When the mugs were empty, Bruno stood, adjusting the hem of his robe. "I'm going to get ready. I suggest you do the same. On the way, we’ll stop at a tailor’s—we need to get the Baron into something more fitting for his title."
Dmitry sat motionless, staring into his empty mug. He didn’t answer immediately, looking as though he were resurfacing from the depths of his own thoughts. "Yeah... I’ll get ready too. I’ll check on Cohen. See how he’s holding up."
The door to the room shared by the Baron and Hans was ajar. Dmitry knocked softly and, receiving no answer, stepped inside. The room was furnished modestly, almost ascetically—a stark contrast to Bruno’s lavish office. The moneylender had once mentioned that the luxury upstairs was purely for show, to make visitors feel small. Here, everything was functional: two beds, a window overlooking a quiet courtyard, a table, and a chair.
Cohen lay on the bed, facing the wall. His shoulders were rigid. Dmitry walked across the room and sat heavily on the chair.
"Forgive me," he began quietly. "For losing my temper. I shouldn't have put my hands on you. We’re all drained by this journey, and everyone’s nerves are frayed. I should have been wiser."
Cohen didn't move. The silence stretched, becoming heavy and viscous.
"Bruno called a carriage," Dmitry continued. "We’re going to Hoof’s. Stopping by a tailor on the way. You with us?"
A few seconds passed before the Baron spoke, his voice hollow and nearly lifeless. "Does anyone still care what I want? Does the word of Baron Prast still carry any weight in this city?"
"I didn't come here to humiliate you, kid. I came to talk. You’re the first person I met in this world, and I feel like I owe it to you to help. Let’s at least hear Hoof out. If his conditions are unacceptable, I’ll stand by you. Но если Бруно прав... you’ll have to take the deal."
"Sell a nobleman's honor? To a commoner?" Cohen sighed heavily. "I suppose it doesn't matter anymore."
"Keep your chin up, Baron," Dmitry tried to inject some energy into his voice. "You’re the last lord of Rotten Hill. You need to be resilient. The burden of power has landed on you, and you have to handle it."
"I’ve already 'handled' it," Cohen said with a bitter smirk, finally turning toward Dmitry. "My castle looks like a stable, my people have fled, and any passerby can slap me across the face like I’m a swineherd. No amount of pride helped me avoid that. My grandfather is turning in his grave."
"Don’t compare yourself to him. Compare yourself to me," Dmitry leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "Back where I came from, I had everything. Thousands of subordinates, immense wealth, real power. But I was a coward. I couldn't carry that weight forever. So I built the Ark and fled."
Cohen sat up, looking at the stranger with disbelief. "You ran away... and yet you’re pushing me into this game? You have no moral right, Master Dmitry!"
"Maybe. Но от моего решения не зависели жизни людей. My parents' legacy is alive—I handed control to my uncle. I know that everything my father created won't vanish or become prey for vultures. You won’t have that luxury. As soon as the chance arises, your neighbors will slit your throat. Or poison you. Or just hang you from your own gates and carve up your grandfather’s lands like a trophy. Is that what you want? I don't think so. You need an alliance with someone who can offer protection. Be wise. Acknowledge your weaknesses."
Silence fell over the room. Cohen stared at his hands for a long time before looking up. Something had shifted in his gaze—youthful resentment had given way to a cold realization.
"You sound exactly like my grandfather... He lectured my father the same way. Perhaps you're right, Master Dmitry. I’ll follow your advice and listen to Hoof."
Cohen stood up. Despite his rags, there was something solemn, almost regal, in his posture. "I am ready to accept my fate. The gods know I did everything I thought was right. Now, I am ready to trust in providence."
Dmitry stood as well and gave the Baron a firm clap on the shoulder. "Less tragedy in the voice, Your Lordship! Besides, you’re getting a wife."
Dmitry gave a sly wink, and Cohen instantly turned bright red, losing all his regal composure. "Is she... at least pretty?"
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"I don't know. Last time I saw her was ten years ago."
"That makes it even more interesting, doesn't it?" Dmitry asked with a smile, heading for the door.
Cohen followed, but at the threshold, he caught Dmitry’s sleeve. "Master Dmitry, one more thing. Never hit me again."
Dmitry turned and looked at him with total seriousness. "I promise."
Half an hour later, Bruno, Dmitry, and Cohen were seated in a covered wagon that resembled a coach. Claude sat high on the driver's seat, handling the horses, while Hans was left behind—the old soldier felt out of place during such "diplomatic" missions.
Before leaving, Dmitry and Cohen had managed a quick wash in a vat in Bruno's backyard. There, Dmitry saw his first undeniable display of magic: at the bottom of the vat pulsed a stone etched with strange symbols. According to Bruno, this stone purified and heated the water. Noting another anomaly of this world, Dmitry washed quickly, finally feeling human again. He made a point of wiping the dust and dried mud off his clothes—luckily, the high-grade fabric was easy to clean.
Soon they were rolling through Nordcross, the iron-rimmed wooden wheels rattling over the stones. Shock absorbers were unheard of here, making the trip a physical ordeal for Dmitry’s back. He counted the seconds until they stopped, jaw clenched, not even looking out the window. Finally, they came to a halt.
