Ch 3 : The Fortress City : Pskov

Scene 1 :  A drop in forest 

After reaching the edge of the forest, Avikarh was finally able to see the city. The fortress city situated at the confluence of two rivers, which wrap around the city like natural defenses. The rivers are calm and wide, their banks dotted with reeds, willow trees, and wooden docks where small fishing boats bob in the water. The surrounding countryside is a mix of rolling hills, meadows, and dense forests of pine, birch, and oak, offering timber, game, and foraging opportunities. To the south, there is a vast expanse of freshwater, lies just beyond the horizon. The lake serves as a critical waterway for fishing and trade. The landscape exudes a serene beauty but carries an air of vigilance, as Pskov has long been a bastion against many incursions. But the front gate of the city looks like it has been surrounded by the military troops bearing the flag of the Novgorod.

When Avikarh and Ruslan approach the city gates, Novgorodian pike-men stand arrayed in azure tabards, each emblazoned with the gleaming silver fish. Their shields reflect the morning light, the fish motif appearing to swim across the surface with every shift of their stance. Flags snap in the breeze, the silver-on-blue gonfalon casting wavering reflections on the placid rivers at the city’s feet. This emblem not only identifies them as Novgorod’s troops but also serves as a constant reminder of the city’s lifeblood—its rivers, its trade, and its unbroken bond with the waters that sustain it.

They crouched in the shadow of wind-swept highland grass, the forest’s edge at their backs. From this vantage, the city of Pskov lay below like a jewel in a moat, its walls bristling with spears and banners—the silver fish of Novgorod glinting on every tabard and standard.

Ruslan pressed his back against a mossy boulder, eyes narrow. “It’s beautiful, isn’t it? All those rivers winding around us…”

Avikarh’s gaze stayed on the front gate, where pike-men stood motionless as stone. “Beautiful… until you ruin it with an occupying army.” He drew a shaky breath. “We need to find Mr. Dovmont and free your city. But how do we get inside?”

Ruslan’s finger traced the outer walls. “There is a back entrance, through the old catacombs beneath the eastern rampart…” His voice dropped to a whisper. “But it’s guarded by Simargl.”

A chill ran down Avikarh’s spine. “The guardian of the catacombs,” he said, tasting the word. “No one who’s challenged it has ever returned.”

Ruslan’s eyes flickered with panic. “Then we should—”

Avikarh cut him off, voice low and firm: “—defeat the guardian and slip inside. It’s our only chance.”

For a heartbeat, Ruslan stared at him as if seeing a stranger. The wind tugged at his cloak, and he swallowed hard. “Are you out of your mind? We’ll die down there. Isn’t there another way?”

Avikarh’s calm face betrayed nothing, but in his eyes, the dragon’s fire waited—coiled and ready.

“Not if we fight smart,” he said, voice barely above the breeze. “Tell me everything you know about Simargl.”

Ruslan swallowed and nodded, the weight of their task settling in. Above them, Novgorod’s banners fluttered in the afternoon light—silent witnesses to the danger that lay ahead.

A sudden wind sliced through the forested ridge—sharp, unnatural.

"Wait... this wind," Avikarh muttered, his instincts prickling.

CRACK!

From above—movement.
Not the rustle of leaves. Not a falling twig.

It was a drop.

BOOM!

Something slammed onto Avikarh's back like a meteor, a blur of bark, claws, and teeth. The sheer force bent his knees.

“Ghh—!”

Ruslan flinched. “Avikarh!”

“BACK—NOW!”

With a precise snap-kick, Avikarh launched Ruslan backward just as the creature lunged for his neck. His boots dug into the soil, arms raised instinctively to block.

But this wasn't a man.

It was twisted—half-tree, half-beast. A humanoid shape with knotted limbs like warped oak branches, sinews creaking, face draped in moss and gnarled bark. Its eyes glowed like sap-lit embers—hungry, intelligent, feral.

"It’s fast... heavier than it looks."

Avikarh gritted his teeth as claws scraped against his forearm, searing pain blooming.

No time to draw a blade. No time to think.

"Then I’ll use what’s always with me."

He shut his eyes.

A chill surged from his core—deep, ancient, divine.

His breath fogged.

Fssshkk!

Ice raced down his arm like a living serpent—spiraling, layering, locking.

SNAP. SHINK. SCHLACK.

His forearm bloomed into a translucent gauntlet of jagged frost, inscribed with glowing dragonic runes. It pulsed with the might of his god-father.

