The days stretched out in heavy segments, merging into one endless path. They walked through snow-covered forests where trees stood like stone sentinels, and through ravines where the wind howled as if the forest itself was trying to scare them away.
The terrain was relentless. At times they had to climb steep slopes where every step slid back into the loose snow, at others they had to navigate narrow gorges where the cold wind hammered at their chests. Their feet sank into snowdrifts, and even the shortest stretch seemed endless.
The cold was unbearable. At first, their inner power saved them, wrapping them in warmth, but over time it too began to betray them. They felt it inside, but it didn't radiate outward. It was like heat trapped in a furnace when the damper won't open: the warmth is there, but it doesn't warm you. Because of this, their hands and feet grew stiff, and their breathing became heavy and painful.
Beasts appeared more and more frequently. They weren't hunting—on the contrary, the beasts came out to them. At first, they were just shadows at the forest's edge, watching from afar. But soon they began to approach closer: thin wolves that prowled after them, or lone predators that stepped onto the trail, forcing the group to halt. These encounters didn't always end in battle, but each one was a reminder: the forest does not forgive weakness.
The nights were the hardest. They couldn't afford to stop every day, so they only rested every few nights in snow shelters that the forest itself hid from prying eyes. There, they huddled by the fire, listening to branches crack and distant voices howl in the darkness. Every sound seemed like a threat, and sleep came in fragments, heavy and anxious.
With each week, their faces grew sterner, their movements slower, and the silence between them longer. Myroslava and Yaroslava wrestled with the unruly power they felt inside but couldn't release. Myrolana silently kept her weapon at the ready, and Olekir marched forward steadily and relentlessly, as if he were the path itself.
The wind died down, and the blizzard dispersed as if yielding. From the depths of the white haze emerged a figure. It moved slowly, but each of its steps echoed in their chests like the beats of a heavy heart. Long limbs, like dried branches, dragged through the snow, and its head, resembling that of a deer, was adorned with broken bone growths jutting out in all directions like fragments of a dead tree. From its eye sockets seeped a white mist that crept along the ground, wrapping around their legs.
Olekir took a step forward. His voice was even, almost solemn:
"Naviach."
From just a glance at the creature, Myroslava trembled. Her body seized up, her teeth chattered, and she felt the cold penetrate her very soul. She wanted to look away but couldn't—the empty sockets drew her in like an abyss.
Yaroslava also swayed. Her shoulders shuddered, her hands wouldn't obey, and she felt the power inside her contracting but unable to break free. She knew: this wasn't just a beast, it was a shadow of the Lord of the North himself, and its presence was unbearable.
Myrolana, for the first time, lost her mask. Her usual calm and carefree smile vanished. She sharply drew her dagger, gripping it so tightly her fingers turned white. Her body tensed, ready for battle, and in that tension was something real, raw. She didn't tremble like the others, but the fear in her eyes was plain—and it was that which made her show her true self for the first time.
Olekir glanced at her and smiled. His voice was quiet, but every word echoed in the frosty air:
"Finally, you've shown your true self."
Naviach tilted its head, and the bone growths on its skull creaked like dry branches. The white mist stretched forward, coiling around their legs, and the frost thickened around them. The air grew heavy, as if the sky itself was pressing down on their shoulders.
Myroslava and Yaroslava stood frozen, trembling from the creature's mere gaze. Myrolana clenched her dagger, ready to lunge forward even though she knew it might be her last move. And Olekir—he stood straight, calm, with that same smile, as if meeting an old acquaintance.
"I'd hoped to slip past, but it seems fate had other plans."
"You, trespasser, who dared enter the sacred lands of the Lord?" Naviach rasped in a low, grating voice. The smell of rot spread around, making the girls feel suffocated.
Olekir simply waved a hand. "Yes, exactly. But I never thought he'd send one of his guard dogs after me."
"I am the will of the Lord of the North."
"Yes, yes. Quiet, dog. You're spoiling the air I breathe."
Naviach tilted its head, its bone growths creaking.
"You. Strange. I sense no fear. Are you not afraid?"
Olekir laughed softly, almost childishly, but there was something icy in that laughter.
"Who should I be afraid of? You? A twisted freak?"
Naviach froze, the mist from its eyes swirling more violently, as if in fury.
"I... tear flesh... I..."
"Nobody," Olekir interrupted, "a weakling who submitted to the Lord in hopes of saving his pathetic life."
Naviach growled, the sound like the cracking of a thousand bones.
"You... will pay."
Olekir took a step forward, his smile widening.
"Pay? Maybe. But not today. Today, you will pay."
Naviach lunged forward, its long limbs slicing through the air like bone scythes. Olekir sidestepped, sliding across the snow, and the spear in his hands deflected the first blow. The icy blade glanced off a bone growth, scattering frost sparks.
A second strike—a paw swept down, trying to crush him. Olekir crouched, slid under it, and thrust the spear upward, aiming for the chest. But Naviach blocked it with its own body, and the blade merely slid across its bony armor.
