**The Birth of Kolvan**
*"Woe to him who builds a town with blood and founds a city on iniquity!"* (Habakkuk 2:12).
– Avvakum Petrov (1620–1682), archpriest, leader and ideologist of the Old Believers, writer.
**Harold’s Forbidden Love**
In the ancient, faded yet still mighty castle of Elsinore, a forgotten, sorrowful tale lingers. Here, within these walls—once silent witnesses to the tragedy of Prince Hamlet, immortalized by Shakespeare’s pen—another legend unfolded. A legend of forbidden love, a sister’s sacrifice, and the miraculous birth of the fair land of Kolvan.
Harold, a prince of royal blood, had always felt like an outsider amidst courtly intrigues. His true passion lay in the world of art and literature; he spent hours in the castle library, finding solace in the quiet wisdom of books. Behind his cold façade of indifference hid a soul yearning for true beauty and profound understanding.
One day, during a solitary walk through the royal gardens, fate brought him face to face with Nils, a young artist from the Guild of Saint Luke. Nils’ free spirit and fiery nature, reflected in his vivid paintings, ignited a long-smoldering flame in Harold’s heart. For the first time, he felt truly seen—not as a high-ranking noble, but as a man. Their friendship quietly deepened into affection, then into a forbidden love that blossomed despite all dangers.
They met in secret, savoring every stolen moment, yet the shadow of discovery loomed over them. Their hidden trysts continued for months, filled with trembling anticipation and fear. The scent of blooming roses mingled with their perfumes, dizzying their senses, while their touches sent shivers through their bodies. One moonlit night, as they met in a secluded corner of the castle, their hearts beat as one—as if sensing impending doom. Suddenly, the night’s silence was shattered by the creak of a door, and the shadow of a guard fell upon them like a death sentence. Their eyes met, filled with terror and despair. Their secret was out.
News of the prince’s forbidden love spread like poison ivy, creeping through every corridor of the castle. Whispers echoed from the stables to the throne room. Harold’s world crumbled.
King Valdemar IV Estridesen of Denmark sat in his gloomy study, clutching his head. His heart was like a shattered mirror, reflecting pain and despair. His beloved daughter, Princess Astrid, had sacrificed her honor to save her brother, falsely confessing to incest. She claimed she had spent that fateful night with Harold, pretending in the dark to be a servant—thus providing him an alibi. If she had been with him, he could not have been with a man, sparing him accusations of sodomy. But the king knew the truth: his son was guilty of loving another man, a grave sin and crime in those times.
Valdemar closed his eyes, trying to steady his racing heart. How could he choose between his children? On one hand, Astrid—his tender, selfless daughter—deserved justice and protection. Her sacrifice was so immense that even the thought of it brought unbearable pain. On the other, Prince Harold, heir to the throne, the future of the kingdom. If the truth came out, it would spell disaster for the Estridesen dynasty, which Valdemar had sworn to protect.
The king lifted his head, his gaze falling upon the portraits of his ancestors lining the walls. Their stern faces seemed to condemn his weakness. The tormented father made his decision: he would choose bloodline over happiness. The weight of this choice crushed him.
When the heralds, with drumbeats echoing, read the decree in the square, the crowd fell into stunned silence. People listened with frozen faces; many wept.
*"Poor Astrid,"* whispered a young girl, clutching a flower to her chest. *"She was always so kind to us common folk."*
*"And her father… may the Lord forgive him,"* muttered an old man, crossing himself. *"He always shielded us from the jarls’ tyranny. And now… they say he accused his own daughter to save his son. I can’t believe King Valdemar would do such a thing…"* His voice broke, and he fell silent.
Instead of anger or protest, the crowd was overcome with grief. People knelt, praying for Astrid and for God to enlighten her father.
In the royal chambers, a tense silence reigned, broken only by the murmurs of priests. Physicians hovered over the pale king, bleeding him of his "black blood," believing they could master the monarch’s fate. An unspoken mourning fell over the kingdom—all classes drowned in genuine sorrow.
**The White Swan’s Exile**
The *White Swan*, once a proud beauty of the seas, now disfigured and renamed the *Lost Soul*, drifted aimlessly in the open ocean. King Valdemar, watching it vanish into the mist, felt an icy hand clutch his heart. He had sacrificed his daughter Astrid to preserve the dynasty, turning her into a symbol of royal "justice."
The riches loaded onto the ship could not fill the void in his soul. He remembered her childhood smile, her tender embraces, her devoted gaze… and realized he had condemned her to a terrible fate at the mercy of the ruthless sea. The thought gnawed at him like a beast tearing at his flesh.