CLANG!

He deflected the next claw strike with the icy bracer. Sparks. Frost dust. A crack in the earth beneath his heel.

"Let’s see if you can bleed," Avikarh hissed.

Meanwhile—

Ruslan rolled through the underbrush, cloak snagging on a root. He turned just in time to see the creature whip around, its eyes locking onto him now.

“Crap—!”

It leapt like a predator. Claws open, teeth bared.

Think—fast!

Ruslan’s hand darted inside his tunic. He grabbed the rune-blade—his father’s. Still untested.

"Please work..."

He fed it a surge of mana.

FLASH!

The blade glowed azure—sigils dancing across its edge.

“HEY, UGLY!”

He threw it mid-lunge.

BOOM!

The dagger struck the beast square in the jaw—a blast of force erupting like a thunderclap. The creature spun mid-air and was hurled sideways toward—

Avikarh.

"Mine," Avikarh muttered, charging forward in a blur.

THWACK!

He caught the beast mid-flight by the neck, lifted it overhead, and—

SLAMMED IT INTO A TREE.

CRACK—!

The trunk shattered, bark raining like shrapnel.

Still, the monster roared. Blood oozed from its mouth, but it pushed off the trunk and came flying again.

Avikarh didn’t move. His ice gauntlet shifted—runic lines glowing brighter.

He raised his fist, low and steady, like the eye of a storm.

And then—he struck.

“Fall.”

BOOOOOM!!!

The ground exploded beneath them. Ice magic surged outward in a frozen shockwave, carving a shallow crater into the forest floor. Trees quaked. The beast’s eyes rolled back.

It didn’t move again.

The dust settled.

Ruslan stumbled forward, his chest heaving. “I-Is it… dead?”

Avikarh didn’t answer right away. He was staring into the crater, the last mist of ice magic swirling from his fist.

“It’s breathing,” he finally said. “Barely.”

They stood at the edge of the hole, staring down at the half-man, half-monster.

Ruslan wiped blood from his cheek. “What… was that thing?”

Avikarh’s eyes narrowed. “A guardian? A test? Or a warning.”

His icy gauntlet began to melt, water dripping from his fingertips.

Somewhere in the stillness of the forest, a hawk cried.

This battle was over.
But it was only the first page of something far greater.

The creature lay still, moss matting its hair like sorrow wreathed in green.
Ruslan’s breath caught—once, his brother’s laughter had filled these woods, echoing like birdcalls at dawn.

“…Ostap?” His voice cracked, brittle as frozen wood.

Avikarh’s heart pounded. “What do you mean, Ruslan?”

Ruslan staggered forward, kneeling beside the beast. He pressed a trembling hand to its bark-like cheek, as if a brother’s warmth still pulsed beneath that twisted skin.

Memories flooded him. Ostap, the older boy, teaching him to fish by the river. Their shared secrets whispered beneath summer stars. The pride in Ostap’s eyes when Ruslan took his first bow at the shooting range. And now… this.

“What—what happened to you?” Ruslan’s words trembled into a sob. Highlights of their past flashed in his mind: Ostap’s protective arm around him when the village celebrated harvest. The gentle way he praised Ruslan’s sketches of dragons. How he tucked a stray strand behind Ruslan’s ear on cold winter mornings.

Now those memories felt like shards of ice in Ruslan’s chest. He covered his face, shoulders shaking with silent agony.

Avikarh didn’t hesitate. He knelt, gently pulling Ruslan into a tight embrace. Rustling leaves whispered around them, as though the forest itself mourned.

“I’m so sorry,” Avikarh’s voice was soft but urgent. “I wish I could—”

Ruslan buried his face into Avikarh’s shoulder, tears soaking the fabric. “He… he was my hero. He was everything.”

Avikarh squeezed him, his own throat tight. “We’ll find a cure. I swear it.”
Could I really keep that promise? he thought, uncertainty gnawing at his resolve. Yet he squared his shoulders and added, “I don’t know how… but I will do everything in my power.”

Ruslan choked out a sob. “I keep seeing his face—before the curse. So bright. So alive.”

Avikarh closed his eyes, feeling a deep uneasiness settle in his chest—he wanted to unleash fury, but his spirit remained as still as a glassy pond, reflecting nothing but sorrow. A single tear traced down Avikarh’s cheek.

