The mountain was already cracking.
In the Stormlands, the sky was always heavy.
But this time, it wasn't hanging above the earth.
It was falling.
Each thunderclap sounded as if the world itself was trying to rip free from its roots. Lightning split the clouds like blades forged not to punish mortals—
—but gods.
Drakar stood amid the shattered remains of a temple that, moments ago, had belonged to a lesser storm deity—a servant of the great Thunderer.
His chains, black and long as the night over Nav, coiled around his arms. Ancient Slavic runes pulsed across their surface, glowing with a molten crimson light.
Opposite him stood a being with the body of a man and eyes filled with lightning.
A demigod.A messenger of thunder.
"You dare raise your hand against a servant of Perun?"His voice cracked like splitting stone.
Drakar did not answer.
He threw the chain.
The blade tore through the air and pierced the god's chest. Before the demigod could even scream, Drakar yanked the chain back like a harpoon, launching himself forward—
—a black meteor colliding with divine law.
Impact.
Bones shattered.
The mountain behind them split in two.
The demigod raised his hand, trying to summon lightning—
—but Drakar was already above him.
He stepped on his enemy's chest and drove the chain deeper until the runes burned brighter.
"Please…" the demigod whispered.
Drakar dropped to one knee.
His fingers slowly sank into the searing flesh, searching—
—and when they found the pulsing rune at the core of the god's power—
the sky went silent.
Then he crushed it.
The scream was not a sound.
It was thunder exploding from within.
When Drakar tore the rune free, lightning shattered into sparks, and the demigod's body crumbled into ash, scattered by the wind.
The rune still pulsed in his palm.
And then—
his vision darkened.
Flashback
The village was burning.
Not merely burning.
It was screaming in fire.
Wooden houses. Straw roofs. Fields of rye.
Everything turned into red tongues of flame that devoured life without choice and without mercy.
And in the middle of it stood a young Drakar.
No chains.
No power.
Just a boy who believed gods were protectors.
Lightning struck the center of the village.
The earth trembled.
He ran.
He saw his mother fall, still holding his sister's hand.
He saw the sky flash again.
And then—
silence.
When it was over, only ash remained.
Drakar fell to his knees.
For the first time in his life, he did not know what to do.
His hands trembled.
He touched the ground, still warm from the flames.
His fingers closed around a charred piece of fabric that had once been his mother's shirt.
And then the tears fell.
No scream.
No rage.
Just quiet, burning tears mixing with the soot on his face.
"Why…" he whispered, his voice breaking like a dry branch underfoot."We prayed… We believed…"
He lowered his head.
His shoulders shook.
Tears dripped onto the ash, leaving dark stains in the gray soil—as if Nav itself accepted his pain.
In that moment, he was not a warrior.
Not the descendant of the ancient Zmey.
He was simply a son who had lost everything.
The wind moved across the ruins.
Smoke rose to the sky.
Drakar lifted his eyes.
They were no longer filled with tears.
They were silent.
Empty.
Cold.
He wiped his face with his sleeve.
Slowly, he stood.
The tears were gone.
Something else remained.
"If gods can destroy humans…" he said quietly, staring into the swirling clouds,"then gods can die."
The Forge
At the edge of the village stood an old forge.
People feared it. Legends said that Svarog himself once worked there, forging weapons capable of binding even the heavens.
The door hung half-broken.
Inside, the air smelled of iron and ancient ash.
And there—
on a stone pedestal—
lay them.
The Chains of the Black Zmey.
Two blades connected by chains, covered in Old Slavic runes that pulsed faintly, like a heart waiting for its bearer.
Drakar stepped forward.
The serpent-shaped scar on his arm flared with light.
When his fingers touched the metal—
pain surged through his entire body.
But he did not let go.
He gripped the blades.
The runes ignited.
Deep within his blood—
something awakened.
And for the first time since he wept among the ashes—
Drakar felt not pain.
But power.
He walked out of the forge.
The sky still roared with thunder.
But this time—
he did not bow his head.
He stared directly into the clouds.
And the thunder answered.