Several days had passed. Olekir, as always, left the room to the sound of Yaroslava's chatter and Myroslava's quiet warnings. Their voices trailed after him down the corridor for a long time, mingling with the dull echo of his footsteps. The stone beneath his feet was cold, and even through his soles, he could feel how the walls held the night's chill.
He climbed up onto the wall to look at the sun. The morning light lay upon the battlements, scattering sparks on the frost that hadn't yet melted. But now, unlike in his childhood memories, his steps were noticed. The guards nodded, the warriors stepped back half a pace, the mages passing by greeted him briefly. Some acknowledged him as an equal, others simply stopped pretending he wasn't there.
In the courtyard, an old warrior was teaching the children. His voice was hoarse, but every word was honed by years: "Feel the power, let it flow through your body," he repeated, as he did every day, like a prayer.
Seeing Olekir, he fell silent for a moment, then nodded with respect: "Step into the circle. Show them how it's supposed to look."
The children parted, forming a semicircle. Olekir stepped forward. The power didn't wait for a command—it was already in him, in every tendon, in every heartbeat. It flowed with his blood, slid beneath his skin, tightened his muscles as he moved. He didn't control it—they moved together, as one.
The first step—and the power struck the earth with his heel, scattering small stones to the side. The second—and it was already surging forward, making his body strike faster than his mind could form the command. A blow, a turn, another blow—and a scene from the Great Hall flashed in his head.
He saw himself again, charging into a crowd of enemies. How his hands, obedient to the power, tore open chests, ripped out hearts. How a sword, snatched from a body, sliced through flesh and bone. How the enemies fell one by one, but there were more and more of them, each just as fast, just as strong.
He felt the imaginary battle falter—not from weakness in his movements, but from the very limits of the power. It could destroy anyone, but not everyone at once. And that was its limit. His limit.
Finishing the exercise, he stepped back. The warrior looked at the children and said: "That is what perfect unity of power and body looks like. Remember this movement, this confidence. This is what you must strive for."
"He moved like the wind!" exclaimed one boy, gripping his wooden sword. "I didn't even see when he struck," added a girl, her eyes wide open. "How does he do it?" whispered a third, as if afraid Olekir might hear.
Atop the wall, leaning on the battlements, stood Ratybor. His shadow fell on the courtyard cobblestones. Nearby, two warriors were talking, unaware of his presence. "I couldn't follow his movements," said one, shaking his head. "I barely kept up," replied the other. "He strikes as if his body and the power are one."
Three more warriors standing nearby discussed what they'd seen: "If he were in formation, the enemy wouldn't take a single step." "Or they would, but over mountains of corpses," another chuckled.
Ratybor was silent, but his fingers tightened harder on the stone.
And Olekir, feeling the power still flowing within him, was already thinking about how to make it so that next time, no enemies would remain at all.
The sentry's cry from the north gate rang out, as always, without panic. In the courtyard, the warriors didn't even look up—another monster attack was as much a part of the fortress's life as the morning wake-up.
On the wall stood a lone sorceress. The wind fluttered the hem of her dark cloak, and her fingers gripped the edge of the parapet. Her face—young, not yet hardened by years of battle—and in her eyes was more focus than indifference.
She inhaled and began to quietly, almost whispering, repeat the words that held her attention gathered into a single point: "Arrow. Heavy. Iron. Carried by a fierce wind."
Each syllable pulled a thread of power that gathered in the air. An experienced sorceress in her place would have simply raised a hand—and the arrows would have pierced the monsters on their own, without a sound. But this one still clung to words like a crutch.
Olekir watched. He saw how the power obeyed her, but not completely—like a wild beast walking alongside, but ready to break free. And then he reached out his hand.
The power responded, but instead of flowing out, it grew wild—like a predator feeling a noose. It roared, thrashed, tried to break free, but his muscles, blood, and breath squeezed it, forced it to submit. It followed his will, coiling and hardening, forming on his palm into a thin, cold as an icy breath, needle.
The needle tore from his hand almost silently—only a short whistle in the air. The next moment, it pierced the skull of one of the beasts, and it, still taking a step, was already falling, splaying its limbs.
It should have been lost in the hail of arrows, but it wasn't. The sorceress faltered for a moment, her eyes sliding to him. Two older mages standing further away exchanged a brief glance.
Yaroslava stood nearby. Her gaze slid to him, but she said nothing. Only slightly compressed her lips, as if trying to hold back a thought that might betray her surprise.
The monsters lay beneath the walls, steaming with warmth quickly dispersed by the evening wind. The warriors were already dispersing, dusting themselves off and chatting about trifles, but their glances occasionally slid toward Olekir.
He stood apart when one of the older sorceresses approached him—the one who had observed from the walls during the battle without intervening. Her steps were quiet, her gaze warm, almost gentle.