Ruslan’s wails broke the hush as he climbed to his feet, kneeling to cradle Ostap’s head. “Big bro… look at him… my brother… my friend…”

Avikarh lifted Ruslan’s chin with gentle fingers. “I know. I know… but he’s still in there. We have to believe that.”

Ruslan nodded, voice quivering: “He used to tell me, ‘No one stands alone.’ I believed him… I believed him until now.”

The forest shadows stretched long, casting the beast in half-light. Ruslan reached out, brushing a fingertip along Ostap’s jaw—feeling the coldness of moss and bark where warm skin used to be.

“Why?” Ruslan whispered to the sky. “Why couldn’t I save you?”

Avikarh knelt beside him, sliding a hand under Ruslan’s chin to steady his gaze. “You will save him. Together.”

Ruslan inhaled shakily, wiping his cheeks. “I…I’ll do anything.” He folded himself around Ostap’s body, rocking gently. “Anything to see you smile again, brother.”

Avikarh stood slowly, his heart heavy but determination burning. “Let me carry him.”

Ruslan looked up, tears still glistening, and managed a grateful smile. “Thank you,” he whispered.

From his belt, Ruslan drew out a length of silvery chain, each link etched with complex sigils that pulsed faintly. He looped it around Ostap’s limbs, the runes glowing bright as they formed a gentle but unbreakable bind. “My father made this,” Ruslan explained, voice trembling. “It’s powerful enough to hold him steady.”

Ostap’s monstrous form stirred once, weakly, but the magical chain held firm.

Avikarh knelt and carefully hoisted Ostap onto his broad back, shifting him like a heavy cloak. The moss-laden limbs felt impossibly heavy—laden with despair and hope alike.

Ruslan walked close behind, steadying himself against Avikarh’s cloak.

They set off toward the backside of the fortress, each step echoing with unspoken vows. The sun dipped low, casting long shadows that stretched ahead of them—two brothers and a friend bound by promise and purpose.

Scene 2 : Drop on the Guardian's Gate

They crept through the dying light to the back of Pskov. The sealed gate loomed before them, chained and warded. Half a dozen Novgorod soldiers clustered around, chanting as they hammered at the arcane locks.

Hidden in the underbrush, Avikarh pressed Ostap’s bound form against the wall. Ruslan crouched beside him, whispering, “How do we slip by them?”

Avikarh scanned the guards. “We’ll need a distraction,” he said softly, voice steady. “Something to pull their focus from the gate.” His calm eyes flicked from guard to guard, searching for weakness.

Before he could decide, a sudden tremor of authority rippled the air. Avikarh stiffened.

“Who’s that?” he hissed.

Ruslan’s face went pale. “General Gabriel.”

The soldiers’ chanting faltered as a figure emerged at the gate’s threshold: a tall man in a black-and-crimson coat etched with silver runes. His high collar framed a scarred face, and a crimson-lined cape snapped behind him. Silver-tipped gauntlets and boots gleamed like sharpened blades. Each step he took carried the certainty of countless victories.

Gabriel’s gaze swept the masked sentries, then settled on the underbrush. Avikarh felt no fear—only a quiet resolve.

“He wasn’t supposed to be here,” Ruslan whispered.

Avikarh studied the sealed door. “They’ve tried for days,” Ruslan added. “No one has broken it.”

Avikarh nodded. “If so many guards are stationed here, the Regalia must lie behind that seal.” His tone was calm, as if stating a simple truth. “We need to secure it before they do.”

Ruslan’s breath caught. “I thought it was hidden elsewhere…”

Avikarh rose, stepping onto the path. “Warlord Gabriel,” he called, voice clear but devoid of anger.

Gabriel turned, expression unreadable. The soldiers straightened, eyes locked on Avikarh.

“Boys in the shadows,” Gabriel said, voice low and measured. “You leak icy mana as though you’ve trained for war.”

Avikarh folded his arms, still and composed. “I am here for Pskov’s Regalia,” he replied quietly. “Please stand aside.”

A flicker of amusement sparked in Gabriel’s eyes. “Such calm confidence. Very well,” he answered. “But demands carry risks. Let us see if you can back up these words.”

He signaled, and two guards rolled forward a massive iron cage, sealed on every side—no keyhole in sight. Ruslan’s heart pounded.

Avikarh studied the cage. “What’s inside?”

Gabriel’s lips curved slightly. “A special tool. Watch.”

He snapped his fingers. The cage hissed open, releasing a plume of white smoke that swirled like restless ghosts.

