Chapter Text
Crash!
The impact scattered birds from nearby trees, their small forms fleeing from noises they didn’t understand, and could only interpret as danger. Splinters flew into the air, following their lead, scattering from where wood had met steel.
Even in practice like this, the sound of shattering wood was still Ilya’s favorite sound.
“Hah!” Ilya cried, accent curling around triumph. “Another point for me.”
He reached the end of the run and pulled his horse around, trotting to where the target dummy had been set and examining the damage his lance had done. The end of his lance had been painted red, allowing him to see where his hit had landed.
"Well done, Anya," Ilya murmured, patting his horse's neck.
She was a steady, even keeled horse Ilya had acquired shortly after moving into the castle. She had a long, silky black mane and tail, and her body was white with black spots scattered throughout. He'd never seen a horse like her before, and fell in love the second he laid eyes on her.
“Well struck,” Harris, who was acting as their scorekeeper for the afternoon, praised as he jogged over. “Though you remain only two points ahead still.”
Narrowing his eyes, Ilya pulled his shoulders back and declared, “Not for long. Troy is not nearly as accurate as me. I’ll beat him by five, at least.”
A small smile spread across Harris’s face as his eyes flicked up to Ilya, then across list field to where Troy was atop his own mount, waiting for the target to be moved and reset for his own practice run. None of this practice mattered, not in any real way. This was not a real match, the list was empty save for these three men, but still Ilya took it as seriously as he did any other tournament.
“I look forward to your victory,” Harris assured the other man, already hauling the target to a new location and wiping away the paint from Ilya’s lance.
They’d been at it all afternoon, the two men competing over accuracy ahead of their next competition. It was set to begin in two day’s time, here on their own soil. It wasn’t a big tournament, a regional affair to celebrate the anniversary of the castle’s cornerstone being laid, but that had never stopped Ilya Rozanov nor Troy Barrett from taking it overly-seriously. Two knights who were both too alike and too competitive to do anything else.
The rest of their company was much the same, all men who thrived on competition, on victory. They’d be out here with them if they had been able, but all practice had to be balanced with practical guard duties. Competitions and tournaments and the like were the least important part of their roles as knights, but it was the part the men enjoyed the most.
In fact, it was often argued that Ilya and his men should be relegated to sports only, given their prowess on the field. They could show the world their power one crowd at a time. It made the royal family appear untouchable, and it would allow them to collect win after win, tucking them away like treasure more precious than jewels.
The other things, guard duty, rounds, training, recruiting, those were all things Ilya did in service to the crown, in the name of protecting a prince he had sworn to serve. It wasn’t anything he enjoyed, but he did it anyway. He did his duty. But this? This was something he enjoyed. Wins on the list field were accomplishments he could hold close to his chest and keep for himself without feeling guilty, or like he had to divide his pride between himself and his family, doling his wins out in pieces until they hardly felt like wins anymore.
Even if they did plunder away his winnings, they couldn’t take his name out of the records books. It was them, the knights, who trained and fought and rode day in and day out to obtain such accuracy with a weapon, such prowess atop a horse. It wasn’t something just anyone could accomplish. Not even any knight. It took a special blend of warrior and athlete to get to this place, to drive the lance home into a chest plate or against a helmet at every pass. To keep his seat even when taking blow after blow, wood splintering against your body as rounds of opponents tried to unseat you or force you to surrender.
Acknowledgement of that was how Ilya’s company of knights had come to be. They were regular knights, sure, but they were also talents, put together under one banner to make them stronger. To allow them to share knowledge and train in a way that made them both better warriors and better competitors. It was why Ilya had been allowed to become their captain in the first place, to help guide them to be better, to win more.
Ilya loved the challenge of it all. Loved to show off, to feel the glow of hundreds of adoring gazes track him in his suit as he sped across the list, Anya below him breathing deep as she carried him, her gait steady and strong as he held the lance aloft and steady before forcing it to find it’s target, holding it strong as he followed through with the blow, ensuring the lance shattered totally, the crack of wood breaking hailing his success. And he loved pushing his knights to do the same, to yearn for their wins as much as Ilya did.
It made his blood sing. Brought him to life. Gave him purpose.
