When the construction of the fort was completed, the puppets under Olekir's control could not remain idle. From time to time, they ventured beyond the walls, reaching the very border, to collect the scattered remains of their fallen comrades. By assembling them, they restored their own kind, resurrecting an army from the fragments. But the Lord of the North quickly noticed this activity and, with a sneer, ordered the nav'yachi to gather these remains and hang them on tree branches as decorations and targets to be reached.
One day, when fresh units finally reached the fort, the valley was already covered in a thin layer of red frost. And countless creatures devoured the dead with undisguised pleasure, while the nav'yachi and the Lord of the North himself hid carefree in the shadows of the trees. They feasted on stray beasts, enjoying the bloody spectacle around them.
Olekir wasted no time—mentally issuing orders to his troops, and they formed into an impeccable formation. A few meters from the border, they rearranged into battle order, deploying a wall of shields and a forest of spears. Their silent procession alarmed no one, and the beasts calmly gnawed on the bones of the dead. But as soon as they took a single step—every beast, as if tossed by an unfathomable force, lunged at them. The puppets stood unshaken, skewering dozens of beasts and casting aside their bodies. Like waves madly crashing against the shore, they advanced decisively, pushing back the beasts and crushing the unfortunate ones under their icy boots.
But there were too many beasts—they gathered in packs, pressing against the shields, leaping straight into the ranks or behind them. And like a wave that had reached its limit, the puppets retreated, covering the ground in blood and bodies. When the pressure eased, they made another surge, using their shields to push the accumulated corpses, forming an absurd semblance of a rampart. But the beasts gathered on it first, lunging straight into the ranks, forcing the puppets to retreat again. And so it repeated until the moment the nav'yachi entered the fray. Though fewer in number, their skill was beyond compare. And time and again, several puppets were indeed torn from the ranks. But they quickly restored order, often rescuing their own and driving back the nav'yachi. These battles repeated over and over, but the beasts seemed no fewer. No—it seemed there were even more.
Olekir knew perfectly well how many beasts could come from the north in the fiercest times, but what he saw now exceeded all his expectations. The mere thought of what would happen if all these beasts marched on the fortresses of the Ice Barrier was enough to imagine a scale of destruction surpassing even the worst nightmares. He did not doubt his own valor or that of the Barrier's guards, but this was too much. No one could hold them back. And the number of casualties would be too great to accept without inner struggle, even knowing he had done all he could. So, beneath a mask of indifference, he rejoiced that they were all here, engaged in this chaotic struggle.
Over time, this battle grew increasingly large-scale and bloody. Through the eyes of his puppets, he saw the beasts evolve horrifically: their bodies deformed and mutated, devouring the fallen and absorbing their strength. Each new wave of beasts grew more brutal and relentless, their claws and teeth gaining unheard-of sharpness, and their minds—treacherous cunning. Though their numbers dwindled, each was more terrifying than the last, forcing the puppets to retreat under the pressure of an unrelenting onslaught. Where his puppets once left clearings, there was now only a merciless battlefield where every step came at great cost. And in time, even the strongest steel breaks, and his puppets were no better.
After weeks of heavy fighting, with cracks appearing here and there in the ranks, Olekir, with a heavy heart and a cold mind, ordered the puppets to retreat to the fortress. Amid the furious laughter of the nav'yachi and the indifferent gaze of the Lord of the North, who watched this destructive dance, he realized his own weakness. His forces were exhausted, and he understood he could not overcome this relentless wave of beasts.
In these moments of respite, while the puppets recovered, the beasts multiplied and grew ever more brutal. With uncharacteristic dread, Olekir watched as the area filled with young, strong, and horrifically evolved beasts. Only the merciless wasteland, which instantly turned them to frost, gave his troops a chance to recover and gather strength for a new struggle.
The Lord of the North's gaze remained arrogant, so cold and detached it evoked disgust in observers. He mocked Olekir's hopeless struggle, as if demonstrating nature's fury. Yet Olekir did not surrender. The puppets' movements grew ever more precise, and their numbers slowly but steadily increased with the arrival of new units, like a shadow slowly enveloping the light. This struggle became more than just a confrontation—it was a cold, merciless dance of survival where every step was measured in strength and wit.
