Olekyr dropped his hands, watching as Velymyra forced the power to flow through her bones and then her muscles. Her body pulsed in rhythm with her heart, but she kept everything under control. The power didn't spill out or erupt outward—it flowed evenly and gently, filling her from within. A few more breaths, and she opened her eyes, slowly releasing the tension.
"So that's what it feels like," she said, catching her breath. "And I thought they were just recklessly measuring their strength. It's... surprisingly pleasant."
She stood up, stretching her shoulders. Her cloak shifted, revealing a shirt soaked with sweat that clung to her body. Velymyra didn't even try to cover herself—she just looked at him with that special gaze where indifference wrestled with tenderness, almost adoration.
"How was it for you?" she asked, as if in passing.
"Enchanting," he replied curtly, but there was satisfaction in his voice.
She felt her cheeks betray her with a flush. "You always say that like it's nothing," she murmured quietly.
"Because it's true," he smiled faintly. "And I think we can end it here."
"What?" Her voice sharpened.
"You don't need my guidance anymore. And there's nothing left here to hold me."
Velymyra took a step forward. "What are you talking about?!"
"You know perfectly well," his voice remained even. "I'm a threat to Ratibor."
"I can protect you, I—" she began, but he stepped closer and embraced her.
"I know," he said softly. "I know. But I don't need that. I don't want to be tied to this fortress."
She froze in his arms, neither pushing him away nor responding. Her hands remained still; only her breathing betrayed her agitation.
"Then I'll go with you," she finally whispered. "I need your guidance as much as you need mine."
She looked at him with hope she couldn't conceal.
Olekyr stepped back and shook his head. "No. You're needed here. Someone has to look after him."
He shifted his gaze to the crystal lying in the center of the hall, reflecting the dim light.
"It must not fall into the wrong hands," he added, and his voice carried finality.
Olekyr looked at Velymyra, who seemed to begin understanding something. He felt he should step forward, say or show something important, but instead he withdrew. He ignored her displeased look and slightly pouting face and, without looking back, left the Underchamber.
"I'll be waiting," came a barely audible whisper behind him.
He smiled without stopping.
"I know."
Outside the hall, Myrolana was already waiting for him. In one hand she held a jug of milk, in the other a cup. When he approached, she handed him the cup but kept the jug. Their fingers barely touched, and that touch made her shoulders tense as if from sudden cold.
Olekyr took a few sips, feeling the thick warmth of the milk, and, without taking his eyes off her, asked, "Well, how is it?"
"Warm," she replied after a short pause, trying to maintain a detached tone. "Though you wouldn't guess it."
Her voice betrayed a slight tremor she tried to hide.
Olekyr gave her a careful look. The dress and shoes—his work, created for practice. Runes woven into the fabric and leather glowed softly under the torchlight, warming the body, enveloping it in soft warmth. She wasn't cold, even in the chill of the northern fortress. But for her, it was a trial: she had never worn anything like it before, with so much exposed skin.
She felt strangers' gazes sliding over her, and it cut deeper than any frost. It seemed everyone who passed by saw not the rune-adorned dress, but her—bare and defenseless. Her face remained calm, but her fingers, gripping the jug, betrayed her—the clay cracked faintly under the strain.
"They suit you," he said evenly, without a hint of mockery.
His words sounded simple, without hidden meaning, but that very simplicity made her heart beat faster. She looked away so he wouldn't see the flicker of confusion in her eyes.
She didn't object, didn't say anything against it. She herself had agreed to be his servant and now had to endure that role. Even if deep down she felt shame, even if every gaze from those around her felt like a judgment.
Her hands trembled, but she didn't let go of the jug. On the contrary, she gripped it tighter, as if trying to maintain balance. And in that tension, in that silence, there was more submission than in any words.
"Myrolana, we leave today. Take only the essentials."
"Already time?"
Olekyr only nodded, saying nothing more. His gaze was direct, but held neither hesitation nor explanations. The girl nodded attentively in response and, gripping the jug so tightly it cracked faintly again, headed to the rooms to warn the others.