The three of them stepped out near a narrow alley. The weather remained the same: a leaden sky, air thick with peat smoke, and a miserable drizzle leaking from the roofs. Bruno, hunching his shoulders, stepped into a side street, with Dmitry and Cohen following close behind. The moneylender opened the first door he came to and vanished inside. Dmitry, entering after him, noted the lack of a sign or a storefront. Once inside, however, it was clear: a clothing shop, though they had entered through the warehouse.
The place was a maze of crates and bales; shelves lined the walls, packed with bolts of fabric. Passing through this labyrinth, the trio reached a small hallway. Bruno suddenly barked: "Portir! Where are you?!"
Dmitry flinched at the sudden volume. A slightly plump man of short stature with a balding head emerged from one of the doors. He was dressed neatly in a closed vest over a shirt with puffed sleeves. A flurry of emotions crossed his soft face—fear, surprise, and then a practiced, oily smile.
"Master Bruno! What a pleasure! Though I must admit, I wasn't expecting you yet—it's not time for the payment. How can I serve you?"
"I'm not here for money, Portir. But don't forget the debt! Dress Baron Cohen Prast," Bruno gestured toward the boy, "so that he shines like a new gold coin. And do it fast! Am I making myself clear?"
"Yes, yes! Of course!" The man nodded frantically.
Seizing Cohen by the arm, he practically dragged him further down the hall and vanished behind a door. Seeing the confusion on Dmitry’s face, Bruno explained: "He’s a debtor. This shop was built with my gold, and he’s... reluctant to pay it back."
"You should have brought Claude with you," Dmitry remarked. "He’s a very persuasive argument in these kinds of talks."
Bruno chuckled dryly. "He-he-he, Master Dmitry, there is no need. I can provide my own leverage. Few fools are brave enough to anger a fire mage."
A look of genuine surprise crossed Dmitry's face. He hadn't expected this from the old moneylender.
"Don't be so shocked," Bruno continued. "The fact that I'm not in the guild and live like a hermit can be misleading. Guild politics are nauseating; I prefer the honest clink of coins."
"To each their own," Dmitry noted philosophically. He kept the rest to himself, though the urge to grill the man for more details was itching at the back of his mind.
They leaned against the wall in silence for a while until Cohen reappeared, accompanied by the tailor. He looked like a completely different person. Everything had been replaced, down to the boots. The Baron wore a tailored doublet of heavy midnight-blue wool, lined with silk. The fabric was so dark it looked black until the candlelight hit it, revealing a deep sapphire hue. Along the stand-up collar and cuffs ran a delicate embroidery of silver thread—a strict geometric pattern. Beneath the doublet was a snow-white shirt with a stiff collar, and he wore matching slim trousers and high boots of matte black leather. Only the snow-lion fur cloak remained, but on the shoulders of the poised, elegantly dressed youth, it no longer looked like a savage’s rag—it was a formidable symbol of an ancient house.
"There, Master Bruno! The finest fabric, the most delicate work! Just as you asked. If the order hadn't been so rushed, I could have tailored the fit better, but alas. I had to use what was ready-made."
"It'll do," Bruno cut him off. "Cohen, you actually look like a man of standing. You favor your father in his youth. Now that we’re ready—let's move."
Another agonizing bout of rattling in the carriage, more back pain, and finally, they stopped. Stepping out, Dmitry saw a massive stone wall about three meters high and enormous wrought-iron gates. Thick twisted bars, intricate patterns, and metal statuary woven into the wings—everything was designed to intimidate anyone standing before it.
"We're here," Bruno commented.
Cohen stood beside Dmitry, and despite the sheen of his new clothes, his face was as grim as a thundercloud. Dmitry gave him a firm pat on the shoulder. "Get it together. You’re a Baron, not a sacrificial lamb."
A wicket gate opened, and a man in a crisp yellow-and-red livery appeared. His posture and manners signaled a well-trained servant. "Please, gentlemen, follow me. Master Oliver is expecting you with great impatience."
He led the guests through a massive courtyard in front of an exquisite manor. "Oliver?" Dmitry asked Bruno quietly. "Oliver van der Hoof," Bruno muttered.
Around them stretched a manicured park: fountains, sculptures, gazebos. On the manor's porch stood a tall, corpulent man. Dmitry noted that his outfit was ostentatiously expensive: a heavy crimson velvet coat, embroidered so densely with gold thread that the fabric looked weighted. Massive rings with precious stones adorned his thick fingers, and a gold chain the width of a thumb hung around his neck.
The man’s face was an alarming shade of red, and his eyes were bloodshot. "His blood pressure must be north of two hundred," Dmitry noted, recalling his first-aid training. "Flushed face, shortness of breath... Classic hypertension. He’s a heart attack waiting to happen."
As the group reached the stairs, Hoof—Dmitry had no doubt it was him—took a few steps forward, arms open wide with a broad, toothy smile. "Welcome to my humble home!" his voice was loud and sharp.
His dark eyes flicked over Bruno, appraised Cohen, and then settled searchingly on Dmitry, lingering on his unusual jacket and gear. "I promise you every hospitality under my roof!"
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