From the vapor emerged a lone figure who sat motionless—his silhouette sharp against the mist, as if unearthed from a forgotten legend. When he stood, his movements were fluid, almost liquid, cloak rippling as though tracing invisible currents. A faint sheen on his skin caught the torchlight like droplets on still water.

Avikarh’s breath caught. For a heartbeat, he felt a subtle pull—a connection he couldn’t name—his pulse echoing the boy’s quiet rhythm.

Gabriel’s voice broke the moment: “Meet my new slave. He will break your precious seal. Refuse—know the consequences.”

Avikarh’s gaze stayed on the mysterious youth, unflinching. “We will never surrender,” he said, voice calm but resolute.

Ruslan’s nod was firm, trust shining in his eyes.

Gabriel straightened, arms crossed, serene menace radiating from him. “Very well. Let the match begin.”

The hooded youth lunged first, blade glinting like a drop of water in moonlight. Avikarh shifted into a measured stance—still, composed, every sinew ready. Ruslan braced at his side.

Stealth dissolved into action. The forest held its breath as Avikarh met the challenge with focused strength and unwavering calm—prepared to keep his promise, come rain or storm.

….……………………………………………………………………………………………………….

The air around the sealed gate hung heavy with suspense. A soft breeze rustled the leaves above them, brushing past the worn stone walls and the overgrown brush they crouched within. Ruslan’s breath caught as he peeked out from behind the shrubs.

General Gabriel stood near the sealed entrance—still as a monument, his long black-and-crimson military coat fluttering in the dusk wind. He exuded control, not through noise or rage, but the cold finality of his presence. The silver runes on his armor shimmered faintly, like promises of a bloodless end. His scarred face was unreadable, yet his gaze pierced everything around him.

And then came the cage.

It was dragged forward by the soldiers—large, metallic, and sealed with strange lockless plates. The mechanical hiss of its release broke the stillness. A veil of thick white smoke spilled into the air, coiling around their legs and vanishing into the soil like breath lost to time.

A silhouette sat unmoving within.

From the curling mist stepped a boy—tall for his age, posture balanced and precise. He wore an ocean-blue bomber jacket embroidered with wave-like patterns across the sleeves, a white collarless pullover inside, and neat shorts that allowed agile movement. His shoes—hybrid slip-ons with reinforced grips—spoke of modern make, entirely foreign to this world. What truly stood out was the cap on his head: cyan-colored, peculiar in make, bearing an emblem of a lion-like creature with a horse’s head and a spiraled tail stitched in white thread. Not something crafted here.

Avikarh’s eyes narrowed. That cap… the fabric…
He knew.
No, he felt it.

“Hey… are you from the same place as me?” Avikarh called out softly, stepping forward with a kind of reverence—as if addressing a dream made flesh.

But the boy didn’t answer. His gaze remained fixed ahead—cold, distant, and absent.
Then, without a word, he launched.

The air cracked as he surged forward like a wave breaking off a cliff, targeting Ostap and Ruslan. Avikarh, reacting purely on instinct, intercepted mid-motion, gripping the boy’s arm with a powerful but non-hostile grip.

“Wait! I don’t want to hurt you—hold on! Are you being mind-controlled?”
There was no flicker of recognition, no hesitation. Only silence.

With a deft twist, the boy wrenched his arm free, flipping backward to gain distance—fluid, controlled, like a soldier drilled beyond thought.

A laugh broke out. Cold. Gleeful.
General Gabriel’s.

“Oh, he’s mine,” Gabriel said, folding his arms with smug satisfaction. “Controlled? Of course. And from the look in your eyes, you do know something about him. But don’t think you can take him away so easily. He’s useful… and soon, you all will serve as he does.”

Ruslan had already begun panicking.

“BIG BRO, DO SOMETHING!!” he shouted, tugging at Avikarh’s sleeve in desperation. “Isn’t he from your world? Can’t you wake him up or something?!”

“I don’t know him,” Avikarh muttered, eyes never leaving the boy. “But there’s… a feeling. Something familiar.”
He exhaled slowly. His breath fogged slightly—an unconscious rise in mana.

The boy attacked again.

Avikarh blocked with fluid grace, each movement calculated, precise—not a single blow returned. Only parries. He wasn’t fighting to win. He was fighting to understand.

“We need a link,” he murmured under his breath. “Something tied to his memories. Something that can reach him…”

Then, he noticed it.