Olekyr went up to the second floor. The stone stairs echoed dully under his steps, and each footfall seemed heavier than usual. He knew: ahead awaited a conversation he couldn't avoid.
The door to Boryviter's bedroom was ajar. Inside, a fat lamp burned—its light was dim, yellowish, smelling of smoke and leaving soot on the walls. In the capital, such rooms would have pure wax candles, but here in the fortress, there was no wax. Fat, however, was always plentiful.
Boryviter sat at a heavy, roughly hewn table. There was no paper, ink, or pen—luxuries available only in the capital. Here, they were replaced by other materials: treated leather, dried blood, bone sharpened enough to write with. It all looked less like stationery and more like remnants of a sacrifice transformed into tools of power.
Olekyr stopped at the threshold and heard Ratibor's voice. It sounded sharp, almost rising to a shout:
"He humiliates me! In front of everyone! You see, Father, he respects neither me nor my rights. How long will you tolerate this?"
Boryviter replied more calmly, but his tone carried weariness: "You're too hot-headed, Ratibor. He's your brother. And everything he does, he does not against you, but for his own path."
"Path?" Ratibor slammed his fist on the table, and the lamp trembled, casting shadows across the walls. "This isn't a path, it's a challenge! He's a threat to me, to my dignity. If you don't do something now, he'll take everything from me."
"He won't take it," Boryviter said evenly, but his voice sounded as if he were trying to convince not only his son but himself. "He isn't seeking power."
"You're blind!" Ratibor stood up. "He's already taken my respect. Next will be my place. I won't allow it."
Olekyr didn't hear everything, but he caught enough: "humiliates," "threat," "won't allow." He understood the essence.
He pushed the door wider and entered without waiting for an invitation. "That's exactly what I came to talk about," his voice cut through the silence that had fallen after Ratibor's last words.
Boryviter raised his head; Ratibor turned sharply.
"I'm not going to take your place, brother," Olekyr said firmly. "But I won't stay here. We leave today. Me, Yaroslava, Myroslava, and Myrolana. We're leaving the fortress."
His words fell like a stone into water. The room grew even quieter than before. Only the fat lamp crackled, casting soot on the walls, and on the table, dark stains of blood and leather seemed to listen to the conversation.
Boryviter was silent for several seconds, breathing heavily. His shoulders were tense; his fingers gripped the edge of the table so tightly the bones turned white. He didn't want to lose a promising warrior, a son in whom he saw the strength and future of the fortress. But he also understood: keeping him by force would break what made Olekyr who he was. Finally, he nodded slowly.
"If that's your choice... and theirs too, I won't hold you. Go," Boryviter said slowly, as if each word weighed more than the stones in the fortress walls.
Ratibor shot up so abruptly that his chair slid back and screeched gratingly across the stone floor. His face twisted with rage, his jaw clenched, and his eyes burned like those of a cornered beast.
"You're making a mistake, Father!" he exclaimed, his voice breaking into a shout. "He's betraying you, betraying all of us! You're letting him go, and he'll return with power we can't stop!"
Boryviter raised a hand, stopping him. The movement was slow, but it carried authority that needed no shouting.
"Enough," he said evenly, and his voice held steel beyond doubt. "My word is final."
"Final?" Ratibor nearly choked on indignation. "You're giving him everything that should be mine! You're letting him trample my dignity!"
Boryviter leaned forward, his gaze heavy as stone.
"I'm giving him nothing. He's leaving, and that's his choice. And your dignity, Ratibor, depends not on him, but on you."
Ratibor clenched his fists so hard the bones cracked.
"You're blind, Father. He's already taken my respect. Next will be my place."
"If you're afraid of losing your place," Boryviter replied coldly, "then you're not yet ready to occupy it."
Silence hung between them, heavy and suffocating. The fat lamp crackled, casting shadows that flickered across the walls like echoes of their argument.
Ratibor turned away sharply, his chest heaving with heavy breaths. He kicked the chair aside, and it screeched again on the stone. "You'll regret this," he hissed and stormed toward the door.
Boryviter didn't respond. Only his eyes remained fixed on his son, and they held more weariness than anger.
