The snow crunched underfoot, and that sound seemed to be the only living thing in the dead forest. The wind drove the hoarfrost, which cut their cheeks, and the dark tree trunks stood like sentinels unwilling to let strangers pass.
Olekir walked ahead. His steps were even, but his shoulders were tense, as if he carried the weight of the entire journey. He didn't look back, didn't interfere with what was happening behind him—his attention was fixed on the notches in the trees that were supposed to lead them further. His silence and detachment only emphasized that he wouldn't allow himself to be distracted by trivialities.
Myrolana walked alongside, her gaze sliding over the trunks, searching for new marks. She moved lightly, like a shadow, and even in this depth of the forest, she seemed part of its cold silence. From time to time, she cast brief glances at Yaroslava—not directly, but out of the corner of her eye, with that subtle mockery that needed no words.
Behind Yaroslava, Myroslava was being supported. She was wrapped in a blanket but still shivered from the cold; her lips had turned blue, and her breath came out in puffs of steam. She didn't understand where they were going or why they couldn't stop. Her eyes, clouded with fatigue, kept lifting to the girl, searching for an answer that wasn't there.
Yaroslava walked with clenched teeth. She pulled Myroslava forward, but her gaze kept sliding over to Myrolana. It held everything: irritation, jealousy, hidden fury. Every step, every effort to keep her mother on her feet, only intensified the sense of injustice—while Myrolana walked freely, almost gracefully, and even allowed herself subtle provocations.
Silence hung between them, but this silence was sharper than any words. Myroslava didn't understand its nature; she only felt the cold and fatigue, while the two girls nearby walked as if in an invisible duel.
Olekir didn't look back once. His silence was like a wall: he seemed to have walled himself off from their emotions, leaving himself only the path and the notches on the trees. And it was this indifference that made the tension even more palpable—because each of the girls knew: he wouldn't be the judge in their conflict.
They walked in silence. And this silence was heavier than any words—because each of them understood: the real trials were only beginning. The forest grew increasingly unwelcoming. Branches heavy with hoarfrost hung low, as if trying to stop them. The snow underfoot was deeper, the silence heavier than before. Every step echoed in their chests, and even breathing seemed too loud.
Olekir saw Myroslava stooping lower. Her steps grew shorter; the blanket she was wrapped in didn't save her from the cold. She no longer asked where they were going—just walked, stumbling, as if in a half-sleep.
He stopped sharply, scanned the forest, and led them aside, toward a rocky outcrop hidden among the roots of old trees. There, under a layer of snow and earth, the entrance to an old dugout was revealed. The stone was hollowed out from within, the walls covered in moss, and branches and roots formed a natural barrier.
"Here," he said curtly.
They went inside. It was dark and damp inside, but protected from the wind. Yaroslava lit a small fire, Myrolana brought dry branches, and soon a dim light pulsed in the dugout. Myroslava sank onto the spread-out cloaks; her body trembled, but her breathing gradually evened out.
They stayed in the dugout for several days. The forest outside lived its own life: howling, the crack of branches, sometimes the heavy footsteps of something unseen. But the dugout kept them safe, and the fire in the center gave the feeling that time flowed differently here.
Myroslava lay wrapped in the blanket; her breathing became steadier, but weakness didn't leave her. Olekir sat nearby, silent for a long time, watching her. His fingers occasionally touched her hand, as if checking if there was still warmth in her.
Finally, he spoke. His voice was soft but firm, like stone holding up a building:
"Mother... it's time. You must learn to use the power."
Myroslava shuddered, lifting her tired eyes to him.
"Me?.. But I can't..."
Olekir leaned closer; his gaze was warm, without a shadow of doubt.
"You can. I believe in you. This was always in my plans—to teach you. It's just that now we no longer have the right to postpone it."
Silence hung. Myrolana turned away; her face remained cold, but a glint of interest flashed in her eyes.
Yaroslava rose sharply, as if she'd been waiting for this moment.
"I'll teach her," she said firmly. "I'll do it."
Olekir nodded, and in his eyes was not only resolve but also a tenderness he rarely allowed himself to show.
"Excellent."
Myroslava lowered her gaze; her fingers convulsively clutched the blanket. She didn't understand why now, but there was something in her son's voice that didn't allow objection.
Yaroslava sat opposite Myroslava. The fire crackled to the side, casting shadows on the dugout walls, but between them hung a different tension—expectation.
"Listen," Yaroslava said evenly. "We'll start small. The power—it's everywhere."
She extended her hand, palm up. The air around her fingers trembled, and a thin frost pattern appeared on her skin.
"Feel the power. It's here, in the air, in your breath. Breathe it in. Don't be afraid."
Myroslava wrapped herself tighter in the blanket; her shoulders shook. She raised her hand, but her fingers trembled.
"I... don't know how..."
"Don't think," Yaroslava cut in. "Feel. Close your eyes. Concentrate on your breath."
