As Ratko neared Vitale's workshop with Maksim in tow, he breathed heavily in a last-ditch effort to calm his nerves – to mentally prepare himself for King Nikolai.
Well… not himself, so much, but rather to prepare for the inevitability of having to come to Maksim aid. King Nikolai had never been met an advisory skilled enough to impress him upon the first meeting. More importantly, he had never been met with another skilled enough to not misstep even once upon the first meeting. Such a thing took not only a natural, unteachable instinct, but also immense practice.
And while Maksim seemed like a good kid, he was a doofus. A little hound pup with paws too big for him, bounding into a wolf den. Ratko took a moment to wonder if he ought to feel guilty over it, but only one. There was no use to reminiscing, now. The gods had a wicked sense of humor, and King Nikolai loved to indulge them.