Satisfied with his hit, Ilya steered Anya towards the other end of the list and off to the side, giving Troy his space to make his own run at the target. The other knight’s lance, freshly dipped in blue paint, was already at the ready, held aloft in his right hand. The moment Harris cleared the list, Troy kicked his mount into a gallop, the steed immediately gaining speed. Hooves thundered over the hard packed dirt, kicking up a cloud as Troy advanced on his target. Without their full suits of armor, it was easy to see how Troy twisted and braced himself for the impact, heels digging into his stirrups and thighs tensing. Ilya watched all of it with a critical eye, looking for faults in form or lapses in technique.
Troy was good in the joust, all of his knights were, but there was always room to improve. Ilya watched for it, and there, right before impact. Troy tensed his shoulders too much, hiking them up to his ears when he needed to hold strong and use his core to carry the impact through, instead of taking it all in his shoulder. The lance still struck clean, of course, blue paint smearing across the dented steel practice place, shattering in a spray of pale wood, but still…
“Too tense, Troy!” Ilya called. “Are you afraid of straw dummy? It will not hurt you!”
“Shut it,” Troy said, mouth pressed into a flat line as he pulled his horse to a stand still. “You know I’m not.”
“You were tense in all the wrong places,” Ilya told him, pulling Anya to trot towards Troy and his steed, Chiron. “Your shoulder will break.”
Troy considered the words, respecting Ilya and his expertise enough to know he was probably right. Troy was good on a horse, and held a lance with confidence, but Ilya was something else entirely. He was one with his mount, he and Anya moving as a single unit, in battle and on the list field. His sword was an extension of his arm, and he handed a lance with the same grace, intuition guiding his movements as he aimed true every single time.
Well, nearly every single time.
Enough times that no one questioned why he was captain of the guard, no one doubted his loyalty to the crown, and no one wondered whether he truly deserved to be here.
It was easy, being this Ilya, living as Knight Captain, honing his skills and keeping his mind sharp. And it was even better doing it with his retinue of fellow knights— all of them dedicated to the prince’s service and to following his every command. Mostly, they helped patrol the palace, and given their company’s proclivity for sports, spent the rest of their time practicing.
It set them apart from other companies, their sporting. Other companies were standard knights, concerned only with combat and protection, but Ilya and his men were more than that. They were symbols. Ambassadors. They even had their own livery, a centaur on a field of Hollander blue which flew high above them when they competed.
Knowing the other man wouldn’t lead him astray, Troy inclined his head, accepting the criticism, before pulling on the reins and trotting to the other end of the list. Harris met him there, all smiles, and handed the knight another practice lance. Ilya copied his movements, kicking Anya into motion and trotting to Harris to receive his own fresh lance.
“Harris, you are too good to be squire,” Ilya told him, taking the lance in hand.
“Good thing I’m not one, then,” Harris replied, brow raising. “We both know I’m only here because no one else will spare the time for more of your unnecessary drills.”
Ilya pretended to be wounded, a hand going over his heart, “Unnecessary! You wound me. All practice is necessary.”
They both knew it was half a lie, half the truth. Practice was necessary to master any task, but Ilya was already a master, and this practice session was one he’d spontaneously called out of the blue. It wasn’t part of their normal training, and usually Ilya would be holed up in his office this time of day.
At least, to Harris and Troy it was out of the blue. The reality of it was that Ilya was avoiding another meeting with his father and Alexi.
It was easy to brush them off if he had some official duty to attend to, so when the messenger had come to summon him, Ilya had sent the man away, claiming he was busy, and then set about making sure he was busy. His father wasn’t above sending someone to check and make sure his younger son hadn’t been lying, a fact Ilya knew it all too well.
Thankfully, Troy’s quarters were only two doors down from his own, and the other man didn’t have a guard shift until later that evening. It didn’t take much to convince him to come out here with him, especially when he floated the idea of asking Harris to help.
Harris, their quartermaster, was good-natured, and very busy, but he always made time for fun, which is how the three of them ended up on the list field on a Wednesday afternoon, passing around lances and taking aim at a straw dummy with an old steel breastplate strapped to it’s front. And because Ilya was avoiding his family.