Ratibor gritted his teeth, his chest rising and falling heavily. He shoved the chair aside and left the room; the door slammed against the wall so hard the fat lamp shuddered and cast swirling shadows. Olekyr nodded briefly to his father and followed.
The corridor met him with cold and silence. The stone underfoot was damp, and the echo of footsteps spread in long waves. Ahead, near the turn, stood Ratibor. He turned, and his eyes burned with the fire of offense and hatred.
"I challenge you!" he shouted, and his voice echoed through the corridor, bouncing off the stone walls. He lunged forward without hesitation.
Olekyr didn't even stop. His movement was precise and cold as a blade strike. One sharp shove to the chest knocked the air from Ratibor's lungs. He gasped, bent over as if struck by a hammer, and fell to his knees, vainly trying to breathe. His fingers scraped across the stone, leaving scratches.
Olekyr leaned down to him. His voice was quiet, almost a whisper, but each word cut like a knife:
"Get ready. I'll be back."
He straightened up, his figure blocking the torchlight for a moment, and walked on without looking back. Only the echo of his footsteps and Ratibor's heavy, ragged breathing filled the corridor. The stone seemed even colder, the silence even heavier.
Olekyr stepped into the courtyard, and the evening chill met him like the breath of another world. The air was fresh but heavy, saturated with dampness and the scent of stone that had absorbed years of blood and sweat.
They were already waiting for him. Yaroslava, Myroslava, and Myrolana stood by the gates, each with a small bundle on their backs. In those bundles was everything they could afford to take: smoked monster meat that wouldn't spoil; leather flasks of brew; a few shirts; tanned hides that would serve as blankets.
All three were wrapped in leather cloaks. They looked heavy, coarse, but reliable. And each wore theirs in their own way.
Yaroslava stood straight, her figure tense, but determination shone in her eyes. She didn't look back at the fortress walls—for her, the farewell had already happened. In her gaze was something more than readiness: it was a quiet pride that she was walking beside him, and the confidence that this path was right.
Myroslava kept glancing back. She didn't think of the fortress as hostile—on the contrary, the unknown of the outside world frightened her. But fear didn't stop her. She was ready to follow her son, even if it meant leaving the stone that once seemed safe. Anxiety trembled in her eyes, but her steps remained steady.
Myrolana looked ahead, wrapped in her cloak not for warmth but to shield herself from prying eyes. Her movements were restrained but attentive: she assessed the space, the people in the courtyard, even the guards at the gates. There was no fear in her gaze—only cold caution and accepted submission.
Olekyr stopped before them. He was silent, studying each of them. And each met his gaze in their own way: Yaroslava with directness, Myroslava with trembling doubt, Myrolana with hidden obedience.
Then Yaroslava stepped forward and handed him his cloak. Myrolana, without a word, passed him his bundle. It was their silent sign of agreement and trust.
"Let's go," he said at last. His voice was quiet, but there was no hesitation in it.
No one replied. They moved after him—one after another, like shadows detaching from the walls.
As they approached the gates, two guards crossed their spears, blocking the path. The iron clinked, and the sound cut through the courtyard's silence.
"You won't go further," said one, the younger, with a sly squint. "Orders."
Myrolana leaned closer to Olekyr, her voice quiet but sharp as a blade:
"These are Ratybor's men. His lackeys."
Olekyr unclasped his cloak and drew out a symbol—a sign everyone in the fortress knew, one that should open the gates without question. He raised it so both guards could see.
"This is enough," his voice was even and firm.
But the guards only exchanged glances and shrugged mockingly. The older one, with a thick beard, smirked crookedly:
"Nice trinket. But who's to say the voivode ordered you to go?"
"You know well this sign is genuine," replied Olekyr, and steel entered his voice.
The younger one leaned in mockingly, squinting as if examining it.
"Maybe the sign... or maybe a fake. Without witnesses to confirm your word, we won't open the gates."
Yaroslava stepped forward, her eyes flashing.
"You dare question the symbol of authority? You dare place the voivode's word below rumors?"
The guards didn't back down. They stood like stone, but insolence shone in their eyes.
People had gathered around—servants, a few guards, even some women with buckets. Everyone watched, but no one interfered. The silence was heavier than a shout.