"I saw you watching," she said softly, without a hint of reproach. "There are things that can't be explained with words. But they can be shown."
She casually, almost imperceptibly, adjusted the edge of her mantle, and the fabric opened a little more than necessary. The movement was slow, unobtrusive, but there was something personal, almost trusting in it.
"If you want... I can show you more," she added, and a shadow of a smile appeared at the corners of her mouth.
But before he could respond, another senior sorceress appeared nearby. Her presence was like a gulp of cold water after wine—a steady gaze, a calm voice, but with firmness in it.
"Enough," she said to her colleague, who merely shrugged slightly. Then she turned to Olekir: "If you're interested, visit the Vault. There we keep what we don't show on the walls."
Myroslava, standing nearby, tensed slightly. Her brows drew together, and her gaze slid from one sorceress to the other, then to him.
Two warriors passing by exchanged a brief, heavy look. One, smirking crookedly, muttered: "Look at that... now they're inviting him to the Vault." "And like he's more kin to them than us," replied the second, and his voice held more bitterness than jest.
Olekir only nodded. There was no hesitation in his eyes.
A narrow corridor led downward, deep into the fortress. Yaroslava walked ahead, Myroslava beside her, Olekir a step behind. Their footsteps echoed dully in the stone.
The hall they emerged into was low but wide. Stone columns supported a heavy vault, and along the walls, between doors to the mages' private rooms, stood heavy shelves filled to the brim with books—old ones with bindings darkened by time, and new ones, still smelling of fresh parchment. In the center of the hall lay a huge crystal—deep crimson, with veins of light pulsing as if a heart beat within it.
By the crystal stood Velymyra. She watched the mages as they took turns touching the stone, drawing its power. Her face was focused, her gaze cold. Velymyra shifted her gaze to Olekir. The cold in her eyes melted, giving way to attentiveness and warmth.
Olekir didn't approach yet. He examined the hall, watched as one mage formed spirals of light in the air that slowly spun and scattered sparks; another made thin threads of power intertwine into complex symbols that trembled as if from a breath. Another sorceress, kneeling, traced a circle in the air, and it flared with a soft glow when her fingers touched its edge.
Several witches and wizards caught his eye and smiled—openly, with a playful spark. Someone, making a pass with their hands, as if by accident, paused the movement to glance at him. Another, touching a crystal, let their gaze slide over his figure, and a hint of a smile appeared at the corners of their mouth.
"Is that him?" a whisper came from somewhere to the side.
"It's him," another voice replied.
"The best I've seen here in years."
"Naturally, you'd want the one who's stronger," added a witch, and her smile held more desire than jest.
Velimira approached him herself. "You're looking as if you're seeing this for the first time," she said, and there was something new, softer, in her voice.
"How do you do it?" he asked simply, without weighing his words. "How do you make the light obey?"
She smiled faintly and raised her hand.
"We don't ask power—we force it to submit. It doesn't give itself; it's taken. And held so it moves where we command."
A soft ball of light pulsed in her fingers, like a heart in her palm. It dissolved into the air, turning into a gaseous cloud that circled Olekir, touching his shoulders, neck, chest—like smoke obeying every motion of her will.
"This is a moment," she said.
The cloud gathered back into her hand, compressed, sharpened—and in her hand was now a thin dagger of pure force.
She threw it at the wall. The blade sank into the stone, scattering sparks, leaving no trace.
"And this is form."
Her voice grew firmer.
"Power may resist, but in the end, it does what we command. Because we are the ones who rule, not those who wait for mercy."
He nodded in understanding, and only then did his gaze drift to the crystal. The deep crimson core, veined with light, seemed alive—something stirred in its depths, pulsed like a heart beating in a slow, inexorable rhythm. The air around it was thicker, warmer, and seemed to tremble with excess energy. He felt as if the crystal was calling to him, begging, but Olekir only shook his head and stepped back, not allowing himself to approach.
"What is it?" he asked, not looking away.
"The result of a ritual," she replied cautiously, and her voice carried the weight of memory. "It helped you, though you may not remember."
He noticed several wizards, touching the crystal, freezing for a moment as if listening to something others couldn't hear. Their fingers slid over the facets, and the light in the veins responded—with a flash, or a deep, slow pulse.
"And those standing near it, what are they doing?" His voice was even, but curiosity mixed with wariness could be felt in it.
"Absorbing," said Velimira, watching them as if assessing every movement. "The crystal gives up its power without resistance. It's common practice."
He turned his gaze to her, and a shadow of challenge appeared in his eyes. "Why don't you do it?"
Velimira paused for a breath. Her gaze slid to the crystal, and a barely noticeable smile appeared at the corners of her mouth—not from joy, but from already knowing the answer, though she wasn't in a hurry to voice it. Around them, as if sensing this pause, several wizards slowed their movements, listening.
