His hand froze as he completed the final touches of his work. The enchanting, yet empty-eyed, face of a girl stared back at him. He gently ran his hand over her cheek, feeling the cold that lightly pricked his fingers, but he didn't pull them away. His heart beat faster, filled with sorrow and anger that broke through the silence.
"I haven't forgotten. I will never forget."
With a tenderness uncharacteristic of his turbulent emotions, Olekyr carefully began to assemble the doll's body. Moment by moment, he recreated every curve, every muscle, which he had perfectly imprinted in his memory, bringing to life the memories that pulsed in his heart. Each touch evoked a wave of excitement in him – it was more than just a creation, it was a part of his soul, of his memory, embodied in an icy image. Before him, a wondrous beauty gradually appeared, and he couldn't take his eyes off her. He stood, his breath ragged, his heart pounding as if it wanted to burst from his chest. At the same time, an incredible longing enveloped him – deep, piercing, drawing him into an abyss of memories and losses. But, gathering all his will, he stopped and cleared his mind, trying to tame the storm of emotions raging within.
He began to form her armor, shield, spear, and sword. Unique, amazing – the very ones he remembered perfectly and couldn't erase from his memory. Every detail was a masterpiece of true artisans who possessed the secret art of weaving Drevlyan wood, passed down from generation to generation. Their design was not just functional, but a true work of art, full of symbolism and deep meaning. Olekyr tried to recreate them as best he could, but understood that none of his creations could compare to the original, crafted by the hands of true masters who put a piece of their soul into each item.
When he finished, the doll lay before him – complete and perfect, like a living being born from his soul. He gave her a command, and she slowly rose, standing beside the others. There were nine of them in total, each with a unique design reflecting an inimitable individuality. Olekyr stood, looking at them, and felt a wave of emotions wash over him – the excitement of a completed creation mixed with deep gratitude.
"I am ready."
His voice echoed through the room, and the wave of power he unleashed shattered the walls of his makeshift hut, like an echo of his inner storm. Yaroslava, Myroslava, and Myrolana sat in a small circle, whispering quietly. Olekyr, engulfed by a wave of emotions, quickly ran towards them with such force that it seemed as if he was literally tearing through the air. He grabbed two of them, and then, unable to stop himself, crashed into the third.
Indignation, laughter, and surprise mingled on the girls' faces. Yaroslava raised her eyebrows, not hiding her astonishment, while Myroslava smiled quietly, as if understanding the depth of Olekyr's feelings. Myrolana, initially indignant, gradually relaxed, her eyes filling with warmth and support. They didn't utter unnecessary words, but their presence and quiet understanding created an atmosphere of safety and acceptance around Olekyr. This silence was filled with invisible support, which gave him strength and inspiration to move forward.
"Is everything ready?"
Olekyr, who was now beneath them, answered Myroslava.
"Yes, everything is ready. We have nothing more to do here. We need to go back."
"Do you think... Mom is still waiting?"
Yaroslava suddenly asked. Elikoria emerged from Olekyr's shadow just as suddenly.
"Of course she's waiting. Don't you understand what kind of addiction the soul crystal causes?"
Yaroslava furrowed her brows, as if trying to grasp an invisible edge of thought.
"Soul crystal?"
Elikoria sighed briefly, helplessly – a dry sound, like the rustle of old parchment.
"Exactly. You didn't believe that you simply extracted an 'excess of power' from him, did you?"
She paused, letting the words sink in.
"You must have noticed that his body suffered not from power, but from too powerful a soul."
Yaroslava pressed her lips together. A memory flashed, but didn't manage to form into words. Elikoria didn't wait for an answer. Her voice became even, almost indifferent, but with a barely perceptible ironic sharpness:
"Ah, of course. What was I even hoping for from a provincial sorceress. Your mother probably noticed something, but her greed turned against her. She thought she could extract this raging 'power' from him. Do you understand how crude your ritual was? You literally tore off a significant fragment of his soul."
She sighed heavily, while everyone around looked on in horror, listening to the unexpected revelation.
"It took me so much effort to keep his personality intact, let alone the fragments of his soul that then scattered and intertwined with everyone present."
"Wait, are you saying..."
"Yes. In you. Didn't you notice? Your relationships are quite... ambiguous. Usually, such connections are almost impossible. They often require certain deviations and efforts to overcome all prejudices and taboos. But with you, everything came together almost instantly, for no apparent reason, as if something was pulling you towards each other stronger than any morality. This is not a coincidence. It is his soul reaching out to itself. Each fragment feels euphoria when it approaches the whole – even if that approach is a sin."
