The journey home always felt longer than the journey forth.
Or perhaps that was merely Albert's perception, seated in the swaying carriage, watching the granite peaks of Lanser Castle slowly sink behind the ridgeline, replaced by the gentle, burgeoning hills of Götthain beginning to bloom.
Albert pressed his palm against the wooden wall of the carriage, restraining himself from opening the window and inhaling the unfamiliar air.
Twelve days. Yes, longer.
Twelve days he had managed to restrain himself. No cigarettes, no substitutes, no adherence to the rituals that once sustained him between explosions and death. Twelve days his body had screamed for nicotine, and he had answered those screams with bitter chaga, exercise until muscles tore, and books on tedious history.
Twelve days. And for twelve—thirteen years he hadn't inhaled tobacco. If that plant existed in this world. If he could find it. If— His hand groped his waist, searching for a cigarette pack that had long ceased to exist. Empty.
Addiction was like an old monkey reluctant to release its grip on one's back.
Albert closed his eyes. Behind his lids, what appeared wasn't the carriage ceiling, but the solid ceiling of a soldier's rest area. The smell of diesel, gunpowder, and sweat. The sound of Dmytro chattering endlessly about his daughter. Ghost silently sharpening his knife, the hypnotic up-and-down motion.
"You never drink," Dmytro had said one night, pointing at the untouched vodka ration beside Albert. "Are you some kind of saint or what?"
"Not a saint," Dilan had answered back then, his eyes never leaving his battered phone displaying his parents' photo. "Just... following what I believe in."
"So what's your escape?"
Dilan hadn't answered. He'd simply pulled a cigarette from his bulletproof vest pocket, lit it, and let the smoke rise to the cracked concrete ceiling.
Dmytro had laughed. "Ah. Lung poison. I prefer vodka. At least you can vomit it up."
Two weeks later, Dmytro couldn't vomit anything. No vodka, no cigarettes, no pink bicycle for Diana. Only flesh mixed with concrete and iron.
Albert opened his eyes. His hand was still at his waist. Empty.
The carriage rattled onto the gravel path he knew well. The wheels' sound changed, from heavy rumbling over large stones to a soft whisper over loose soil. The scent of forest, earth, and woodsmoke began seeping through the window cracks.
Götthain.
He hadn't realized he'd been holding his breath until his lungs burned.
***
Castle Götthain greeted him not with Lanser's grandeur, but with warmth that required no pretense.
Lady Elara waited at the gate, her brown cloak billowing in the spring wind. She appeared thinner than Albert remembered, faint dark circles beneath her eyes—the traces of sleepless nights she never mentioned in her cheerful letters.
"Mother," Albert greeted, stepping down from the carriage. His voice was hoarse. The long journey.
Elara didn't respond with words. She grasped Albert's shoulders, pulling him into a tight, warm embrace, like a sun-dried blanket during rainy season.
"You're thin," she whispered in Albert's ear. "Didn't they feed you at Lanser?"
"They fed me too much, Mother," Albert replied, trying to sound light. "I had to train extra to avoid getting fat."
Elara laughed softly, but her arms didn't release their hold. "You're home. That's what matters."
Baron Friedrich emerged from the doorway, his stride firm though his face betrayed relief he didn't bother hiding. He shook Albert's hand—a strong grip, brief, laden with meaning.
"Your reports arrived," he said. "About the duel with Roland. Cedric. Earl Richard." He gazed at Albert with an intensity difficult to decipher. "You made an impression."
"Good or bad impression?"
Friedrich almost smiled. "Depends on whom you ask."
***
The first dinner at home was a comfortable silence.
Mushroom cream soup—the Götterbaum family's heirloom recipe—warm rye bread, slightly tangy local goat cheese.
No honey-glazed roast meats, no elaborate sauces, no excessive portions meant to flaunt status. Only home-cooked food prepared with love and a touch of concern. His mother had even cooked it all herself—with the servants' help, of course.
Albert spooned his soup slowly, letting the warmth creep into his empty stomach. Lady Elara occasionally glanced at him, smiled, then returned to her meal. Baron Friedrich read documents while eating—an old habit that once annoyed Albert, but now felt familiar and soothing.
For a few moments, Albert almost forgot the addiction gnawing at his nerves. Almost.
Then Lady Elara set down her spoon, gazed at Albert with hopeful eyes, and said,
"Albert, I've sent a messenger to Church Solisia. They've confirmed that the Rite of Purification can be conducted next month. I've begun preparations—garments, offerings, the required genealogy documents."
Albert's spoon froze mid-air.
"Mother," he said slowly, "I've only just turned thirteen this month."
"Spiritual age matters more than physical age," Elara responded quickly, as if she'd prepared this answer long ago. "The priests at Church Solisia have approved a dispensation. They read reports of your achievements—the black steel, the agreement with Lancaster—and they agree you've demonstrated sufficient maturity."
"Fifteen years is the traditional age," Albert said, striving to keep his tone calm. "There are reasons for that tradition, Mother. The human brain—the human soul—needs time to develop. Forcing the ritual too quickly—"
"This isn't force," Elara interrupted, and now a defensive note crept into her voice. "This is recognition. Of what you've accomplished. Of who you are." She reached for Albert's hand across the table. "You're not a little child anymore, Albert. You've proven that repeatedly. Let the world see it. Let them know that House Götterbaum has a worthy heir."
Albert stared at his mother's hand atop his. Warm. Dry. Trembling slightly.
In his mind, another voice screamed. You're not ready. This body isn't ready. Your soul may be old, but these bones are still a child's. And that ritual—an oath before a goddess you don't even believe in—it will bind you tighter than any contract.
But he couldn't say that to his mother. Not with that hopeful face and those dark circles beneath her eyes.
