Ch 2 : Journey towards the Fortress City

Scene 1 : Dragon within me

Avikarh picked his way down the rocky trail, each step stirring up dust motes glittering the path in the morning sun. He stepped from the shadowed cave into a world that seemed spun from legend itself.

To his back, a band of jagged peaks loomed like silent guardians, the quartz veins indicated the possibility of crystals coming out from Earth ; to his front, a mirror image of the scene of mountain range was visible, equally tempting and wild. Between them two rivers braided like hairs through the valley, their waters splashing over stones and then uniting in a resounding hug before the fortress gates.

The bastion,made up of dark granite against the viridian woods, stood firm as a protector where the trees dared not to overstep. All around, pines and birches wove a interlaced canvas with the viridian hush but was broken only by the river’s song. Beyond the nearer bank, a still lake lay like a polished gem, its “statuestill” waters reflecting the highest peaks as though challenging Avikarh to cross and claim its secrets. Each breath he drew was scented with pine and possibility, and though the fortress awaited below, his eyes stayed fixed on the tranquil lake across the water, beckoning him onward.

Lost in wonder, Avikarh barely recorded the glint of pale fur behind him until a low, chilling growl broke the forest’s hush. Turning, he froze as five silvermane wolves stepped into view, their eyes like shards of moonlight, lustrous silver coats gleaming and breath curling in freezing mist. Under the pale gold of the morning sun, they emerged from the forest’s hush like living nightmares.

As they padded forward, saliva dripped from bared fangs, each droplet crystallizing in mid-air before it even fell. The silence of the woods fell away under their low, rumbling growls, and every breath they exhaled pooled into ghostly mist, as if the air itself feared their presence.

The largest wolf, dripping icy saliva, lifted his head and let loose a long, echoing howl—an ominous announcement of their intent.

Fear filled in Avikarh’s chest, but the memory of his dragonfather’s words steadied him. Heart hammering, he shifted into a ready stance, boots sinking into the soft moss. Thoughts of the frosty aura of the wolves flickered in his mind, something awoke inside of him in response to his dilemma. He strengthened his resolve as it was a do or die situation. He trusted in the power surging within him.

With a furious snarl, the wolfleader sprang forward, maw agape. In the same instant, Avikarh ’s fingertips tingled as an otherworldly chill crept up his arms, each nerve ending alight with a rushing thrill. He sucked in a breath, and the air around him shimmered with frost, tiny crystals dancing like fireflies at his palms. His heart pounded between panic and wonder—he could almost feel the snowstorm raging inside him.

In his mind, a voice whispered,“Embrace the cold… let it flow.” Avikarh clenched his jaw, grounding himself on the uneven ground, every heartbeat sending shards of power crackling beneath his skin.

As the pack lunged, he met their charge headon. The forest erupted in the clash of claws and steel, and for the first time in this strange new world, Avikarh embraced the thrill of combat, every strike a step closer to uncovering the secrets of his power.

The battle began in an instant.

Two Silvermane Wolves lunged from opposite sides—blurs of muscle and fur, swift as slicing wind.
They're fast! Avikarh’s body moved on its own, instincts kicking in.

Before their icy fangs could reach his arms, he caught both their jaws mid-air—slam! With a surge of raw strength, he smashed their skulls against the ground. The wolves collapsed in a heap, unmoving.

What... was that? he blinked, stunned.
My body... it just reacted. Like it’s done this before.

But there was no time to think.

A low growl echoed through the trees. The leader of the pack, larger and cloaked in a shimmering mane like forged silver, stepped forward, eyes glowing with cold fury emerged from shadows.

From deep within its throat, the alpha howled—low, violent.

A swirling vortex of frost erupted behind it, summoned by two wolves flanking the leader—each cloaked in a glacial aura. Their combined powers condensed into a spiraling storm. The winds howled, biting, as frost crept across the ground and the very air began to crackle.

A blizzard ,no a Silver Storm Avikarh dreaded seeing it being unleashed, freezing the ground and lowering the temperature drastically.

He shivered, the cold biting into his skin. This chill... it's familiar. A memory surfaced—his father's words: "You possess the power , why not use it."

He inhaled deeply, drawing in the frigid air. A strange comfort enveloped him, the cold no longer pose a threat but became an ally. He absorbed the icy energy from surrounding, feeling it and merging it with his own.

