Everything had gone according to plan.
Almost.
Egor.
That stubborn idiot who always did whatever he wanted.
Klaus sat alone in the first empty room he had found, staring into nothing.
And still—
he couldn't stop thinking that maybe it was for the best.
What Egor had seen.
What Klaus had done.
The fear that had frozen him in place.
That should have been enough.
Enough to make him wake up. Enough to make him step back. Enough to make him leave.
So why—
Why did his chest feel like it was being crushed from the inside?
Why was it suddenly hard to breathe?
Klaus pressed his fingers against his sternum.
Useless.
It didn't help.
He had done what was necessary.
Egor would have seen it sooner or later.
There was no avoiding it.
And yet—
Klaus clenched his jaw.
He would have given anything to keep that from him.
Anything.
Even now.
Even after everything.
Too late.
Even if time turned back—
he would do it again.
The country came first.
It always had.
Now he finally understood what his father meant.
The words that had been carved into him since childhood:
A king has no heart.
Only a cold mind.
Klaus let out a quiet, uneven breath.
Right now—
he would have gladly torn his own heart out just to make it stop.
But it was already too late for that too.
The door opened.
Slowly.
Quietly.
Klaus didn't turn.
He didn't need to.
He knew those steps.
Hesitant.
Careful.
"Leave."
The footsteps faltered.
Stopped.
Then resumed.
Stronger.
"I told you to leave."
"I want to talk."
"There's nothing to talk about."
"I think there is."
Klaus turned sharply.
Egor stood in the doorway.
Frozen.
A small basin in his hands.
A cloth.
A towel thrown over his shoulder.
Klaus frowned.
"…What is that?"
"You're covered in blood," Egor said. "It needs to be washed off. At least your face. Your hands."
"I'll deal with it later."
"No, you won't."
Egor stepped inside.
Set the basin down.
With every step, with every word, his voice steadied.
Settled.
Became familiar again.
"I'll do it."
Klaus's gaze sharpened.
"…What do you want, Egor?"
"I already told you."
Then—
"Sit."
Klaus didn't move.
For a second.
Two.
Then—
he sat.
Egor soaked the cloth in warm water and reached for him.
Carefully.
Like Klaus might break.
The first touch—
gentle.
Too gentle.
The cloth dragged across his skin, smearing dark, dried blood.
The water in the basin turned red almost instantly.
Egor clicked his tongue, irritated.
"…No. This is useless. I'm just spreading it around."
"I told you—I'll handle it."
"The bathhouse is ready," Egor cut him off. "The slaves who stayed heated it. There's hot water."
A brief pause.
"Klaus… about today—"
"You don't have to explain anything."
Klaus stilled.
Egor's voice dropped.
"I'm sorry," he said. "I really was shocked."
A breath.
"But I understand."
Klaus's head snapped up.
"If you did that—then there wasn't another way," Egor continued, forcing the words out. "You had to."
His jaw tightened.
"It was harder for you than it was for me."
"How can you say that?" Klaus snapped.
His voice cut through the room like a blade.
"You saw what I did."
"And how long are you going to keep questioning me?!" Egor shot back.
Louder.
Sharper.
"I told you—no matter what happens, I'm on your side!"
His voice rose with every word.
"I knew what your country was like from the start! I knew how you were raised! I knew what people respect here, what they follow!"
A step forward.
"You think I'm that stupid? That I couldn't imagine something like this?!"
His breath hitched.
"Yes—imagining war is one thing!"
Another step.
"Watching you execute hundreds of people is something else entirely!"
His voice cracked.
"But I didn't run."
Silence fell between them.
Klaus just stared at him.
Stunned.
He hadn't expected that.
Not from him.
Slowly—
he reached out.
Toward Egor's face.
Stopped.
His hands were still stained with blood.
He pulled them back sharply.
"…I'm sorry."
Egor blinked.
Thrown off.
"For what?" he asked, voice rough.
"For doubting you."
Silence.
Then—
a slow smile spread across Egor's face.
Relief.
Warm.
Real.
He stepped forward and pulled Klaus into an embrace.
Tight.
Without hesitation.
Pressing himself against him—
not caring about the blood.
Smearing it across his own clothes.
"Well," Egor muttered, glancing down at his ruined shirt, "now there's no way we're not bathing together."
Klaus let out a quiet breath that almost turned into a laugh.
"Then let's go," he said.