The cap.
Not the embroidery this time—but the buckle.

Etched onto the clasp was a single word, shimmering faintly in letters he could read, glowing only when he looked directly at it—as if whispering just to him.

“Varunesh.”

The name struck him like a bell echoing through deep water.

His heartbeat slowed. The sounds of the world around him dulled. Gabriel’s voice became a distant echo.

Varunesh.
The name swam through his mind, tugging at a memory he didn’t even know he had.

And somehow, without knowing why, Avikarh understood—
This wasn’t just any boy.
This was someone who once stood beside him… or was meant to.

He shifted his stance, not out of caution, but purpose.

“Ruslan,” he said quietly, “keep Ostap close. I’ll handle this.”

“But—”

“No more shouting,” he added, gently. “We’re not just fighting him. We’re reaching for him.”

The forest rustled with a low wind, brushing over the stone gate. The sky overhead had turned a deeper shade of indigo, as if the world itself was holding its breath.

The lone boy moved again, and Avikarh met him—not with wrath, but with resolve.
The calm before the tide turns.

The battle had changed.

This was no longer about winning.

This was about bringing someone home

Scene 3 : Water Vs Ice ?

The ground trembled with every clash—raw echoes of two fates colliding beneath the twilight sky.

Avikarh and the mysterious boy—Varunesh—were locked in a furious dance of fists and instincts. Their movements weaved arcs through the swirling mist, rippling the air around them. Sparks cracked with each strike, shock waves rippling across the stony terrain. A single sweep of Varunesh’s leg tore up a shallow trench in the ground. Avikarh countered with a sweeping palm that bent the wind itself to his defense.

It was beautiful.
And terrifying.

Every soldier had stopped what they were doing. Eyes wide. Lips dry. Hearts pounding.
They weren’t watching a fight.
They were witnessing two forces of nature testing the boundaries of each other’s soul.

General Gabriel stood unmoved at the edge of the chaos. Arms crossed. A faint smirk tugged at the corners of his mouth. His crimson cape fluttered in the gusts made by their battle, yet he himself was untouched—stone-like and calculating.

Ruslan, clutching Ostap in his arms, crouched near the ancient wall. His eyes flitted nervously between the raging battle and the massive sealed gate. Despite his fear, his fingers traced the strange glowing runes carved along its borders.

Ancient script… forgotten patterns…
But not to him.

“I—I can read these,” he whispered, more to himself than anyone else. “They’re in the old tongue. But I need time…”

He looked up at the chaos.

"Bro! I need some time, hold them back!"

Avikarh, eyes still locked with Varunesh’s, shifted slightly and deflected an incoming roundhouse kick with the back of his forearm. His calm voice carried back like a stone skipping over still water.

“Roger that. I’ll keep them at bay. You do what you need to do.”

His words weren’t shouted.
They didn’t need to be.

He stood like a mountain that had chosen not to fall.
Even as Varunesh intensified.

The boy’s expression remained blank. No anger, no hatred. Just obedience. His movements grew sharper—there was water in his rhythm now. A flow like streams crashing against rocks—gentle until it broke you. Every step, every motion seemed to echo with tides held just barely in check.

Avikarh could feel it—that same energy.

The calm before a monsoon.

“General,” one soldier whispered in awe, “should we assist?”

But Gabriel raised a single gloved hand.

“No. Let him.”
His voice was low, smooth, filled with silent pride.

“I want to see what happens when that boy stops holding back.”

He turned slightly and addressed his fighter.

“My slave… I allow you to use your magic.”

That was all it took.

The temperature dropped.

A pale mist spiraled up from beneath Varunesh’s feet. His eyes—once quiet—now shimmered with a deeper hue, like the stillest water before a storm.

Avikarh’s brows lifted, not out of fear, but awareness.

“Magic…”

The wind swirled tighter.

Water vapor gathered around Varunesh’s outstretched palm—condensing into droplets that floated midair like glass beads. A sudden pulse of mana burst from him, and in an instant, a jet-like blade of pressurized water hissed from his hand toward Avikarh.

Avikarh dodged.

Just barely.

The blast sheared clean through a tree behind him—silent and deadly. It wasn’t water.
It was a pressure weapon.
Liquid made to cut.

And yet, Avikarh’s voice remained steady.

“You’re not aiming to kill, are you?” he said quietly, brushing a leaf off his shoulder. “Even now… something in you holds back.”

He blinked.
A memory stirred again. Not his. But his heart trembled with it.

