The battle had frozen. The snow underfoot was soaked with blood, and red stains spread across the white surface like ink on clean parchment. The bodies of the wolves steamed in the frosty air, and this steam mingled with the clouds of human breath.
The cold tightened their chests, each breath cut their lungs, and the silence of the winter forest was more terrifying than the growling. Branches coated in frost trembled at the slightest movement, and the icy wind pierced through, making fingers stiffen on weapon grips.
Suddenly, from the depths of the snow-covered thickets, a roar echoed. It was low and heavy, and even the ground under the thin layer of snow shuddered. The wolves froze, their yellow eyes flashing with fear.
Figures emerged from the darkness between the trees. Tall, twisted, with long limbs and maws that steamed in the frosty air. Their eyes glowed with a dim blue light, and each step left deep tracks in the snow. They bent over the bodies of the slain wolves and began tearing their carcasses apart, the crunch of bones echoing among the snow-covered trunks.
The snow around quickly reddened, and the white silence of the forest turned into a bloody arena.
Myroslava couldn't take it. She fell to her knees, her fingers convulsively clutching the snow, tearing it out in clumps. Her breathing faltered, her chest heaved in gasps, her eyes frozen in horror. "We shouldn't have come... we shouldn't have..." she whispered, but her words melted into sobs.
Before her mind's eye, her childhood flared up again: the fire devouring her home, the screams of her family, their faces disappearing in the smoke. She rocked back and forth, tears streaming down her cheeks, and she no longer saw the snow or the monsters—only the past that had washed over her like a wave.
Myrolana stood nearby, silent, cold, her eyes scanning the darkness, tracking the movements of the creatures. She didn't touch her sister, didn't take her eyes off the danger.
Oleksyr, holding his glaive, felt the frost creeping under his skin. His body was tense, ready to retreat. He knew: if these servants were here, the real pack might already be close.
Yaroslava nocked her arrows but didn't lower her hands. Her gaze was firm, though the air felt fragile with tension: one more move—and the bloody snow would swallow them all.
The younger master's servants began greedily tearing the wolves' bodies apart, paying no attention to the people. Their jaws crunched bones, and the snow around quickly turned into a bloody-black mush.
The wolves howled. Their eyes burned with fury—the outsiders' arrogance was unbearable. They closed into a new circle and, snarling, charged the creatures, even knowing it might be their end. Blow after blow, fur and blood flew in the air, and the winter forest filled with a new, even more terrifying battle.
Oleksyr saw his chance. He sharply turned, grabbed Myroslava, who was still trembling in panic, and almost forcibly set her on her feet.
"Run!" his voice was sharp as a glaive strike.
Yaroslava instantly understood his intent: her hands wove a gesture again, and several ice arrows hung in the air, covering their retreat. Myrolana, without a word, was already moving first, cutting a path through the snow and darkness.
Chaos rose behind their backs. Wolves and servants clashed in a bloody meat grinder: growls, roars, the crunch of bones, and howls merged into a single horrifying chorus. Snow flew in the air, mixed with blood, and even the frost-covered trees seemed to bend under the weight of the battle.
Oleksyr didn't look back. He knew: whoever looks back might not make the next step. His glaive gleamed with an icy sheen in his hands, ready to repel any attack if the monsters suddenly turned their attention to them.
"Faster!" he threw out, and their steps muffled the snow crunching underfoot.
They ran deeper into the winter forest, leaving behind the bloody arena where wolves and the younger master's servants tore each other apart. The snow crunched under their feet, the cold air cut their lungs, and a roadside stone, half-buried in a snowdrift, went unnoticed. Oleksyr didn't even glance at it—his steps were confident, as if he hadn't walked this path for the first time. Suddenly, he turned aside, toward a twisted tree, shredded by monster claws, and, bending down, noticed a thin notch in the bark. His lips twitched in a brief smile before he led the group further, no longer on the road, but on a narrow path.
"This way," he said, and led them deeper into the forest, no longer on the road, but on a narrow path.
Oleksyr walked quickly, almost without stopping, his movements collected, his breathing even, as if the frost and running had no power over him. Myrolana kept pace, her steps light, her gaze attentively scanning the trees, searching for new notches. She didn't fall behind, didn't stumble, and even in this darkness seemed part of the forest.
It was completely different with Myroslava. She could barely stay on her feet: every step was difficult, her breath came out in ragged gasps, in clouds of steam. Her fingers convulsively clutched the hem of her cloak, and her legs slid on the snow. She stumbled repeatedly, and only Yaroslava's hand kept her from falling. Her eyes were red from tears, and she muttered fragments of words lost in the frosty air.
Yaroslava also felt tired. Her shoulders were tense, her cheeks burned from the cold and strain. She pulled her mother forward, squeezing her hand, and at the same time tried to keep herself composed. Her gaze repeatedly scanned the darkness, but it no longer held the cold confidence from the battle. Now it showed fatigue and irritation—every step felt like an ordeal.
"Hold on," she whispered to Myroslava, but her voice was hoarse, as if she herself was barely holding back exhaustion.
Oleksyr didn't look back. He walked forward, searching for new notches on the trees, and each found mark added to his confidence. Myrolana followed him like a shadow, cold and silent.