Myroslava closed her eyes. Her chest rose and fell jerkily, but gradually her breathing evened out. She inhaled deeper, and for a moment, the air near her palm grew heavier, colder. A small puff of steam hovered over her fingers and didn't melt immediately.
"There," Yaroslava said quietly. "Hold it. Don't let go."
Myroslava shuddered, but the puff of steam held for another moment before scattering into the air. She opened her eyes, astonishment flashing in them.
"That... was me?.."
Yaroslava nodded. Her voice was harsh, but there was a spark of satisfaction in it:
"That's the beginning. Now again. And again. Until you learn to hold it."
Myroslava sat wrapped in the blanket; her face was pale, but her eyes shone with a strange gleam. She was exhausted, but something new, incomprehensible, and unsettling stirred inside her.
Olekir sat beside her and placed his palm on her back. His face was serious, almost indifferent, as if he'd reached an inner enlightenment. He didn't look at her as a mother or a weak woman—he saw in her a bearer of power that needed to be awakened. His voice sounded even:
"Don't fight it. Let it flow. I'll guide it through you."
He concentrated, and Myroslava felt something moving inside her body, obeying his will. She shuddered but didn't push away—on the contrary, her breathing grew deeper, and her cheeks flushed. She felt strangely excited, as if the power was awakening in her not only new strength but also something else she couldn't explain.
The atmosphere in the dugout became stiflingly tense.
Yaroslava stood aside, trying to keep her face neutral. She pretended everything was fine, that this was just training. But inside, something clenched, giving rise to terrible assumptions she pushed away, repeating to herself: "They're mother and son. Just mother and son." Her cheeks burned, and she felt her heart beating faster than it should.
Myrolana sat in the shadows, leaning against the wall. She didn't interfere, just watched with undisguised curiosity. Her eyes glittered, and a thin smile played on her lips. She saw the tension, felt it, and observed everything as if it were a performance she didn't want to interrupt.
Silence fell in the dugout, heavy and stifling. Only the crackling of the fire and Myroslava's even breathing, gradually falling into the rhythm of the power, filled the space. And each of those present felt: this moment had changed them all.
The days in the dugout passed monotonously, but each was a trial. Training became their routine, almost a ritual, in which each had their role.
First—Yaroslava. She sat Myroslava opposite the fire, made her repeat movements, hold the breath of power in her hands, then guide it further—into her chest, her legs, throughout her body. Her voice was sharp, demanding; she didn't allow stopping, even when Myroslava trembled with exhaustion.
"Again. Hold it. Don't let go," her words sounded like blows that didn't allow relaxation.
Then—Olekir. When Myroslava could barely breathe, he sat beside her and placed his palm on her back. His voice was quiet, even, almost indifferent, but it was in this indifference that strength was felt. He guided the currents inside her body, helped restore balance, showed how not to lose control when the power slipped away.
"Breathe evenly. Release the tension. Listen to how it flows," his words sounded like a calm current after a storm.
With each day, she amazed them. Where they expected tiny steps, she made leaps. She learned not only to release the power but to wrap it around her body like an invisible cloak. The cold no longer pierced her as before: the blanket became superfluous because warmth came from within.
The fire in the hearth burned down, leaving only ashes and a few glowing embers. The dugout, which had been their shelter for several days, now seemed too cramped, as if pushing them outside. The air inside was stale, heavy with smoke and tension, and everyone felt: it was time to move.
Olekir rose first. His movements were calm, precise, as if he'd long known this moment would come today. He didn't look back, just said curtly:
"Let's go."
Myroslava rose slowly but without outside help. Her body still remembered the fatigue, but now it was wrapped in a thin, invisible layer of power. She felt the warmth spreading through her veins, how the cold no longer pierced her bones, and the blanket, which had been her only protection just yesterday, now seemed superfluous. She took the first step herself—and that step was more important than all the previous ones.
Yaroslava stood nearby, watching carefully. Her gaze mixed pride and anxiety. She saw that her mother could now walk on her own, but knew: this power was still fragile, and any disruption could break it. Inside, Yaroslava felt something clench—she didn't allow herself to show it, but the thoughts didn't leave her.
Myrolana lingered at the entrance. Her eyes slid over Myroslava, and a glint of interest flashed in them. She saw the changes, saw how the weak woman who had trembled from the cold just days ago was now stepping out into the forest on her own. A thin smile appeared on her lips—not a mockery, but rather a premonition: this hidden talent would still change the balance of power in their small community.
When they stepped outside, the forest met them with silence and cold. The wind drove the hoarfrost, the tree branches creaked as if warning of danger. But this time, Myroslava didn't shudder. She inhaled the frosty air and felt the power inside respond, warming her from within.
They moved forward. The snow crunched underfoot, and that sound again became the only living thing in the dead forest. But now their step was different: not a flight, not an exhausted wandering, but a movement forward—toward a new stage of the journey.