Varunesh… why does your name feel like it was always waiting on my tongue?

The battle resumed.

Water curved like blades around Varunesh’s body, forming twin rings that spun faster than the eye could follow. Avikarh ducked, pivoted, and blocked—still refusing to strike back. He didn’t need to overpower. He needed to reach.

Even when he was cornered, pinned down by a barrage of slicing water crescents, Avikarh’s eyes remained focused—not on survival…

…but on the boy within the soldier.

“Who are you, Varunesh?” he murmured under his breath, arms raised in a cross block. “Why does it feel like I’m… supposed to know you?”

Varunesh didn’t answer.

But for the briefest flicker of a second…
A single drop of water from the storm clinging to his eyes shimmered.

And hesitated.

A hush fell over the battlefield.

Varunesh suddenly ceased his onslaught. The echo of his last water strike dissolved into mist. He stood still—too still—his breath barely audible. His hands fell loosely to his sides as he closed his eyes, channeling the mana within him like drawing water from a hidden spring.

A serene current pulsed from him. It wasn’t rage.
It wasn’t bloodlust.
It was the stillness of someone reconnecting to something deeper.

Avikarh’s brows narrowed. He took a few cautious steps back, instincts sharpening like frost on steel. The faint hum of magic curled in the air between them.

“Hey… Varun,” he said gently, the humor fading from his voice. “Looks like I’ll have to beat some sense into you after all.”

His voice wasn’t mocking. It carried a strange softness—like he wasn’t trying to win, but reach. And yet, even his calm had limits. He exhaled deeply and let the flow of mana rise from within him, wrapping around his frame like a silent blizzard answering a distant call.

Both boys stood still.

Eyes locked. Mana awakened.

Then—a moment of silence stretched to eternity.

And it broke.

With a roar like the crashing of ancestral tides, Varunesh raised his hand, and a serpent-like dragon burst from the spiral of his mana—a fluid, sinuous form of deep cerulean scales, glistening with droplets of raw pressure. The dragon coiled tightly around him before launching forward in a serpentine fury, jaws wide and magic pulsing in its fangs.

Avikarh met the oncoming storm with composed resolve.

His own mana flared to life, chilling the air around him. Frost bloomed in a ring beneath his feet. With a sweeping motion, he summoned his own icy dragon—a luminous creature forged from shards of glacial energy, wings of mist and talons like jagged crystal.

Both beasts—summoned reflections of their wielders—clashed midair with a deafening crack.

BOOM.

The shockwave exploded outward like a tidal wave.

Soldiers were thrown to the ground, tumbling like scattered dice. Even General Gabriel, unmoved and composed until now, took a cautious step back—his cape snapping behind him, his expression tightening with interest.

The summoned dragons fought like echoes of their creators. Water lashing against ice, pressure clashing with frostbite. Vapor swirled and roared into the sky, filling the battlefield with steam and roaring wind.

And from afar…

…a shadowy figure watched.

Seated high upon a gnarled tree limb, legs swinging lazily, the observer was cloaked in ink-like shadows, their features unreadable. Only their presence stirred the branches slightly, a hint of silent amusement on their unseen face.

The figure said nothing.
Only watched.
As if waiting.

Meanwhile…

Ruslan was crouched behind the ancient gate, still shielding Ostap with his arms, sweat trailing down his brow. The roaring winds of mana pushed against his small frame, but he clung to the wall, staring at the runic inscriptions.

“Come on… think,” he muttered. His fingers grazed the glowing glyphs, tracing patterns too ancient for most eyes to read.

Suddenly, a flicker of memory sparked behind his eyes.

That line…
“Pskov knows who passed and who will not return.”

His lips parted slightly, eyes widening.

“That inscription—on the old clock in our house…”

The words tumbled out in a hush.

“There was a code… I saw it as a child… right under the pendulum... it looked like gibberish then but—what if—”

He looked up at the gate again.

The runes glimmered softly in the dusk-light, waiting.
Watching.

Ruslan’s heart pounded louder.

“I think I know how to open it…”

As the battle raged behind him—frost and water colliding in blinding fury—Ruslan stayed crouched at the base of the gate, fingers trembling against the cold stone. His breath was shallow, heart racing. The ancient inscriptions glowed faintly, pulsing like a heartbeat just beneath the surface.

But then, something pulled at him.

Not from outside—but from deep within.

The storm faded for a moment in his ears.