Olekyr took a step forward, and the spear tips stopped a breath from his chest.
"Do you truly wish to stand between me and my path?" his voice was low, but threat simmered in it.
Tension at the gates thickened like before a storm. The guards instinctively tensed, their spears trembling in their hands but not advancing. One swallowed, the other glanced at Ladomyra as if seeking rescue. His shoulders tightened, and another moment—he would have shoved the guards aside by force.
But suddenly, Ladomyra emerged from the shadow of the tower. Her steps were quiet, but everyone in the courtyard felt their weight. She approached and laid a hand on Olekyr's shoulder. The touch was gentle, almost maternal, but held an authority that halted his movement.
"Don't," she said softly, so only he could hear. "This isn't your fight."
Then her gaze fell on the guards. And the voice that had just sounded gentle became hard as steel: "He has Boryvytra's permission. And Velymyra's blessing."
The guards froze. Their hands on the spear shafts twitched, but they didn't lower their weapons.
Ladomyra took a step closer, and her eyes flashed with cold fire. "If you dare oppose this, you'll not only scorn the voivode's word but invoke the wrath of the sorceresses. And then you'll learn what true punishment is. Fire that burns not the body but the soul. A shadow that follows you even in sleep. You'll have nowhere to flee."
Her words fell like hammer blows. The courtyard froze. The gathered people averted their eyes, as if afraid to even witness the scene. One of the women crossed herself, one of the warriors instinctively touched the amulet on his neck. A muffled whisper passed through the crowd and died as quickly as it arose.
The younger guard paled, his lips trembled, and he lowered his eyes as if afraid to meet her gaze. The older one tried to hold his ground, but his fingers clenched the shaft convulsively, and a drop of sweat rolled down his forehead. They stood, but everyone saw: fear had already broken them.
Ladomyra held them with her gaze a moment longer until they stepped back and parted their spears. Only then did she turn back to Olekyr. Her hand left his shoulder as quietly as it had settled.
"Now go," she said softly. "The path is open."
Olekyr nodded, but before he moved forward, Ladomyra stopped him with a slight gesture. A faint smile appeared on her face.
"Ah, I almost forgot," she said, and warmth, almost homely, tinged her voice. "A farewell gift from Velymyra."
She drew a paper envelope from under her cloak. Its surface gleamed dully in the torchlight: protective runes shimmered along the edges, and Velymyra's symbol shone clearly at the center.
Ladomyra handed it to Olekyr.
"It will help you," she said quietly, but loud enough for those still nearby to hear.
Olekyr accepted the envelope carefully, as if holding not paper but something alive. He gave a short nod, and that was enough.
The courtyard sank into silence again. Only the gates, slowly swinging open, creaked, seeing them off into the darkness of the outside world.
The gates closed behind their backs with a dull thud, and the sound echoed long, like a final warning.
They moved forward. The road led downward into the valley, where night fog swirled between the hills. The wind drove it in tatters, and they clung to the cloaks like cold hands.
The fortress was still visible behind—a dark silhouette on the hill, with lights in the towers trembling like stars doomed to fade. From time to time, one of them cast an anxious glance back: the walls stood unmoving, but in their silence, one felt the indifference of stone that knows no pity.
It seemed that eyes from the dark embrasures and narrow windows watched them go—cold, hostile, alien. Some looked with hidden malice, others with an indifference that was even more frightening. And every step forward felt like a challenge to those gazes.
No one spoke a word of farewell, but in the silence of the road, it sounded on its own. The stone was left behind, and with it—the years that had held them within.
Ahead, the forest loomed black. Its crowns swayed in the wind, and it seemed to breathe itself, waiting for them. The road was narrow, damp, in places covered with roots bulging from the ground like bones.
They walked in silence. Only the creak of straps, the clink of metal, and the breath of the wind accompanied their movement. Step by step, their rhythm evened, and the silence of the road became their only companion.
The fortress remained visible for a long time behind, but no longer as a home—as a shadow watching their backs.
The road led them deeper into the forest. The wind died down, and the silence grew heavier. Tree branches intertwined overhead, blocking the sky, and only the dim moon broke through the cracks, casting silver patches on the ground.
