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Previously: Finna Leið Vára
Warmth pooled on the flagstones where the sun had found a gap between cypress shadows. It made a small island of comfort in the stable yard, the sort of accidental mercy the city offered without meaning to. The one eyed kitten claimed it at once, folding herself into the light as if she had paid rent. The terrier, newly clean and still offended by the indignity of soap, circled twice with twitchy energy and then collapsed beside her with a sigh that sounded like surrender.
A laugh almost made it out. Almost.
The kitten’s ears were still damp. Her fur had fluffed unevenly, sticking up in soft peaks where the cloth had missed. She watched him with unblinking seriousness, as if measuring whether this household would keep its promises. The terrier kept trying to look casual about everything, which only made him look more ridiculous. He would not sit still. He had to be near the kitten, then near the trough, then near the door that led into the house, then back again, as if he feared the world might change while he blinked.
“Hlaupsæði,” he said under his breath, and the word tasted strange in Greek air. It pleased him anyway. Not as a name, not yet. As a description. As a small private borrowing from a man who took the future like a bite of bread, without flinching.
The terrier’s nails clicked as he darted toward the basin again, sniffed it with exaggerated suspicion, and then sprang away as if the water might attack. The kitten did not bother to lift her head. Her purr vibrated faintly, a rough little engine that seemed too large for her narrow ribs.
“Bold creature,” one of the stable hands murmured, half to himself.
“Too bold,” the groom’s boy answered, and then caught himself when he realized he was speaking freely in front of his master.
A look quieted them. Not sharp, not angry. Simply the kind of look that reminded everyone this house ran on order.
Order. Yes.
The problem was that order had begun to include things he had not planned.
The kitten rolled and exposed her belly to the sun like she had always belonged here. The terrier crawled closer and pressed his side against her with the devotion of a convert. Then, with a solemnity that made it absurd, he leaned forward and licked her once across the head. The kitten blinked, offended, and then tucked her nose into his shoulder as if she might allow it.
So that was how it would be. A house of soldiers and servants and quiet courtyards, and now also a kitten with a missing eye who had decided she owned the light, and a terrier who ran like his own shadow was chasing him.
A house that had been one way for a long time.
The thought of Vali arrived uninvited, as it had all day, and he did what he always did with intrusions. He tried to set it aside. A dinner invitation was a courtesy, a measured gesture, something that kept relations smooth. Nothing more.
Except the words had been spoken in an alley with stray fur against his throat and Vali’s knee pressed to his, and there had been no audience then but stone and hunger and the quiet truth of a man admitting the idea of leaving hurt.
Come to my villa this evening. Dine with me.
He had meant it. That was the part that would not be managed away.
Footsteps sounded from the corridor that led into the main house. Quick, purposeful. The steward appeared first, his face arranged into respectful calm and his hands full of tablets as if he had been born carrying them. Behind him came a kitchen servant, breathless and smelling faintly of garlic, and after them a stranger in a short cloak dusted with road grit, a leather dispatch case slung across his chest.
The stranger bowed, deep and exact. The steward did not announce him. There was no need. Only one kind of man arrived at a private villa with that posture, that urgency, and that carefully blank face.
A messenger.
The terrier startled at the new presence and shot behind his leg, growling. The kitten opened her remaining eye and regarded the newcomer with disdain, then went back to purring as if imperial business did not exist.
“Sir,” the messenger said, keeping his voice low, as if even the animals might report him. “From the Great Palace.”
A small motion invited him to speak. Nothing theatrical.
The messenger opened the dispatch case and produced a folded document sealed with wax. The seal was intact. The kind of seal that reminded a man exactly where he stood in the world. The steward took it first, as etiquette required, checked it with a glance that would have made a lesser man flinch, then passed it on. Wax broke with a soft crack. The parchment smelled faintly of smoke and storage, like half the palace.
The words were what he had expected for weeks. The Emperor had read his reports. The Emperor had decided.
An audience granted at last to the Rus.
Not invited. Granted.
A day and hour specified with precision. A hall named. A gate assigned. Language that left no space for negotiation. The court would be there. The men who smiled and counted. The men who listened only to what could be used.
He read it once. Then again, slower, noting the phrasing that placed obligation without courtesy. The Varangians were to present themselves. Their leaders were to attend. The liaison was to stand with them.
He would stand with them. Of course.
The messenger waited, eyes on the stone. The kind of man who delivered weight and then stepped aside before it crushed anyone.
“How widely is this known,” he asked.
“It will be by morning,” the messenger said. “If it isn’t already.”