And in that silence, a memory surfaced—
warm, vivid, bittersweet.

The heavy tick-tock of an old wooden clock echoed through the living room. The small hands of the clock refused to move right, and his father, sleeves rolled up and brows furrowed in focus, was gently opening up the back panel.

Little Ruslan, barely taller than the table, leaned close with wide, curious eyes, his elbows propped on the wooden surface. Ostap, still in his early teens, was lazily balancing a wooden spoon on his nose while Andry, the middle brother, sat cross-legged, sketching something absentmindedly.

As the clock’s back came loose, a faded photograph slipped out—fluttering like a forgotten leaf.

It landed softly at Ruslan’s feet.

He picked it up with his tiny hands and turned to his father.

“Papa… who’s this? Is this… mama?”

The room stilled.

His father paused, eyes slowly lifting from the gears and springs. He took the photo from Ruslan’s hands—his fingers lingered on it as though it might vanish with the touch.

In the dim evening light, he smiled. But his smile was laced with sorrow.

“Yes… that’s her,” he said softly. “Your mother… she was from Novgorod.”

Ostap and Andry looked up now, drawn in by the shift in his voice.

“A rival city,” the father continued, voice gentle. “But that never mattered to us. We met by the banks of our rivers… near the Krom. I still remember the moment I proposed to her—”

His eyes grew misty.

“The sun was setting… everything bathed in gold. The water shimmered, and the sky glowed. I held her hands, right under the old stone gateway. She cried, said yes, and hugged me like the world had stilled. The runes on that gate behind us... they glowed faintly, almost like they were giving us their blessing.”

He chuckled, but it was a quiet, cracked sound.

“And for a time... we were happy.”

“But… why did she leave us, Papa?” Ostap’s voice broke the warmth, his young tone heavy with the ache only children feel when answers are too large to understand.

Before their father could speak, Andry murmured, “Because she was taken… by her family. Our grandparents. They didn’t want her to be here.”

Silence fell again, longer this time. The ticking of the clock was the only sound.

Their father leaned in and pulled all three boys into his arms.

“Oh, my sons…” he whispered, burying his face in their hair. “She didn’t want to leave. But they gave her no choice. I promise you, one day... I will bring her back.”

His tears touched Ruslan’s scalp.

“Until then—promise me... promise me you’ll grow up to be strong. Good. Kind.”

The three of them, young and wide-eyed, nodded through their tears.
And in that room, lit by the ticking of a stubborn clock, they made a vow.

One day, their family would be whole again.

Snap.
The memory shattered like glass.

Ruslan’s eyes flew open, back in the present—his hands now pressed against the same kind of rune-engraved stone he’d seen in that old photo.

“The shadow… the gate… the runes…”

His breath hitched.

“I remember now…”

His eyes locked on the rune just above his head. It was the same symbol. The one that shimmered in his father's story.

“The code… it’s not just words. It’s a memory.”

The clash between ice and tide continued in the background—pale blue and silver-white flaring across the battlefield like two divine forces locked in cosmic struggle. But Ruslan—eyes shimmering with determination and memory—was focused on the massive gate, its ancient runes now gently pulsing in the night.

The memory of his father's voice still echoed in his heart. The shadow on the gate. The glow of the runes. It was all true.

He understood now.

The runes responded to darkness.

But the torchlight from the soldiers… it was washing out the glow.

His brows knitted. He clenched his fist around a small mana fragment, whispering under his breath. A soft ripple of confusion magic spread across the encampment like a gust of unseen wind.

And then—

It worked.

Shouts erupted. Some soldiers stumbled backward, accusing their own comrades. Others tripped over crates or drew weapons in paranoia. Torches were knocked over, flames flaring and scattering. The once-coordinated perimeter broke into complete chaos.

But General Gabriel was not like the others.

The seasoned commander’s eyes sharpened the moment he sensed the subtle manipulation in the air.

He turned slowly, cloak billowing behind him, and his voice rang out—measured, wrath-less, cold.

“So... the little worm is braver than I thought.”

With one motion, he stretched out his arm. A shimmering glyph of intricate design formed in front of him—summoning his personal weapon, the legendary Skolot-Zaslon Velesch.

Forged of obsidian and dusk-steel, the shield was a thing of awe and terror—a deadly discus in the hands of a man who had broken armies with it. The curved front shimmered with layers of scarred silver, bearing the faint etching of a phoenix devouring its own wings—a symbol whispered about across the war-fronts of many lands.