She fell silent for a moment. Nearby, one wizard, holding his hands over the crystal, sharply clenched his fingers, and the light in the stone shuddered. Another witch, forming a spiral of fire in the air, threw Olekir a quick, appraising glance. Two more, standing by the shelves, discussed him in hushed tones without looking away.
"Because I've reached the limit in the blood core," she said at last. "It won't grow anymore."
He looked at her evenly, without a shadow of sympathy:
"You still have muscles and bones."
She blinked in surprise, then laughed—sincerely, loudly. The laughter cut off abruptly, and a shadow of understanding appeared in her eyes.
Olekir spent some time in the Underforge with Velymira and other mages. Though "spent" is a strong word: he mostly practiced, honed his skills, and learned new things from the texts he had once burned with obsessive joy, reveling in the very act of destruction. Now he examined those same symbols and formulas with cold precision, and his understanding of power was so profound that a single glance was enough to embody what he read. The only thing lacking was practice, but for that, he always found willing candidates.
But the real challenge was teaching Velymira. Her magic was unruly, and he repeatedly had to personally take control, directing the flows into muscles and bones so they worked in harmony. This required closeness—such that blurred the lines between teacher and student. And what truly annoyed him were her reactions: he didn't know how to respond to them. Once, he had felt a deep, cold resentment toward her because of what had happened to his mother. He had already repaid her for that pain, and back then it was simple—an act, revenge, closure. But now, when that wasn't happening, he didn't know what to do with what he saw in her eyes.
He stood close, holding her shoulders, feeling the tendons tense beneath his fingers. Her breathing deepened, and each exhale barely brushed his skin. Velymira didn't look away, but a glint appeared in her eyes that had nothing to do with learning. Her face, usually cold and impenetrable, was now open, as if she was allowing him to see what others never saw.
"That is not the expression a woman should show to anyone but her husband," he said quietly, and the words hung between them like a fine crack in stone.
She didn't pull away. On the contrary, she slightly shifted her weight, closing the distance between them. Her magic obediently yielded to his guidance, but somewhere on the edge of awareness lingered the feeling that this submission wasn't just about power.
The Underforge breathed with the dampness and warmth of candles. The stone walls retained a muffled whisper that never fell silent, even in the quiet. Olekir left Velymira's room, and a wave of sound immediately washed over him—fragments of phrases that vanished as soon as he took a step forward.
The mages, usually immersed in their own exercises, now looked at him as if they had been waiting for him. Their glances slid over him, lingered: bitten lips, a slight trembling of fingers, robes that parted just enough to reveal a neck or collarbone. Someone shifted their posture as if inviting him over, someone followed him with their gaze, not hiding their interest.
He walked through this corridor of gazes, and the air was thick with an excitement that had nothing to do with training.
At the turn, he met Ladomyra. She was walking quickly but, seeing him, stopped, yielded the way, and nodded almost imperceptibly with respect. Then, without a word, she turned and disappeared into the depths of the Underforge.
The others, however, were in no hurry to leave. Two mages and a sorceress stopped to ask him—how he had mastered that technique he just used, was it true that he was working with Velymira on new formulas. Their voices were quiet, but impatience simmered beneath.
Suddenly, heavy footsteps echoed from the depths of the corridor. Ratibor emerged from the darkness, surrounded by several loyal warriors. Their faces were stern, their gazes direct. Somewhere to the side, in the shadows, two guards were talking, thinking they couldn't be heard:
"He's better, it's obvious…"
"But we already promised Boryvytor we'd side with Ratibor…"
Ratibor stopped in front of Olekir, his gaze sliding over the mages and sorceresses standing nearby.
"I see you've already managed to enter their circle," he said with a crooked smile. "Be careful, brother… spending too long among these delicate hands and silk robes might make you as soft as they are."
Several mages tensed; one bit his lip, another stepped forward, and the sorceress standing closer clenched her fingers on her robe as if restraining herself. Their eyes flashed—this was a challenge.
Olekir raised a hand, stopping them.
"Worried about me?" he said quietly, looking straight into his brother's eyes. "Don't bother. I'm not one to dissolve in others' words or glances."
Ratibor only shrugged, but his smile retained that same mocking undertone that hid his true thoughts.
The tension in the corridor thickened, like before a strike. And just at that moment, Boryvytor entered the passage. His gaze slid over both sons, over the mages, over the warriors.
"Disperse," he said, and his voice left no room for argument.
People began to scatter, but as Olekir passed Ratibor, he felt the decision had already ripened. He didn't look back, but thought: it's time to shed the old skin. We've lingered here too long.
The room was low, with thick stone walls that held the chill even on warm days. Bunches of dried herbs hung under the ceiling, their scent mingling with the faint smoke from the oil lamp. Myroslava sat on a bench, her back straight, hands folded on her knees, but her fingers moved nervously. Yaroslava perched on the windowsill, one leg dangling, swinging it as if waiting for a signal to move.
