin. Met her gaze.

“What are your orders, Your Royal Grace?”

---

City of Velyngrad, Volynia about an hour later.

Nestled in a narrow river valley beneath the Văldani Foothills, the capital city of Volynia—Velyngrad—transforms dramatically when winter arrives. By late December, the city is draped in a deep hush, as if snow has softened not only the streets but the very pace of life.

Velyngrad’s skyline is a mixture of gingerbread-roofed medieval buildings, neoclassical government halls, and slender copper-domed towers that patina to a pale green under the icy air.

In mid-winter, rooftops are piled with snow so evenly they resemble thick quilts. Icicles cling to every eave, catching pale sunlight and refracting it into tiny rainbows, while chimneys send up slow, lazy spirals of woodsmoke that linger in the still air.

The Old Quarter, with its labyrinth of cobbled lanes, becomes especially enchanting—gas lamps cast amber pools of light on the fresh snow, and the ornate wrought-iron balconies appear frosted like pastries.

Daylight is weak and silvery, barely rising above the hills by mid-morning. The River Vantrel, which divides the city, often freezes solid, its surface turning into a popular skating ribbon lined with evergreen boughs. Nights are profound—so quiet that the crunch of a single pair of boots can echo through an entire street.

A faint scent of pine logs and mulled honey wine hangs in the air, carried from the hearths and vendors’ stalls clustered around the public squares.

The Winter Lantern Festival fills the central square with glowing paper lanterns shaped like stags, wolves, and mythical Volynian spirits. Market stalls sell roasted chestnuts, spiced plum tea, and hand-carved wooden charms. Families stroll bundled in thick embroidered wool coats—Volynian patterns of deep red and midnight blue standing out against the white landscape.

Children build elaborate snow-forts in the parks, while elders gather in teahouses whose fogged windows spill warm golden light into the cold streets.

Among the landmarks that take on a special magic in winter is Palatul Coroanei Vechi, the royal residence—or Palace of the Old Crown—which looks like a frozen waterfall: its marble steps glazed with frost, and its grand façade illuminated in cool blue light.