"Not in close battle shall Yaromir fall, not in the wide field where blades clash and sing. The iron bird shall whistle in the sky, the treacherous arrow shall find the prince. Thus shall his glorious path be broken, thus shall his foreordained fate be fulfilled."

The words of the old volkhv, cast forth on the day when the druzhina proclaimed him knyaz’, drummed in Yaromir’s ears as he ran through the winter forest. Branches lashed at his face, breath burst from his chest in ragged clouds. His shoulder burned, cracked wide with pain: a Khazar arrow was buried deep, and his left arm no longer obeyed him. Yet he drove himself onward, refusing to let his legs falter.

The snow swallowed him to the knees; each movement tore strength from him. But Yaromir knew these woods, knew every gully, every path. He was a prince, but first—he was son of this land. In the forest he was no hunted beast, but a hunter, skilled at masking his trail, confusing his foe, vanishing into the white haze.

Behind him rose the barking of voices—the chase pressed close. His men had remained there, in the ambush, where they fell beneath the arrows. Good warriors, loyal friends—and all were dead. His heart clenched with rage, but reason whispered: live, knyaz’, else their sacrifice will turn to dust. Yaromir ground his teeth. No. He had not believed the mutterings of that ancient volkhv then, nor did he believe them now. Princes do not fall to an arrow loosed in the back. They fall by the blade in honest combat, or in old age—with honor, surrounded by clan and druzhina. His life could not be broken here, in a snowbound forest, like that of some beaten beast.

Snow kept falling, covering his tracks. Yaromir, scarcely able to stand, paused often to listen. The hollow woods were silent, only far away an owl called. It meant the hunters had lost him. He knew: it would not last long.

Then he noticed it: in the frosty air, above the scent of pine and blood, drifted something other. Smoke. Faint, almost hidden, but true. Human. He stopped, caught his breath, and listened again. Yes—someone was near. Somewhere in the thicket a dwelling stood.

Cautiously Yaromir followed the scent, circling and twisting to hide his trail. Branches scratched his face, snow crunched under boots, his shoulder throbbed with pain. Yet after several turns between the pines it showed itself: a dark roof, a sagging wall, and half-buried in drifts, a low house. Lonely, forgotten, yet warm—a thin thread of smoke rose from its chimney.

The knyaz’ halted, drawing breath. These were his lands, his people. Here he might find aid—or a knife in the back, if the dweller proved an enemy. But choice was gone.

He climbed the steps, struck his fist upon the door.

“Open,” he said, hoarse yet firm. “Knyaz’ Yaromir asks for shelter.” And he stood still, straining to the sounds within the wall, to his own heart, beating louder than any pursuit.