Pain surged in his lungs, but he persisted, pulling more of the ice element into his body. The blizzard weakened, the surrounding frost melting away.

The vortex remained, spinning menacingly. The Silvermane leader snarled, its eyes gleaming with fury as it directed the swirling vortex toward Avikarh. The air crackled with icy energy, the temperature plummeting as the storm approached.

Avikarh stood his ground, the cold no longer biting but invigorating. He could feel the ice element coursing through his veins, a power long dormant now awakened.

This feeling………It’s nostalgic…….

He inhaled deeply, the frigid air filling his lungs, channeling through his veins merging with the energy within. His body trembled, not from fear, but from the overwhelming surge of power.

His eyes glowing in icy white with the surging power.

With a primal scream, he unleashed it.

"Dragon God’s Glacial Roarrrrr!!!!….."

A torrent of icy energy erupted from his mouth, a beam of blinding blue-white light that collided with the incoming vortex. The two forces clashed, a deafening explosion echoing through the forest as snow and ice were blasted in all directions.

The beam didn't stop there. It continued forward, obliterating the Silvermane leader and carving a path through the trees, leaving a trail of frozen devastation in its wake.

When the light faded, silence returned. The once-menacing wolves were no more, and a kilometer-long trench of ice marked the battlefield.

Avikarh fell to his knees, breath ragged.

I did it... but this power…..is terrifying?

He looked at his hands, still glowing with residual energy.

I must learn to control this power... before it controls me.

Avikarh’s chest heaved as the last echoes of his icebreath faded into the trees. He had to disappear—fast—before anyone traced this display of power. But something still niggled at the back of his mind: movement in the undergrowth.

His senses snapped alive. Fingertips tingled with residual frost, every hair on his neck standing on end. He leveled a cool stare at the rustling bushes and called out, voice low and steady:

“Come out. I know you’re there.”

A tense hush fell, broken only by the distant drip of melting snow. Then the leaves parted.

A boy, no older than twelve, stepped into view. Pale skin, wide eyes shining with awe—and not a hint of fear. He wore a runicstitched tunic, worn trousers, reinforced boots, and an enchanted black cloak that whispered at his shoulders. On his head sat a modified ushanka, and at his belt jingled odd pouches and a knife’s hilt.

Avikarh blinked. He’d expected terror—yet the boy’s gaze was rapt, almost reverent. Still he maintained caution.

He tilted his head,c in his eyes. “Hey—aren’t you even a little scared of that?” he asked, nodding at the frosty trench etched into the earth.

Ruslan blinked, as if waking from a dream, then threw back his shoulders with a grin that lit up his pale features. “Scared? No way! That was the coolest thing I’ve ever seen. Big bro, you’re amazing! Teach me how to be strong like you!”

His excitement was infectious. Avikarh couldn’t help the small smile tugging at his lips. “Alright,” he said, voice softer now. “What’s your name, kid? And what are you doing way out here?”

Ruslan’s grin faltered, replaced by a flicker of unease. He glanced over his shoulder at the distant towers of the fortress city perched on the hill. “I’m Ruslan,” he said quietly. “I live there—see it?” He pointed. “I snuck into the forest to hunt monsters… but I bit off more than I could chew. Those Silvermane wolves nearly had me.”

He shrugged, trying to sound casual. “And… my father keeps insisting I work in his shop. But I don’t want to spend my life behind a counter. I want to be a Strelsy—a protector.”

Avikarh’s brow lifted. “Silvermane wolves, huh? Wind and ice magic on wolves—that’s a nasty combo.” He reached out, offering Ruslan a reassuring nod. “I’m Avikarh, by the way. Nice to meet you.”

“Strelsy?” Avikarh echoed.

“Yeah,” Ruslan said, puffing his chest. “Someone who keeps the cityfolk safe—like a guard.”

Avikarh nodded, piecing it together. “Like police, in my world.”

Ruslan’s face fell. He looked at Avikarh with sudden intensity. “You’re not from around here, are you?”

Caught, Avikarh hugged his cloak tighter. “No. I… I lived on an island that sank beneath the waves. I just arrived, looking for work and somewhere to belong.”

For a heartbeat, Ruslan’s eyes softened with sympathy. “That’s… tragic.” He swallowed, then brightened. “But I think I can help you—and help myself.”