Olekir stood in the middle of the room, his shadow falling on both.
"We're leaving," he said without preamble. "And there's one reason—Ratibor."
Myroslava lifted her head, fear flashing in her eyes.
"Because of him? You're exaggerating. He's your brother. And here… here there are walls, here there's protection. Beyond them—darkness. I know what's out there. I saw monsters tearing my family apart when they bypassed the fortress. If it weren't for the defenders, I wouldn't be sitting here."
"And these walls won't save us when he becomes voivode," Olekir replied evenly. "Boryvytor will leave soon and hand everything over to him."
She pressed her lips together, but hope crept into her voice: "Then I'll go with Boryvytor. He'll protect us."
Olekir leaned slightly forward, his words cold and precise: "He'll go alone. And that's not my guess. Velymira said so."
Myroslava froze as if struck. Her fingers dug into the edge of the bench, and she couldn't find a single word to object. Velymira wasn't one whose words could be dismissed as gossip.
"You… you're sure?" she finally exhaled.
"I see what's happening," he replied. "And I'm not going to wait until we're presented with a fait accompli."
"I'll go with you wherever you want," Yaroslava interrupted, jumping down from the windowsill. Her eyes shone with determination. "Even now."
Olekir looked at them both. In his mother—fear; in Yaroslava—reckless devotion. And he knew: both would go, but each for her own reasons.
"Not today," he said quietly. "But soon. Very soon."
The light of the oil lamp flickered, as if feeling the weight of his words. The door swung open with a deliberate rumble, and the smell of cool stone from the corridor rushed into the room. The footsteps were heavy, loud—the kind made by those who want to be heard before they're seen.
"Myrolana…" Yaroslava said quietly but with open displeasure, scowling.
In the doorway stood a tall, slender woman with dark, smoothly gathered hair that revealed the clean line of her neck. Her robe, though modest, was tailored to emphasize her waist and the grace of her movements. Her green eyes shone with cold fire, but in her posture was something Olekir noticed this time—a habit of precise, controlled movements, like those who know how to disappear unnoticed.
She stopped on the threshold, not taking her eyes off Olekir.
"You must take responsibility."
He raised an eyebrow, his voice calm:
"What did I do?"
"You made me look like a fool!"
"Really? I don't remember that."
"You made me serve you!" Her voice rang with offense, but also something else—a vulnerability she was trying to hide.
"Isn't that your duty?"
"I'm not a servant!"
"Truly," he smiled slightly, "but you're so good at it."
"You!.."
"If you're truly not a servant, then I can't take responsibility."
"Why?"
"Because you chose to submit to me yourself. I even considered taking you into my service. I just happen to need a good servant."
Yaroslava pinched his side quietly, but he didn't look away.
Myrolana narrowed her eyes, and a bitter note entered her voice: "Ratibor rejected me because of you."
"All the more reason," he replied evenly, "now you can decide for yourself whom to serve."
She froze for a moment, as if weighing, then slowly nodded. "So that's how it is… Then let it be your way. But don't you dare go back on your word."
The door slammed shut so hard the oil lamp on the table shuddered, and Myrolana vanished beyond the threshold. The footsteps echoed a few times and cut off. Only Olekir noticed that detail—too quickly for her to have gone far. As if beyond the door, she simply dissolved. He smiled faintly but said nothing.
"I need to breathe," he said curtly, glancing at Myroslava and Yaroslava.
He went out into the corridor, where the stone held an icy dampness. The fortress slept a half-anxious sleep: somewhere below, beyond the walls, in the darkness of night, a dull howling was heard—another pack of monsters prowling in the shadows, testing whether the gates had weakened. It was like this almost every day: not an assault, but a constant grinding of nerves.
He climbed the narrow spiral stairs, and with each step, the noise of the fortress faded, yielding to the whistle of the wind. At the top of the tower, he was met by space and cold. The north wind beat against his face, piercing to the bone, but he stood, leaning on the rough battlements, and stared into the darkness.
His thoughts returned to Ratibor, to Velymira's words, to how quickly the balance of power was shifting. He knew: to stay meant to let others decide his fate. His gaze slid north, to where beyond the dark lines of hills and forests lay the path he had already chosen.
He stood like that until he felt a light touch. Someone's hands carefully embraced him from behind, pressing against his back. The warmth of that embrace sharply contrasted with the cold wind.
"Whatever you decide to do…" Yaroslava said quietly but firmly, "I'll be with you."
Olekir smiled faintly, not taking his eyes off the dark horizon. His fingers slid down, touched her hand, and he slowly leaned back, allowing himself to feel her embrace.
The wind tore at the hem of his cloak, but in that moment, he felt only the warmth coming from her. His gaze remained fixed on the north—toward the path that awaited, the one he had already chosen.