A crushing silence dispelled any atmosphere that might have been. Fear and distrust froze on the girls' faces, their eyes widened at the unexpected revelation. Yaroslava pressed her lips together, as if trying to curb the wave of doubts that broke through her mind. Myroslava stepped back, her gaze becoming cold and cautious, as if she feared that every word could change everything forever. Myrolana, initially bewildered, slowly lowered her eyes, trying to hide the anxiety that was tearing her apart from within. They all felt the ground beneath their feet begin to shake, and each new word shattered their trust, forcing them to doubt everything they had known until now. To accept this was impossible, to comprehend it – even more difficult. Their hearts beat in an uneven rhythm, and their minds refused to accept the truth that had sounded so unexpectedly and cruelly.
"And what should we do?"
"Accept it. You will never be able to live otherwise. No matter how hard you try, no matter how hard you fight, this connection is deeper than you can imagine, and more significant than any human bonds. You know what I'm talking about, Olekyr, don't you? They are different. They are a part of you, and no one else will be able to betray you as they did."
Elikoria looked at the nine dolls, who stood motionless, awaiting orders, and he, of course, caught her meaning. A crooked smile appeared on his face – a mixture of understanding and bitter irony. Now that he had been directly confronted with it, he could feel a faint, almost fragile connection with the girls around him, who were still trapped in shock.
They were silent, but their bodies and gestures spoke more than words. Hands nervously clenching into fists, averted gazes, and a slight tremor in their voices when they finally dared to speak, but couldn't utter a single word. The fear and distrust that grew from the unexpected revelation created an invisible wall between them, difficult to overcome, but through which the connection was clearly felt.
Elikoria, finally turning her attention to the girls, clicked her tongue with a slight hint of impatience and irritation.
"Do you really not understand what I said? You won't be able to escape anymore. No matter how hard you try to reject this reality, it will catch up to you. The longer you fight, the stronger the longing will become, the more unbearable the desire to return, until eventually you crawl back, forced to accept it."
Her voice became cold, almost merciless, and her gaze pierced each of them, as if trying to penetrate the innermost corners of their souls. The girls felt a cold breath of fear run down their spines. They wanted to say many things, to scream, to deny, but they couldn't utter a single word.
Olekyr sighed; he perfectly understood that they needed time to be alone with themselves. His eyes, filled with sadness and contemplation, slowly scanned the space around them, where the echo of their shared experiences lingered. He stood up, and Elikoria, sighing, followed him and hastily merged into his body, like a shadow that never leaves its master.
Olekyr stood on the crest of the hill, where the wind no longer blew – it tore. Before him stretched an army: thousands of dolls in perfect rows, where each shield was an icy wall, and each spear an extension of his own bone. They did not breathe. They did not blink. But they were alive – by his will, his pain, his emptiness, which had finally found form.
The Void responded first. Not with a word, not with thunder – with a blizzard. The snow howled, like thousands of voices screaming at once. The wind became thicker than smoke, white walls of blizzard rose to the sky, hiding the horizon. This was no longer just weather. This was a challenge. The Void looked at him with the eyes of a snowstorm and said: "Prove it. Show that you are not just a boy torn to pieces. Show that you are worthy of standing where you stand."
Olekyr smiled – calmly, almost gently. And then he laughed.
His laughter was not joyful. It was pure, transparent, like ice cracking under weight. There was no fear left in it, only the madness that had long settled in him and become home. The girls heard this laughter – somewhere far behind, under the watchful eyes of the guardian dolls. They could not approach. They could not stop it. Their feelings – a mixture of horror and love – held them back until they finally sorted themselves out.
The blizzard responded to the laughter. It became fiercer. Snow beat against his face like needles, the wind tried to tear off his cloak, but Olekyr didn't even flinch. And the dolls responded instantly.
First – a dull, rhythmic thud: thousands of spears simultaneously struck shields. The sound rolled across the field, like pre-storm thunder born in the belly of the earth. Then – a second strike. A third. The rhythm accelerated, becoming menacing, like the heartbeat of a waking giant. And then – a roar.
One voice, but a thousand throats. Inhuman, piercing, full of triumph and hunger. It tore the blizzard in half, momentarily exposing the black sky above them. And they moved.
Not like an army. Like a wave breaking from a crest and falling down, unstoppable, merciless. Row after row – step, step, step – the earth groaned beneath them. Spears lowered forward, shields closed into a solid wall. They walked straight into the heart of the blizzard, as if wanting to tear it to pieces.
Olekyr did not move. He watched as thousands disappeared into the white haze, swallowed by it. As the images of the void formed and the battle began. Behind him, the nine last and unique ones slowly lined up – his icy guard and a reminder of why he had started all this.
"Forward," he said quietly, not to the dolls, not to the girls. To himself.
The blizzard howled around him, closing in, and somewhere beyond it, the Lord of the North roared in despair, already waiting for him.