“Go on,” Avikarh prompted.

Ruslan took a deep breath. “My father’s seeking an assistant for his shop. If you took the job, he’d leave me alone—stop dragging me behind the counter. You’d get a place to stay, and I’d finally train for real.”

Avikarh offered a small, reassuring smile, though a flicker of worry still tugged at his eyes. “That sounds promising,” he said, tone gentle. “But—how do I actually convince your father to hire me? Do you have a plan?”

Ruslan’s confidence wavered. He swallowed hard, brow furrowing as a bead of sweat rolled down his temple. For a moment he looked every bit the uncertain boy again—then squared his shoulders and met Avikarh’s gaze.

Ruslan (determined): “It’s simple. I’ll tell him exactly what happened—how you saved me from those wolves with your ice power. He’s a fair man; once he hears how you risked yourself to protect me, he won’t hesitate.”

Avikarh nodded slowly, weighing the plan. “And if he does hesitate?”

Ruslan’s lips curved into a confident grin. “Then I’ll remind him that every good Strelsy starts by proving their loyalty—and you’ve already proven yours, big bro.”

That plan sounded almost too simple. Avikarh studied Ruslan’s eager face. “What do you get out of it?”

Ruslan’s grin cracked, and—just like that—the mood shifted. He sank to one knee, eyes glistening. “I…” His voice trembled. “I was really hoping… someone strong would help me defend my city.”

Tears welled up, and Ruslan bowed his head, the weight of his plea heavy in the clearing. “Please… big bro… protect my father…and everyone there.”

Silence wrapped around them. Avikarh knelt beside him, placing a steady hand on Ruslan’s shoulder. The boy looked up, vulnerability shining in those moist eyes.

Softly, Avikarh vowed, “Tell me everything that’s happened so far. I promise, I’ll save your people.”

And in that moment, laughter and danger, hope and fear, wove together—binding two strangers into the first threads of an unbreakable bond.

Avikarh’s gaze remained as calm as a placid lake, yet beneath that surface, a tide of fury welled up—silent, coiled, and ready to crash like a storm upon any who dared cross him.

He glanced at the distant fortress, its walls gleaming in the afternoon sun. “Alright,” he said, voice firm. “Let’s get moving—before my ‘big move’ becomes an evening spectacle no one forgets.”

With that, the two set off down the forest path side by side—one newly arisen hero, the other a hopeful apprentice—each step bringing them closer to the city, and to the next chapter of their shared destiny.

Scene 2 : The Conflict within me

As Avikarh and Ruslan made their way toward the city, the forest canopy filtered the sunlight into dappled patterns on the path ahead. Ruslan led confidently, choosing trails less frequented by magical beasts, his familiarity with the terrain evident.

"Our fortified city, Pskov, is home to peace-loving yet resilient people," Ruslan began, his voice filled with pride. "We live with honor and glory, upholding traditions where our young men serve in the Strelsy and the Rosgvard, our national police and military force."

He continued, detailing the longstanding rivalry with the neighboring city of Novgorod, a tension that had recently escalated. "Novgorod sent a military convoy to conquer Pskov," he explained. "Given the equal standing of both cities, the Imperial State Council chose not to interfere."

Avikarh, absorbing the influx of information, raised a hand to pause the narration. "Hold on a minute, let me process all of this," he said, a hint of amusement in his voice. "And by the way, how does a small boy of 12 years know so much?"

Ruslan, slightly offended, responded calmly, "Big bro, let me clarify—I'm 16 years old. People often mistake me for younger because of my height, but I always correct them. Also, I read a lot of books; my dad owns a bookstore."

He smirked with pride, and Avikarh couldn't help but smile, acknowledging the boy's intelligence and resourcefulness.

“From what I’ve gathered,” Avikarh began, shading his eyes as he studied the distant ramparts, “your city was ambushed by Novgorod’s convoy, and many cityfolk were taken prisoner. Is that the full picture?”

Ruslan’s shoulders slumped, pride-chilled by the memory. He drew in a shuddering breath. “That’s only half the tale,” he admitted, voice thick. “Most of our strongest – the Strelsy and Rosgvard veterans – answered the call of duty at the border. What remained behind were farmers, shopkeepers, retired soldiers… none fit to stand against a trained militia.”

