Elikoria, who had been given a stern sermon, hid deep inside him—either not wanting to be caught in the crossfire or using it as a convenient excuse to rest. Without her, Olekir and the girls were able to enjoy some time for themselves, which deepened their bond, however strange it might have been. When he woke up, Myroslava was tenderly hugging his arm, her smile soft and gentle, contrasting with the wildness she had shown yesterday. Yaroslava and Myrolana were sleeping in each other's arms after their failed attempt to restrain his desire together.
Olekir lay still, enjoying the warmth of the bodies surrounding him. He didn't move, not wanting to disturb this fragile balance. But in his mind, the next step was already taking shape. Slowly, carefully, he shifted his consciousness to the doll's body. The warmth vanished instantly—replaced by the cold of ice.
He took it step by step, constantly adjusting his movements and engraving them as knowledge in this fragment of his own soul. At first, these were simple motions: balance, turning, stepping forward, each requiring maximum concentration and precision. He felt the body gradually getting used to new sensations and the mind adapting to new challenges. Each movement became part of a larger mosaic that formed mastery. But very quickly, he moved on to training in the martial art of spear and shield—an art etched in blood in his memory.
The five-meter radius limitation initially seemed too harsh, almost insurmountable, but he quickly learned to adapt. What might have been a weakness for others became perfection for him. Years of relentless battles had hardened him: in close combat, this ability was flawless. He could read every move, every step of his opponent, anticipate strikes, and respond instantly. Yet despite this, he remained vulnerable to enemies attacking from a distance—archers' arrows, long-range magic.
And so he made the only possible decision: he must react faster than any threat could harm him. Whether it was an arrow flying at breakneck speed or a spell striking instantly—he had to always be one step ahead, anticipating the enemy's movements and outpacing them with his reaction.
With this conviction, he almost forgot about the surrounding ice. This ice, from which his doll was made, was not just cold crystal—it was magical ice, saturated with an incredible concentration of power that made it practically indestructible. Any metal or spell with lesser concentration of power couldn't even scratch it. And now this ice doll was the source of strength he relied on in his future plans.
He became so engrossed in his imaginary battle that he didn't notice at all that everyone else had woken up and was silently watching him. Under his movements, the ice cracked and creaked, and the spear struck with such force that it raised the wind. This was no longer simple training—it was a life-and-death struggle.
But the next moment, he felt control slipping away. At first, it was barely noticeable: his reactions slowed, he lost his balance for a moment, and at times a limb refused to obey. And that was enough—the doll swayed and fell on the ice. Myrolana spoke first, her voice cold and precise.
"So that's his limit. Impressive, truly impressive."
Olekir wasn't expecting praise. He was even about to get up to thank her. But she continued without giving him a chance to speak.
"But it's not enough."
These words pierced him like a spear. Before he could ask what she meant, Myrolana had already approached the immobilized doll. She tore the spear from the ice hand, weighed it for a few moments, swung it as if checking the balance. Then she took a stance.
Another moment—and she dissolved into a whirlwind of movements. She effortlessly repeated every strike he had spent hours perfecting. But that wasn't enough for her. She muttered something under her breath and began to accelerate—strike after strike, faster and faster, until the spinning spear resembled a small tornado. It was the same style, the same stance. But now Olekir saw a refinement and lethality that he lacked. It was as if a blindfold had been torn from his eyes, revealing the harsh reality.
Myrolana quickly closed in on the doll. And before he could react, she used all the accumulated momentum. The spear pierced the shield that Olekir hastily raised, hoping if not to block, then to deflect, and effortlessly shattered the doll's body, exposing the ice core.
Myroslava, who was holding his body, was surprised when he jerked sharply and sat up. The doll, which had lost the control balancing it, immediately fell. Olekir didn't waste time: he approached the doll, which was twitching and trying to get up. He looked at it for a few moments, then abruptly stopped and tore the core from its chest, mercilessly discarding the remains.
"Thank you. That was a valuable lesson."
It was hard for him to say those words when he was so close to triumph. But it was the truth. If he didn't want it, he had no right to be offended by Myrolana, who had shown him reality. Olekir didn't waste time. He started over from scratch. Yaroslava was nearby—she didn't need instructions or requests to help him. And within what felt like moments, they were ready.