Leontios sighed. He folded the document with care. Not because it deserved it, but because the seal demanded respect even when the words beneath it did not.
“Tell the chamberlain I have received the summons and will see it carried out,” he said. Leontios gave his steward a nod, and the man passed the messenger a few additional coins. “Keep this news to yourself.”
The messenger bowed and withdrew as he had come. Silence settled again. Not true silence. The small life sounds of the villa resumed, cautious at first, then steady. A broom brushed stone. A horse shifted in its stall. The terrier peered out from behind his leg and decided the danger had passed.
The kitten chose that moment to climb into his lap, hauling herself up with sharp little claws and absolute confidence. Her purr surged louder, vibrating against his palm as his hand moved automatically to her narrow back.
The summons should have taken precedence. It should have rearranged his thoughts, pulled the evening tight around its gravity. Instead, the first thing he felt was the kitten’s warmth, and the second was the certainty that he would tell Vali tonight, face to face, without ceremony or warning. Some things were not meant for messengers.
The steward cleared his throat softly. “Shall we continue, sir?”
“Yes,” Leontios said. “Tonight stands.”
The steward inclined his head, relief barely concealed. “Very good.”
“Prepare the courtyard,” he added. “If the wind holds, we will eat outside. Have the lamps ready. More than usual.”
The steward’s eyebrow flicked, then smoothed. “As you wish.”
“And a bath,” he said, because delay would undo him. “Heat the water.”
The steward departed, already translating intention into motion.
He sat another moment, the kitten settled in his lap like a verdict. The terrier crept closer and leaned against his shin, testing, then trusting. The city beyond the walls hummed on, indifferent to summons and dinners alike. He rose at last, and the kitten leapt down with a faint protest before reclaiming her sun patch. The terrier followed him, convinced movement meant purpose but then backed away when he realized more water was involved.
Steam had begun to gather in the bath chamber. Hot water poured into the basin with a low hiss. Oil waited in a clay jar. Fresh linen lay folded with care. The room smelled clean, simple, honest.
He undressed without haste. Habit guided his hands. Warm water had been poured and tempered already, clear and faintly scented with crushed olive leaf. He rinsed his hands first, then his forearms, rubbing away the last grit of the day before working oil between his palms and spreading it over his shoulders and chest, methodical as maintenance on stonework. A rough cloth followed, dragged firmly across skin to lift sweat and dust, then dipped and wrung before passing over his neck and behind his ears, places the grime liked to claim if given the chance. He washed his hair last, soap pressed in with short, practiced motions, head tipped forward as water sluiced clean again. When he straightened, he dried carefully, joints eased, breath steady, the quiet of the room a welcome reminder of normalcy.
Clean linen settled against skin still warm from the bath, the fabric smoothed flat with practiced hands before a belted tunic followed, heavier in the drape and chosen for how it sat across the shoulders rather than its color. Leather creaked softly as the belt was drawn snug and fastened, bronze catching a last slant of light from the courtyard. Boots were pulled on and set right, soles sound, uppers well kept. At the collar, fingers hesitated, then eased the cloth open a fraction, as if for comfort, as if the evening heat demanded it. Hair was combed back and oiled with more care than habit required. He faced his reflection only once, brief and critical, noting how the pale fabric lifted light into his face and sharpened the blue Vali had named him by. The thought was dismissed as unnecessary, yet the choice remained. Nothing glittered, nothing announced itself too loudly. He wore only a family signet ring. When the cloak was lifted and set aside for later, what stood ready was measured and intentional, a man telling himself this was only propriety while preparing, unmistakably, to be seen.
Vali would arrive at dusk. The Emperor had finally spoken. He would speak too, tonight, without intermediaries. When Leontios stepped back into the corridor, the house had changed again.
Cooking scents rolled through the villa now, rich and layered. Roasting meat, bread baking, onions softening in oil, herbs crushed into paste. Spice threaded through it all, unmistakable. The cook had chosen indulgence. He did not stop it.
In the courtyard, the low table stood ready. Benches wiped. Lamps placed but unlit. The sun dipped toward the Marmara, turning plaster gold and stretching shadows long.
The kitten watched him with her single eye, untroubled. The terrier chased his tail once, then collapsed with a satisfied grunt. Clearly they'd been fed while Leo bathed. He knew Vali would approve and the thought made him smile.
The day was folding itself into evening, whether he wanted it to or not. Somewhere beyond the walls, rumor would already be sharpening its knives. Here, within the quiet certainty of his home, the air grew warm with food and light. Lamps waited. The sun sank lower.
And Leontios knew, with uncomfortable clarity, that tonight was not merely a dinner.