He paused, jaw tightening. “Our pleas for aid fell on deaf ears in the capital. Pskov sits too far from the First Secretary’s seat. And now, with tensions flaring by the border, reinforcements may never come.”

A hush fell between them as Avikarh let those words sink in. Then he leaned forward, concern furrowing his brow. “So our mission is twofold: free the captives and hold back Novgorod’s forces. But there has to be more—why target Pskov so ruthlessly?”

Ruslan’s gaze dropped. He closed his eyes and swallowed, as if steeling himself to share a darker secret. “The real strike wasn’t just against our people,” he whispered. “Mayor Alexander Nevsky—Novgorod’s 10th ruler—ordered his troops to seize Pskov’s Sacred Regalia. Without it, our city loses its charter, its rights… even its very name. Whoever has it… can control the entire fate of the city. I don’t know the specifics but that’s what has been told to us by elders.”

Avikarh’s heart quickened, yet he maintained a composed focus on the regalia’s possible hiding place. “So where is it, in some secret dungeon ?”

Ruslan’s features were suffused with a sorrow he could hardly comprehend. “It was hidden by our 2nd Mayor during the Great invasion of the Tatars, that’s what I heard. … It was the most devastating invasion in our history,…. a bloody massacre on the border areas, mostly on our side. Our city was also hit, but we were able to defend our lands.”

Avikarh’s heart ached as he learned of the long-past invasion. He bowed his head and offered a silent prayer to his dragon-god father, beseeching that the departed souls find peace. “ So if it was lost during the invasion why are they still trying to invade you city. I am guessing that the Regalia’s location was only known to the 2nd Mayor of your city.”

Ruslan nodded, lips pressed thin. “So did everyone—until Alexander recovered his own. You see, our founder and Novgorod’s founder received twin regalia from the first Emperor. When one was found, the other’s bond led Alexander’s men straight here.”

He clenched his fists, knuckles whitening. “Our present and 10th Mayor Mr. Dovmont, my father, and the retired guards tried to resist the convoy. They failed…and were taken hostage. The Veche, our city council has been dissolved and stripped of power. Alexander gave us an ultimatum: bring him the regalia, or he’ll execute them all.”

Silence settled over the path, the weight of Ruslan’s words heavy in the dusking air. Avikarh’s jaw set, the last light of day glinting off the faint frost still clinging to his cloak.

“We can’t let that stand,” he said, voice quiet but steel-hard. “We’ll find the regalia before Novgorod’s men can. Then we free your people—no matter how deep the enemy’s grip.”

Ruslan looked up, hope flickering in his eyes through unshed tears. “There’s only one man who might know its hiding place—Mr. Dovmont. But we’ll have to move carefully. Alexander’s second-in-command, Warlord Gabriel Volkov, has eyes on every road into the city.”

Avikarh gave a quiet nod, masking the storm beneath his calm exterior. A silent promise echoed in his mind—he would have to be prepared for anything this world threw at him. This land was not his own, and the air itself whispered of strange rules and unseen gods. A fleeting fear gnawed at the edges of his thoughts: What if I can never return? What if I’m stranded here forever, a ghost from another world?

But then his gaze fell on Ruslan—resolute, wounded, yet still standing—and the weight on his heart grew lighter. No, he told himself, this world may be foreign, but it is not without hope. He had already formed a bond here, however fragile. Ruslan might just be the key—not only to understanding this new realm but to anchoring himself within it.

His memories remained fragmented, drifting like frost on a windblown mirror. Yet he clung to what little he still knew of his homeland: its laws of magic, its ways of battle, the divine fire within him passed down by the Dragon God. And this world, too, pulsed with mana. The signs were clear. The arcane still lived here.

It would not be easy. The path ahead would demand more than strength—it would demand will. But he had not come alone. The other six… they were out there, waiting, perhaps even lost like him. He had to find them, awaken them, remind them of who they were. Together, they were more than survivors. They were the Dragon Sons.

The road ahead might be cruel, but he would not falter.

He was Avikarh, son of Garjhimagni—and he would not break.

Scene 3 : The Magic within me

Both of them walked steadily toward the fortress city, the horizon still a stretch away. The journey led them through dense forest paths and over uneven terrain, where magical beasts occasionally crossed their way—some curious and harmless, others swiftly dispatched, and a few so dangerous they were best left undisturbed. Yet Avikarh’s focus was less on combat and more on the mysteries that pulsed within this world.