The new doll looked little different from the previous one externally. But in terms of enchantments, it was a monster hard to find elsewhere. Runes covered every bone, every muscle fiber so densely that it was hard to make out what was written even at arm's length. It was a creation they had spent much time on.
When Olekir took control of the doll, leaving his body under Yaroslava's watch, he didn't hesitate to recreate the previous training sessions. He pushed it to the limit—and to his satisfaction, it held. He even managed to create his own tornado. He directed the impulse skyward.
But as he was in the throes of triumph, something entered his perception—thin and fast. It was approaching rapidly. He skillfully dodged, raising his shield. But that wasn't enough. Myrolana had no intention of stopping. She swiftly entered his radius—for a test he hadn't asked for. Blow after blow rained down on him. Thanks to his perception, he parried even the most unpredictable ones.
Fairly quickly, she discarded the spear—she had less experience with it. She returned to her familiar and unpredictable daggers. She circled around like a lynx. Delivered swift strikes like a snake. But even that wasn't enough.
When Olekir realized she couldn't break through his defense, he began his own attack. Ruthless. Decisive. But careful—so as not to accidentally harm her. In a few moves, he had already driven her, as it seemed to him, into a corner. He even triumphantly raised the spear to her throat. But he wasn't destined to win.
Suddenly, images of hundreds of icicles invaded his consciousness. They surrounded him from all sides and moved toward him. He tried to dodge. But in vain—they pursued him. The only way was to destroy them or endure them. A few moments of struggle stopped abruptly as a second wave appeared after the first.
Olekir jerked sharply and looked intently at what remained of the doll. Pierced through, it barely stood, shielding its ice core with its shield, obeying his last command. His eyes filled with a mix of pain and fanatical admiration—this doll was not just a creation but an embodiment of his strength and hope. He wanted to say many words, but silently watched, examining every crack imprint on the ice body.
Myroslava, who had caused this destruction, approached him with a slight hint of guilt in her eyes, her voice soft but confident:
"Olekir, are you all right? Maybe that was a bit too much, but Myrolana said it was necessary."
Meanwhile, Myrolana, like a final chord, severed the doll's head with her daggers, her movements precise and merciless. Yaroslava approached Olekir and gently stroked his back, her care like a quiet amulet in this chaos. In this, he found the greatest comfort.
"We'll make her stronger," whispered Yaroslava, her voice filled with determination.
"Yes, of course. We'll make her even stronger. As if a little loss could stop us!"
Olekir spoke and laughed, feeling the care and support of the girls enveloping him, filling him with strength and confidence. He had no desire to stop. With no need for sleep or rest, he tirelessly created and improved. Step by step, under Yaroslava's watchful eye and support, he disassembled and reassembled the doll, testing new things and improving old ones. When they encountered difficulties, Myrolana and Myroslava came to the rescue, their fresh perspectives and new ideas allowing them to overcome the most complex obstacles.
The most important stage of their work was improving the doll's core with runes. This gave it the ability to see almost like a human. Although this forced them to recompose the doll's body and reinstate some elements previously considered redundant, this change allowed Olekir to notice threats and react to them even before they entered his limited radius. And adding a short sword significantly expanded Olekir's arsenal, allowing him to choose the weapon most suited to the specific situation and act with maximum efficiency.
Of course, during this time Olekir didn't stop testing the doll, constantly training in duels with Myrolana, supported by Myroslava and increasingly often Yaroslava. These trainings pushed the doll to the limits of its capabilities, forcing Olekir to improve not only his control over it but also his own fighting style. Importantly, all this knowledge and skill was gradually recorded in his soul fragment, allowing him over time to less and less frequently exercise direct control over the doll. It became increasingly autonomous, capable of independently reacting and making decisions in battle according to stored patterns.
When the situation exceeded their limits, the doll turned to Olekir, forcing him to ponder decisions. And, oddly enough, even the smallest detail that few would think of could become a problem—a change in the height of the surface the doll stepped on, or an unexpected gust of wind suddenly altering balance. Even such a seemingly minor factor required correction of posture and stance to maintain balance and not lose control. But this very thing prevented the doll from becoming fully autonomous, and also because he preferred to preserve more combat patterns.