They circled in the blizzard: paw strikes, spear blocks, dodges, sliding across the snow. Olekir laughed as if it were a game, not a deadly clash. His movements were light, precise: deflecting, parrying, sharply retreating, forcing Naviach to tear the air with futile strikes.
Finally, he found an opening. The spear with its blue glow pierced the creature's chest. The frost blade cut through the mist, and in that same moment, Olekir channeled magic into it. Flame burst through the blade, igniting Naviach's insides. It howled, its cry like the roar of a storm tearing trees from their roots.
But the spear couldn't withstand it. The ice cracked and shattered into fragments, and the flame, breaking free, engulfed the creature from within. Naviach convulsed but didn't fall—it fiercely swung its paw, forcing Olekir to retreat.
He only laughed. His hand rose again, and a new spear materialized from the air—longer, sharper, glowing with a blue light like a shard of night sky forged in ice.
Naviach screamed, and the storm rose with renewed force. Snow swirled into a wall, the wind tore at their breath, but a smile played on Olekir's lips. He welcomed the storm like an old friend and advanced.
The creature charged at him, tearing through the blizzard with its own body. But in the icy haze, it didn't notice the spear. With all its speed, Naviach impaled itself on the blade.
It howled, but, remembering the previous pain, shattered the spear before Olekir could channel magic. Yet it was enough: flame burst through the fragments, melting the snow beneath its feet. The ground hissed, clouds of steam rising.
Naviach swung again, its paw slicing the air, but at that same moment, Olekir dissolved into the blizzard. His figure vanished into the white haze, and only laughter echoed in the wind's howl—sharp, ringing, like a challenge to the North itself. The creature howled and lunged forward, but saw only flashes of blue light occasionally emerging from the darkness. It struck blindly, swinging its paws, but every move was met with a new blow: an ice shard scattering against its chest, a flash of magic scorching its bone growths.
Olekir rained down blows as if playing: short bursts of ice cutting into Naviach's body, dagger fragments he created and shattered against its armor—all of it hailed down on the monster. Naviach roared but couldn't catch him: every time a paw swept through, Olekir had already vanished into the storm, leaving only laughter echoing through the wind's howl.
Myroslava lay in the snow, her chest heaving, each breath like swallowing icy needles. She tried to raise her hand, but her fingers wouldn't obey, trembling. Her lips muttered spell words, but they scattered like brittle ice underfoot. Time and again she tried to gather her power—and each time felt it slip away, dissolving into the blizzard.
"No... I can do it..." she whispered, clenching her teeth.
Nearby, Yaroslava also struggled. Her eyes were wide open, pupils trembling with fear, but she stubbornly repeated words like a prayer. Several times, sparks flared in her palms, but they immediately died, scattering in the air. She gasped, coughed from the stench of rot, but didn't stop.
"Focus... hold on..." she rasped to herself, as if trying to convince her own body.
Naviach roared, its paws tearing the air, the storm ripping their voices away, but the girls stubbornly persisted. And then—the first breakthrough. A flicker of icy light, weak and trembling but real, flared in Myroslava's hands. She gathered it into a ball, and a thin beam shot from her fingers, striking the creature's side. It didn't pierce the armor, but made Naviach shudder and turn its head.
Yaroslava, seeing this, screamed with effort, and a sharp, ice-like projectile flared in her hands. She threw it with all her might. It shattered against Naviach's head, scattering sparks, but it was enough to make the creature howl and lose its balance for a moment.
Their faces were pale, eyes full of tears and fear, but in that moment they shone with determination. They knew: their magic wouldn't destroy the monster, but it gave a chance. And that was enough for Olekir, waiting in the blizzard, to advance.
Naviach, blinded and weakened, staggered. Its roar grew muffled, a broken note entering it. And that's when Olekir emerged from the blizzard. His movement was as precise as fate's strike. In his hand, he held a short sword of ice, glowing with a blue cold.
He drove it into Naviach's body, and the blade immediately flared with magic. Flame burst through the edge, engulfing the creature's insides. Naviach howled, its paws flailing, trying to push the attacker away, but Olekir only pressed deeper.
Myrolana, noticing the weakness, lunged forward. She slammed into the creature with her whole body, shoving it with such force that Naviach staggered and fell to its knees. And that move proved fatal: Olekir's sword, driven deeper, tore open the monster's chest, sliding upward, cutting through flesh and bone. The blade rose higher, sliding along the spine, until it pierced the skull.
Naviach howled one last time. Its cry was like a dying storm, like wind losing its strength. Its body shuddered, and a coil of white mist burst from the wound, scattering into the air.
Olekir stood over it, holding the sword, and Myrolana still pressed her dagger into the wound until the creature fell still.
Naviach gurgled, its voice like the last breath of a storm:
"I... will return... The Lord... will learn... of you..."
Olekir leaned closer, his eyes glowing with cold confidence, his smile almost childish.
"That won't happen," he said quietly. "Because I know your secret."