His mind churned with questions. Everything around him—the trees whispering with Zhivava, the beasts born of magic, even the boy beside him—was a puzzle waiting to be solved. And now, he had the perfect companion to start unraveling the threads.

Avikarh (curious): “Hey Ruslan… can you tell me more about the magic system your country uses? Just in general.”

Ruslan (grinning): “Finally! I was waiting for you to ask, Big Bro. You're about to get the best crash course ever.”

The boy’s eyes sparkled with excitement as he launched into his explanation, arms gesturing wide as if painting the unseen.

“So, the spiritual energy here—what we call Zhivava—flows through all living beings and nature itself. About three in every ten people are magic users, or as we call them: Volkhvari.

“Now, the Volkhvari are grouped into what we call the Six Paths of Zhivava. First, you’ve got the Sborniki—the Gatherers. They draw Zhivava from their surroundings but only in alignment with their elemental affinity. Most elemental mages fall into this category. They need a meditative lifestyle to really master their flow.

“Then come the Vnutriki, the Inborn Flames. These are people who generate Zhivava within themselves, often through ancient bloodlines or sheer spiritual will. They’re powerful… but without self-control, their emotions can make their magic spiral.

“Next up—Otrazhenni, the Reflected. These are awakened by something from outside—natural phenomena, mystical relics, sacred beasts. They usually end up with really rare, unique kinds of magic that no one else can replicate.

“Then we get to the rare ones. Poddelniki—the Forged—who use artificial methods to activate or boost their Zhivava. Think runic tattoos, implants, alchemy, you name it. It’s dangerous and taboo, but it works… sometimes too well.

“And the Prinoseniye, the Blessed. Their Zhivava is touched by world-breaking magic—divine, ancient, cataclysmic stuff. Some say their births are written into prophecy. They’re rare, but legends are built around them.

“Finally… the Nevedomiye. The Unknowable. These ones are more myth than truth. Their power is… wrong. Or maybe just beyond. Magic that defies reason, time, and even this world’s laws. If you meet one, you’ll know. Trust me.”

Avikarh (thoughtful, impressed): “That’s… a lot. You’re more knowledgeable than you let on.”

Ruslan (grinning): “Books are my secret weapon.”

Avikarh walked in silence for a while, letting Ruslan’s words soak in. He thought back to his homeworld. Yes—there too existed a magical essence called Prana, the spiritual current that powered their reality. His memories were still fragmented, flickering like old embers, but one thing burned bright—he and the other six possessed Dragon Style magic. It was rare. Powerful. Perhaps even feared.

He finally asked the question forming in his mind.

Avikarh: “So… which type do you think I fall into?”

Ruslan (serious now): “It’s complicated. You use elemental powers like a Sborniki, but your magic flows from within, like a Vnutriki. Still… the way your presence affects everything, how even the forest’s stronger beasts avoid us...”

He looked at Avikarh with wide, reverent eyes.

“Honestly? You don’t fit. I’d say you're one of the Nevedomiye.”

Avikarh (with a half-smile): “That’s high praise. I’m not sure I deserve it.”

Ruslan: “You do. I can feel it. You’re not just powerful—you’re different.”

They continued through the foliage, silence briefly settling between them. Avikarh glanced at Ruslan with quiet admiration. For all the boy had endured, he still smiled with conviction.

Avikarh: “You survived out here, alone. That’s more impressive than anything I’ve done.”

Ruslan (smiling, but a touch wistful): “I had a great master. He taught me well.”

The weight of that sentence lingered. Avikarh nodded slowly, his thoughts turning inward again. This world’s magic system, its people, its strange familiarity—it echoed fragments of home. Perhaps that meant the path forward wasn’t so alien after all. The only way was through.

His gaze turned to the horizon, where the forest began to thin. Shafts of golden light pierced through the canopy.

Ruslan: “Ah—there it is! Just beyond those briars... the edge of the forest. Can you see it? That’s Pskov’s outer gate.”

Avikarh followed his pointing finger, eyes narrowing at the distant fortress city. The air shifted. Magic pulsed faintly from beyond the trees, ancient and waiting.

He steeled himself.

Every step beyond this forest would test their growing bond—and challenge the strength of a warrior lost between worlds.