Though Harris knew none of Ilya’s inner turmoil, it was like he could sense it, divine it from the creases at the corners of his eyes and the set of his mouth. His green eyes sliced through Ilya, without cruelty, but also without sparing his feelings. He saw Ilya as he was, and then kept his observations to himself.
Ilya was grateful for it. There was no explaining to anyone what Ilya’s real life was like, the whole complexity of it that he hid and compartmentalized, showing those around him only pieces of it at a time.
“Whatever makes you happy, Captain,” Harris said, a wide smile finally replacing the contemplative look. “But we all know you’ll be declared winner even without this practice.”
“But we can never be too careful!” Ilya declared. "The prince has been gunning for my title again." Then, he turned back to Troy, “Take the run, Troy. Let’s see what other improvements you can make.”
With a resigned sigh, and a quick glance at Harris, Troy turned his horse, hoisted his lance, and went again.
When the bells rung three, Troy, Harris, and Ilya called their practice to an end. It was just a few hours of work, but it had Ilya feeling much better. He’d successfully avoided his father and brother, and his muscles hummed with the warmth of a job well done. Anya and Chiron went back to the stables, Harris to his office, and Troy to his rooms to prepare for his shift, leaving Ilya to… do something.
There was an endless pile of work for him, there always was, but none of it was urgent, and Ilya didn’t want to be caught out by his father’s messengers, should the old man try and corner him again. So, instead of heading to his rooms, or his office, he decided to fall back on an old standby: finding a fair maiden to wile away time with.
It was easy enough for Ilya to do, he was handsome, he knew he was, and the castle was never short on traders and travelers spending a night or two inside the walls. Invariably, all he had to do was wander out into the courtyard and find someone who caught his eye. Plenty of men and women both caught his eyes, but sleeping with a man… the risks weren’t worth it. Not when his dad was still in town visiting, and not when his family’s cronies could be anywhere. Be anyone.
Though the Hollander Dynasty was accepting of all relationships, his family didn’t come from the Hollander’s lands. The Rozanovs hailed from the east, where tradition wasn’t something you chose to participate in, where it evolved and adapted to the changing times. Tradition back home was compulsory and rigid, two things that did not agree with Ilya on a fundamental level.
So, a maiden would do. More than do. He liked women just as much as he liked men, and when he found one to spend the night with, he was not going to be thinking about anything other than how good he felt.
No princes. No families. No nothing.
Resolved, he pulled off his outerwear and replaced it with more appropriate day wear, a dark leather vest over a linen shirt that laced at the collar, black linen pants and soft leather boots. All of it tucked under a green velvet overcoat. It was well-maintained enough without being too fancy, perfect for mingling without being singled out. The last thing he wanted was to chase away potential partners with clothes that screamed I'm important!
Satisfied enough, Ilya left behind his rooms and made his way out the guard's quarters towards the courtyard. Exactly as it had been that morning, the space was bustling. Temporary shelters and market stalls were scattered about the space in somewhat wonky rows, spread over the cobbles like colorful birds.
It was loud, too. Vendors called out, advertising their wares, and musicians formed impromptu groups, playing familiar tavern ballads. It was bustling, and it was just what Ilya knew he needed.
He took his time exploring, checking out the stalls and picking up a new bright red quill, and a small handful of roasted nuts that were coated in a sweet and spicy shell. He ate them as he walked, eyes flitting to and fro, shoulders slowly relaxing as he felt himself sink into the crowd.
Never had he imagined a life spent here, inside western walls and serving a family he should have hated, but it was impossible to deny that this was where he felt most at peace. At most himself.
Of course, no good things lasted. Ilya turned a corner, trailing along the wall and down a row of stalls, ready to pursue more wares, and perhaps begin his hunt for his nightly entertainment in earnest, and ran right into Alexi.
"Ilya," the other man sneered.
He was larger than Ilya, with more weight on his bones and half an inch in height, and he used that to his advantage, heedless of the fact that Ilya had double his musculature. He took Ilya but the upper arm, squeezing too tight, a fake as any smile in cemented on his face.
"Alexi, let go," Ilya hissed, eyes narrowing.