The more they grew, the more often they engaged in battles, forming a fragile balance that gradually began to tilt in Olekir's favor. But to achieve this, it took years of relentless struggle and nearly five thousand puppets fighting continuously, forcing the nav'yachi to enter the fray not just as a final chord but as the main instrument of war. The Lord of the North could not help but notice this change—it gradually erased his insolent expression, replacing it with anxiety. He grew uneasy as units continued to arrive, often pouring directly into the frozen battlefield, and the beasts, despite their abilities and fertility, could find no peace or rest.
He finally stopped mocking when the nav'yachi began to die—exhausted, wounded, broken. They were surrounded and mercilessly exterminated, and the young, inexperienced ones often became easy prey. The Lord no longer mourned their deaths, creating new ones even more than before, as if trying to smother that invisible, growing wound with blood. He sought to close this abyss, but it was too late. No sooner had he created a few new ones and sent them into battle than they met their deaths almost instantly. The experienced ones exhausted themselves trying to save the young, but their strength melted like ice under the spring sun, and each loss echoed bitterly in their souls.
Olekir, meanwhile, laughed, continuing to rotate his puppets, tiring the enemies, draining their strength in endless battles. What his troops had felt earlier, the beasts now began to feel. For the first time in many years of bloody battle, an animal fear spread across the field—cold, muffled, piercing every muscle and every nerve. This fear was not just a survival instinct but a deep, primal terror of the unknown, of inevitable death approaching with every step. The beasts, which for years had been mere mindless machines of destruction, now began to feel the weight of losses: their eyes gleamed not only with fury but with anxiety.
This was a turning point in the battle—when the cruelty and mercilessness of war began to shift into something new, something that could be the beginning of the end. Olekir felt it and exploited it, driving his puppets to even greater slaughter, knowing that even the fiercest beasts could not keep this fear under control forever.
"I feel it. This. Fear. Your fear! I feel it!"
A chorus of voices rolled across the battlefield, merging into a single stream—cold, merciless, like death itself. The Lord of the North, long observing from the heights of his indifference, could no longer endure this growing sensation—fear that pierced every movement, every breath. For the first time in a long while, he abandoned the creations of his nav'yachi, plunging into the very thick of battle, where he mercilessly tore the puppets apart, scattering their bodies like toys that had lost their value.
This outburst of fury made the beasts rise again, filled with a new, brutal strength. They lunged into battle with a rage that seemed boundless, tearing apart the puppets, which for the first time in a long while began to suffer real losses. But even this was not enough to break the unyielding spirit of Olekir and his troops, who continued to fight, maintaining a fragile balance.
Yet they retreated, collecting the bodies. The Lord, consumed by rage, chased after them, but suddenly stopped—in his blind fury, he had not noticed how he had stepped into the abyss of the wasteland along with his loyal nav'yachi. The fear of the wasteland, cold and merciless, gripped him, freezing him in place. And at that very moment, sharp spears pierced his body, making him feel pain he had not felt for centuries. For the first time in a long era—life. The nav'yachi, caught off guard, found themselves trapped, and a slaughter began that tore them to pieces, leaving only death in its wake.
Roaring, the Lord rushed back, shamed without a fight. He returned to the forests, and his cry, which shattered the silence, made the growling beasts tremble and lose control of their onslaught. For the first time in many years, Olekir was able to retrieve all the remains of his puppets. He even paused, pondering whether to pursue or wait. As the forest filled with a roar—a sound hard to describe but instantly conveying that battle was no longer an option. For the first time in all this time, his puppets began to retreat, fleeing the battlefield, gripped by fear.
"You have finally revealed your true form."
A chorus of voices swept through, but the roar was louder than ever before. Ancient trees were uprooted and hurled at him with incredible force. From behind their backs, he appeared. This monstrous form resembled a hill more than a living creature: earth crumbled from it, and stones rolled to the ground, crushing unlucky beasts. Trees growing from his body struggled to hold his earthen armor from disintegrating, concealing with their roots a cave from which poured an otherworldly light—cold, piercing, beyond.
The Lord of the North walked slowly but confidently, trampling all who dared approach. Only at the border separating his domain from the wasteland did he stop. Roaring and groaning, he stood, staring intently at the fort, at its walls where the puppets stood, and among them—Olekir, watching him. He well understood that he could not defeat him with his puppets without losing more than half. And that was why he rejoiced—rejoiced that the fear of the wasteland was so deeply ingrained in his enemy's heart.
"Wait, I will come myself soon."