Suddenly, a howl sounded in the darkness. Distant, drawn-out, it cut through the night like a knife. Then a second, closer. Then a third.
Olekyr stopped. His hand fell to the hilt of his sword.
"Lyutovovky," he said quietly.
Eyes glinted from the darkness between the trees. First a few pairs, then dozens. They shone with yellow fire, and it seemed the forest itself had come alive to encircle them.
The pack emerged from the shadows. The wolves were larger than ordinary ones, their backs covered in matted fur, their maws gleaming with saliva. They moved in unison, heads low, and each step echoed like a heartbeat.
One lunged forward but stopped a few paces away, growling and baring its fangs. The others began to tighten the circle.
The flame of the torch Yaroslava held wavered in the wind, and its light reflected in the beasts' eyes. The fire restrained them slightly, but not for long.
"Stay together," Olekyr snapped. "They're testing us."
The wolves growled, circled, and every movement was tense, ready to spring. The forest breathed with them, and the night had become a trap.
The first wolf lunged, and at that moment Olekyr raised his hand. The air around him trembled, and dozens of thin, nearly invisible ice needles shot from his fingers. They scattered into the darkness like a swarm of wasps and struck the beasts' eyes. Several lyutovovky howled, leaping back, blinded by pain. But not all needles found their mark—some embedded themselves in tree trunks with a dry crack, leaving thin gleaming trails in the bark that soon shattered into fragments, falling to the ground like shards of glass.
Olekyr clicked his tongue, annoyed at his own imprecision, but didn't stop. His hands moved faster, and new needles showered the pack like cold rain. He tried to control the power, to make it obey, but chaos still lingered in every motion—some needles again struck trees, scattering bark and leaving icy wounds on the trunks.
Behind him, Yaroslava acted differently. She created only a few ice arrows, but each was heavy, sharp, and flew true to her will. The arrows cut through the air with a dull whistle and took the lives of the lyutovovky: one fell with a pierced throat, another howled and tumbled into the grass, a third recoiled but already broke under the weight of its wound. Sensing the rhythm of battle, she increased the number of arrows—first three, then four, five—and each found its target. She seemed to compete with Olekyr, proving her magic was no less dangerous than his.
The wolves closed in. Two broke through too close, and then Olekir changed tactics: from clenched-fist cold, an ice glaive was born—long, balanced, with a blade that reflected the moonlight. He took half a step forward and struck flat, knocking the first wolf off its paws, then sharply hacked at the second, throwing it aside. When the third leaped straight at his chest, Olekir spun the glaive and parried the blow with the shaft, and as he turned back, he sliced the air in a thin semicircle, forcing the beast to jump back, snarl, and bleed from its snout.
Meanwhile, Yaroslava swept her hand, and a semicircle of ice grew around them—a row of spikes and sharpened steles forming a protective arc. At the entrance to this semicircle, in the narrow passage, stood Olekir, holding the glaive like a gate barrier. Every wolf that tried to break through this passage met the blade or the shaft, and the ice around rang from the blows, like thin glass that doesn't shatter but only sings.
Meanwhile, Myroslava and Myrolana clung to each other. Myroslava, trembling, repeated through tears: "We shouldn't have come… we shouldn't have left the walls…"
Her voice broke, her lips quivered, and her eyes were full of fear. She squeezed her sister's hand so tightly that her bones ached.
Myrolana, however, stayed silent. Her eyes quickly scanned the darkness, tracking the pack's movements, counting the distance, assessing where the next strike would come from. She stayed low to the ground, as if ready to dart aside at any moment. Her gaze was cold and attentive, nothing like Myroslava's despair.
Olekir, deflecting another leap in the passage, caught this gaze out of the corner of his eye. And then, amid the chaos of battle, amid the snarling and howling, he smiled faintly—briefly, almost imperceptibly, but sincerely.
The pack pressed, but the semicircle held. Yaroslava's ice arrows struck from behind their backs, Olekir's glaive hacked and threw back the nearest wolves, and the night rang with ice, blood, and fury. This was only the first wave.