"…I'm ready."
The blood had dried into his skin.
Egor had to scrub.
Hard.
Again.
Again.
Until Klaus's skin reddened beneath his hands.
Each stroke stripped away another trace of what he had done.
Or tried to.
Egor didn't stop.
Didn't slow.
Didn't ask.
But his thoughts wouldn't quiet.
How many times would he have to see this again?
How many more bodies?
How much more blood?
He wasn't afraid of Klaus anymore.
Not after today.
Not after seeing that something inside him still—
hurt.
Egor didn't understand why it had been necessary to kill them all.
Didn't understand—
and chose not to look too closely.
Because Klaus understood this world better than he ever could.
Because asking wouldn't change anything.
Because the answer he feared most—
was one he didn't want to hear.
That Klaus had enjoyed it.
Egor's hands tightened slightly.
He didn't want Klaus to suffer.
Didn't want him to carry that weight.
But at the same time—
he needed it to hurt.
Needed it to mean something.
Because if it didn't—
if Klaus felt nothing—
that would be worse.
Far worse.
Still—
he wouldn't leave.
Wouldn't give him up.
Not to anyone.
Not even to that darkness.
So he didn't ask.
Didn't dig.
Let himself remain blind—
just enough to keep loving him.
"Are we going back to the city?" Egor asked finally. "Or staying here?"
"We?" Klaus raised an eyebrow.
"You're going back. I'm staying."
A brief pause.
"The high nobles won't wait long. We'll start getting responses tomorrow."
Egor frowned.
"Why can't I stay too? It's safe here now. Just as safe as the underground city."
A step closer.
"I'm not sitting there alone for two weeks."
"You could use the time to do something useful," Klaus said dryly. "Train. Build some muscle. Horalde's been trying, but clearly not hard enough."
"That's not true!" Egor snapped. "I've gotten stronger!"
A beat.
"I'm more resilient."
He crossed his arms.
"It's not my fault my body's like this. No matter how much I train, I don't bulk up."
Klaus smirked.
"Resilient, huh?"
A pause.
"Fine."
A step closer.
"You can stay tonight."
Egor blinked.
"…What?"
"We'll run a test."
"…A test?"
"Yes."
Klaus leaned in slightly.
"Endurance."
Egor squinted at him.
"I'm not running a marathon."
"I had something better in mind."
Klaus grabbed him, pulled him closer—
and kissed him.
Hard.
Decisive.
Egor froze—
then flushed instantly.
"Oh—"
A nervous laugh.
"…I think I get what kind of test you mean."
"I knew you would."
Klaus pulled back just enough to look at him.
"So," he said quietly, "are you done scrubbing me raw?"
A brief pause.
"Can we go?"
His voice dropped.
"Tonight—more than ever—I don't want anyone else near me."
Egor's face burned.
He still couldn't get used to this.
To the fact that Klaus—
chose him.
Every time felt like the first.
And every time, Klaus stripped that hesitation away.
August sat alone.
A glass of wine in his hand.
Then another.
Then another.
After the executions, Klaus had left everything to him.
August hadn't argued.
There had been too much to do.
The freed slaves.
Those who wanted to leave.
Those who wanted to stay.
Those who wanted to join.
Too many decisions.
Too many logistics.
Routes.
Portals.
Lists.
Horalde had taken the soldiers off his hands.
Without that, August wouldn't have finished before dawn.
And still—
it wasn't the work that exhausted him.
It was the wall.
The one separating him from the next room.
From the voices.
The laughter.
The quiet sounds that slipped through despite everything.
His grip tightened on the glass.
What was this?
Jealousy?
Bitterness?
Loss?
All of it.
He had been used to it.
Klaus—
distant.
Closed off.
Cold to everyone else.
But not to him.
Never to him.
And now—
August let out a quiet, humorless laugh.
Now that place was gone.
And he hated how much it mattered.
Second bottle.
Gone.
And with it—
clarity.
Too much of it.
If only.
If only he had chosen differently that day.
If only the portal had worked.
If only he had told Klaus sooner.
Too many ifs.
Too late.
Regret.
That was what remained.
Regret for his choices.
For his arrogance.
For everything he hadn't done.
And most of all—
for the fact that he couldn't just be happy for him.
The sounds next door finally faded.
Dawn crept in.
August set the glass down.
Alcohol had always been enough.
As soon as his head hit the pillow—
everything went dark.