"You ignored father today," Alexi hissed, ignoring his brother's protests and slipping into their mother tongue. "Do you think you can shirk your duty forever? Did you think we would let you spend all your days fucking instead of working?"
"I am working," Ilya snarled. "You want me to keep my cover, do you not? I need to train to do that."
It was mostly true, too, but Alexi wasn't in a forgiving mood.
"We want you to remember your mission. Your loyalty to your home country. Father worries you've grown soft. Perhaps you like it here, hm? In a land full of faggots and whores and easy living? You always did like the easy road. Never worked hard a day in your life."
Outrage flooded Ilya's chest and had his blood boiling. Never worked hard? As if Ilya hadn't trained rigorously at sword and spear and whatever else he could get his hands on for as long as he could remember. As if his father hadn't put him in tournament after tournament since he could walk, siphoning away the winnings to pay for ale and whores and whatever else Grigori and Alexi fancied.
His mother had never been able to stop them, when she had been brave enough to try, and after she died, Ilya hadn't even bothered protesting. He didn't even blink when they moved him out west, finding him a position as captain of the guard in the Hollander family's castle. With as much grace as he could manage, he had accepted the position, taking over command of the Centaurs, and working under the prince.
Prince Shane, who he had only met on the tournament field when they had competed against one another, and even then only briefly.
Now he was Ilya's superior, the man he served, and the Rozanovs were determined to use that to their advantage. It would make Grigori a hero in his home country if his son were to get close to the Hollander heir and pass his secrets along back east for the Union to use against them.
Ilya didn't want to be used. Didn't want to be a spy. Didn't want any of it.
So while Ilya had taken the position as captain, the result of a deal negotiated by Grigori— one that only came to fruit because of Ilya's own battle prowess and extensive athletic training— and he had bonded with his new company of men in the six months since he'd arrived, he had hardly interacted with the prince outside of official meetings. Even though the prince had tried, repeatedly, to get to know the new captain.
It seemed Ilya's time was running out. He couldn't stall for much longer; avoid his duty, and keep his conscience clear.
His father and his brother were going to force him to become a villain.
"I remember my mission," Ilya said, forcing his voice to stay calm and low. "And you would do well to remember that you need me. Not the other way around. I pay for your entire fucking life. And any mission we complete will be because of me. My effort. Not you skulking around taking the poppy and cheating on your wife."
Alexi wanted to punch him, Ilya could see the desire burning behind his eyes, but they were still in public, and his brother wasn't fool enough to punch the captain in broad daylight. Already they were receiving a few curious looks, and one of the general castle guards, a man not under Ilya's command, was watching them with sharp eyes and a hand on his sword hilt.
With a huff, his brother released his arm, and instead pointed right at Ilya, threat clear, "You have three days. Father is watching. Give him something, or he'll be forced to take action. The Union is expecting word soon. You've had enough time to earn his trust. Use it."
Alexi spat at the ground, moisture landing just to the left of Ilya's boots, and then stormed off, itching his nose, more than likely already moved on to thinking about his next hit.
Ilya watched him go, heart squeezing and breath coming in fast.
For months he'd done everything to keep Prince Shane at arm's length, giving him reports on the Centaurs and then fleeing when the meeting was done, rejecting all offers of kindness and familiarity. Shane was close with all his other captains, especially Hayden Pike, the man in charge of Shane's personal guard, the men and women who went with him everywhere and protected his person.
But his time was now up.
Ilya didn't want to know what Grigori would do to follow through on his threats, could barely think about it without his stomach churning and blood draining from his face. He'd seen what he'd done to his mother. To anyone he thought beneath him.
And if it wasn’t Grigori himself, it would be Alexi. Or worse, someone The Union sent; An enforcer sent to check on the Rozanovs.
Ilya wasn't going to let that happen. Whatever it took, he would avoid his father's wrath, and maybe... maybe he could make the man proud.
Maybe, for once, he didn't have to be the useless son, good for nothing but coin. He could be more. Could be a hero, even. If he could get close enough to the prince. If he could extract enough secrets from the royal family and send them back to The Union.
He raked his hands though his curls, then stomped back to his rooms. He needed to think. To plan.
Then, tomorrow, he would act.