Suddenly, she paled, raised her head, and looked through the black tree crowns, where the winter sky opened between the branches. The moon, which had earlier shone right above the road, now hung to the side, and the stars were arranged differently than they would be if they were on a straight path. Her heart tightened with a cold realization.
"We're already far from the road... too far..." she whispered, and her voice held more terror than the wolves' howls.
Her words hung in the frosty air, and even the snow underfoot seemed heavier, as if the forest itself pressed them down, unwilling to let go. Suddenly, Myroslava stopped and, after a few more steps, collapsed helplessly into the snow. Her body wasn't wounded—just exhausted to the limit; her chest heaved in gasps, her breath came out in heavy clouds of steam, and her arms fell powerless onto the white crust.
"Mother!" Yaroslava cried out, her voice tearing the winter forest's silence. She rushed to Myroslava, trying to lift her, but she was like a stone—not from pain, but from fatigue that had seized every muscle.
Oleksyr stopped sharply. His eyes widened in horror: he understood that his mother could no longer go on. His heart beat stronger, and he felt cold sweat on his back. Everything they had gained by fleeing could vanish in an instant.
"Enough," he said hollowly, gripping his glaive so hard his knuckles whitened. "We rest."
He quickly scanned the forest, looking for any safe hollow. Finally, he noticed a small depression between two fallen trees where the snow formed a natural barrier. "There," he said shortly.
Yaroslava helped her mother up, but Myroslava could barely stand. Her eyes were clouded, her lips trembled, and she walked leaning on her daughter's shoulder. Yaroslava clenched her teeth, supporting her, and together with her brother, moved their mother into the hideout.
Myrolana watched silently, but her gaze was tense. She stood aside, listening to the forest, as if expecting a new threat to burst from the darkness at any moment.
When they laid Myroslava on the snow, Oleksyr knelt beside her, touched her shoulder, and felt how violently she trembled from exhaustion. For the first time, he allowed himself a deep breath, trying to collect himself.
"We'll rest a few minutes," he said, though he knew: every minute could cost them their lives.
Yaroslava raised her hands, and the air around them thickened with frost. She sharply clasped her palms—and a wall of ice grew before the entrance to the hollow. Transparent, with uneven edges, it glittered in the moonlight like a piece of frozen lake. A moment later, Yaroslava waved her hand, and snow fell from the upper branches, settling on the icy surface, masking their shelter as an ordinary snowdrift.
"Now we won't be seen," she whispered, but her voice showed fatigue: creating such a wall had cost her strength.
Meanwhile, Oleksyr knelt beside his mother. He stretched his hand forward, and a small sphere of light flared between his palms. It glowed with a soft golden radiance, making the shelter's walls come alive with reflections. The light wasn't just light—it slowly released warmth, melting the ice in the air, dispelling the cold that tightened their chests.
Myroslava sighed, feeling the warmth touch her face. Her breathing became more even, and her hands stopped trembling. She closed her eyes, and for a moment, it seemed as if the sun had broken through the winter night.
Myrolana sat apart, not taking her eyes off the darkness beyond the ice wall. Her eyes glittered in the golden light, but she didn't relax. "This is only a break," she said quietly, as if reminding everyone that danger was still near.
Oleksyr nodded but didn't extinguish the sphere. He held it between his palms like a heart beating for them all. Myrolana leaned a little closer, her voice almost inaudible, like a breath lost in the warm aura of light:
"We're already far from the road... and these notches... do you really know where they lead?"
Oleksyr didn't take his eyes off the sphere he held in his hands. He replied just as quietly, almost a whisper, as if his words were meant only for her:
"These are patrol marks. I knew they'd be here. They lead us where I planned."
Myrolana bent her head even closer, her hair touching his shoulder, and the golden light reflected in her eyes.
Yaroslava, who was sitting nearby, tensed sharply. She saw their closeness, and it cut her from the inside. Finally, she couldn't take it anymore and spoke, her voice breaking into a half-whisper:
"Have you finished cooing like doves?" Yaroslava's voice sharply cut through the silence.
Myrolana slowly looked away from Olekir, and a smirk flashed in her eyes. She unbuttoned her cloak, revealing the dark sheen of her dress, and lightly wrapped her arm around his, resting her head on his shoulder.
"And you, I see, are listening more intently than it seems," she whispered, not taking her eyes off Yaroslava.
Olekir froze, feeling the tension rise. He raised his head, trying to cut off the argument:
"Enough. We were talking about the road."
"About the road?" Yaroslava took a step closer, her voice trembling with anger. "Or about something else?"
She abruptly sat down next to him, grabbed his other hand, and squeezed his fingers, looking at Myrolana like a bird of prey eyeing its quarry.
Myrolana merely smiled faintly, not lifting her head from his shoulder.
"I don't see a problem. If it's so important to you—hold onto him tighter."
Olekir shifted his gaze from one to the other. His voice was dry, almost commanding:
"We didn't stop for this."
In the corner, wrapped in a cloak, lay Myroslava. Her breathing was heavy; she was asleep, exhausted from the journey. Her presence was a reminder that any quarrel was a luxury they couldn't afford.
But neither girl let go of his hands. Yaroslava squeezed his fingers with tension, Myrolana calmly held his shoulder, and the silence between them was louder than any words.