"Mother," he said, choosing his words carefully, "I understand your desire. Truly. But before I stand before the Goddess and the Kingdom, I want to... do something."
Elara frowned. "Something? What?"
Albert drew a breath. Now or never.
"A small farm," he said. "On the southern slope, near the water source. You know that land that's been unused since Uncle Harald—the best farmer in Götthain—retired. I want to cultivate it."
Baron Friedrich lifted his face from his documents. His eyebrow rose. "Farming? You want to become a farmer now?"
"Not a farmer. A researcher." Albert met his father's gaze. "There's a plant I want to try cultivating. Feltwort. Its leaves have... medicinal properties. I read about it in a Lanser manuscript."
It wasn't entirely false. He had indeed read about Feltwort in the Lanser library—a wild plant growing on dry slopes, often used as a cough remedy by village healers. No mention of cigarettes, cigars, or nicotine-like effects. That knowledge came from another life.
"Feltwort?" Elara frowned. "A wild weed? Albert, what does this have to do with the Rite of Purification?"
"Nothing directly," Albert admitted. "But that ritual... it's about spiritual journey, isn't it? About self-preparation. I want to prepare myself in a way that's meaningful to me. Not just donning new robes and reciting memorized oaths."
Silence. Elara and Friedrich exchanged glances.
"You're serious?" Friedrich finally asked.
"Deadly serious."
"How long?"
"A few months. For land preparation, planting, first harvest. I'll still fulfill my duties at the workshop, still train with Sir Gregor." Albert emphasized his words. "This is just... an additional project. Not a replacement for obligations."
Elara bit her lower lip—a nervous habit Albert had recognized since childhood. "Albert, Church Solisia has already prepared a schedule. The priests have agreed. If we delay—"
"We don't need to delay," Albert interjected quickly. "Just shift slightly. A few weeks, two months maximum. You could say I'm undergoing a period of spiritual preparation in my homeland. That would sound more pious than merely adhering to tradition."
Elara fell silent, considering. Friedrich returned to his documents, but the corner of his mouth lifted slightly—he was enjoying this performance.
"Very well," Elara finally said, with a half-surrender tone. "I'll send a letter to Church Solisia. But only two months, Albert. No longer."
"Thank you, Mother."
"But I don't understand," Elara continued, shaking her head. "Feltwort? That plant grows wild by roadsides. No one has ever cultivated it seriously. What do you want to do with it?"
Albert sipped his tea, considering his answer. Partial honesty.
"I want to research its properties," he said. "Potential applications. At Lanser, I read that properly fermented Feltwort leaves could produce a mild smoke that's... calming. Perhaps it could become an alternative treatment for those suffering from respiratory ailments. Or simply... a stress reliever that doesn't intoxicate."
Or for me, to keep from going mad at night, when memories of drones and explosions come dancing across the bedroom ceiling.
Elara still appeared doubtful, but she didn't argue further. Perhaps she was too tired to debate. Perhaps she was simply glad her son was home. Perhaps she saw something in Albert's eyes—something dark and hungry—and decided a small farm was a safer outlet than swords or warfare.
"Very well," she said again, more softly. "Feltwort. I'll speak with the land steward tomorrow. But you must explain this to me—truly explain—someday. I want to understand."
Albert nodded. "I Promise, Mother."
***
Two weeks later, the land on the southern slope began showing signs of life.
Albert stood at the field's edge, palms buried in his cloak pockets, gazing at rows of tiny seedlings planted just a week ago.
The soil here was fertile—more fertile than he'd anticipated. Perhaps because of its sheltered position from northern winds, or perhaps because Uncle Harald's prayers still permeated the earth.
Beside him, Borin grumbled while inspecting the wooden structure he'd built with reluctant enthusiasm.
"This is a drying shed, My Lord?" the blacksmith grumbled. "For 'magical leaves'? Looks more like a treehouse that lost its tree."
"Functional," Albert replied. "That's what matters."
"Functional." Borin snorted. "Words from a noble. Usually you lot prefer 'magnificent' and 'excessive'."
"I'm no ordinary noble."
Because of their close relationship, Borin's words were sometimes too honest.
Borin stared at him with narrowed eyes—the eyes he used when assessing iron quality from the smallest cracks. "No," he admitted. "You're not, My Lord."
A moment of silence. Borin shifted the hammer in his hand, then said, "These leaves. Can they really become medicine?"
Albert looked down at the seedlings. They were so small, so fragile. In two months, they'd grow knee-high. In three, they'd flower. And in four—
"Not medicine," he said. "Just... an outlet. A way to stay sane."
Borin asked nothing further. He merely nodded, then returned to inspecting the drying shed with the same critical eye he used for half-forged sword blades. But before leaving, he spoke to Albert—his expression rough, awkward, yet sincere.
"Tomorrow I'll bring fertilizer," he said. "Plants need nutrients."
That night, Albert sat on his windowsill, gazing at the small field on the southern slope, now merely a dark shadow beneath starlight.
His hand reached for his cloak pocket, searching for something. Empty.
"So what's your escape?"
Smoke.
"Lung poison."
Yes. Poison. But poison I know.
Dmytro died before finishing his vodka. Ghost died with his knife still in hand. Marko died screaming warnings.
And Dilan—Albert—still lived. Still addicted. Still searching for smoke in a world that didn't even know tobacco.
But Feltwort would grow. Its leaves would be dried, fermented, rolled with dried rose petals and a drop of honey. Its smoke would be mild, not as harsh as tobacco, not as sweet as Cuban cigars. But it would be his. Not inheritance, not gift, not historical accident.
A choice.
Albert drew a long breath, letting night air fill his lungs. Cold, clean, smokeless. Unsatisfying.
The field on the southern slope waited.
And he would wait with them.