It was not merely a shield. It was a sentence.

And with a flick of his wrist—

He hurled it.

The air screamed.

A bladed blur sliced through the night, tearing the very wind apart as it hurtled toward Ruslan.

Avikarh turned—but even his reflexes couldn’t match the sheer velocity.

Ruslan’s heart froze. His eyes caught the gleam for half a second—his mouth barely forming a word.

And then—

A gust.

No, a surge.

Like a blade of compressed wind, an unseen force intercepted the Skolot-Zaslon Velesch midair with a thunderous clang. Sparks and magical residue erupted like fireflies. The redirected shield ricocheted off toward the stone city wall, where it embedded itself deep with a sound like thunder splitting the earth.

Everyone froze—even Gabriel.

The field fell silent, save for the distant clash of Avikarh and Varunesh, whose glowing elemental energies still dueled against the darkness.

Then came the whispering howl of leaves.

All eyes turned upward.

Far above, hidden in the boughs of a dead tree, a solitary figure in dark robes crouched effortlessly on a branch, eyes glinting like a hunter’s beneath a low hood. His presence had been invisible—undetectable even to Gabriel himself. The man—or perhaps something more—was now watching the battlefield with quiet intensity, his aura cold, calculated, and untethered.

Gabriel narrowed his gaze, visibly irritated but not yet reacting.

Down below, Ruslan had fallen on one knee, the wind from the impact still ringing in his ears. His face was pale. He’d just stared death in the eye. But somehow, he lived.

He stood.

Slowly. But he stood.

Around him, the torches had been extinguished. Darkness now cloaked the rear gate. But in that darkness—

—the runes began to glow.

Pale. Ethereal. Just like his father had described.

“The shadow of ours fell on the gateway… the runes shined…”

Ruslan’s breath caught in his throat. The letters illuminated in a specific sequence—one after the other—forming a riddle only the past could solve.

He etched the glowing sequence into his mind, repeating it under his breath like a sacred chant.

Then, heart pounding but with no time to waste, he dashed across the broken path toward the stone arch of the gate—determined, trembling, and alive.

Amidst the stone giants of Pskov’s fortress, the ancient gate towered silently—its heavy surface etched with time-worn runes that now shimmered faintly in the darkness. The confusion among the soldiers still echoed like distant murmurs, but Ruslan stood close, eyes locked onto the old locking mechanism.

His fingers trembled, but not from fear—from urgency. With one last glance at the glowing inscription now etched into memory, he traced the correct digits across the rune-dials, whispering softly.

“Krom’s twilight… open the forgotten path.”

A click—loud and final—reverberated through the stone.

The gate shuddered.

With a thunderous groan, the titanic structure began to open, its seams releasing a low hum of ancient magic. From within, a swirling portal ignited to life—its surface pulsing in shades of violet and silver-blue, like a whirlpool of starlight leading into the fortified depths of the city.

“NOW!” Ruslan cried out, voice barely heard over the whirling energy.

Avikarh, still locked in fierce combat with Varunesh, heard the signal. His eyes flared with resolve.

But then—

Gabriel moved.

The General had anticipated it. With that ever-calm, calculating precision, he stepped directly into the path between Avikarh and the portal, his crimson cloak dragging behind him like spilled ink. A dozen elite soldiers flanked him with lightning speed, halberds gleaming under the chaos-lit sky.

“You're not getting past,” he said coldly, voice layered in menace.

But fate had other plans.

A howling gust—strong and sudden—swept across the field. Dust and light exploded into a blinding sheet. Torches flickered out. Soldiers shielded their eyes.

In that moment of stolen sight—

Avikarh moved.

With a sharp twist, he spun out of Varunesh’s hold, delivering a precise mana-infused palm strike to his chest—enough to knock the mind-controlled boy away without lasting harm. The blue flames swirling around Varunesh scattered like petals in a storm.

Then Avikarh’s form vanished into motion.

He sprinted forward, cloak tearing the wind. He slipped right past Gabriel—too fast, too unpredictable. The soldiers raised weapons but it was already too late.

With a swift, protective motion, he scooped up Ruslan and Ostap—the latter still woozy—and leapt through the gateway’s threshold.

“NO!” Gabriel barked.

“AFTER THEM!”

Varunesh, recovering with a hollow glare, launched himself forward. Gabriel’s elites surged, weapons drawn, following the command without hesitation.

But then—

The portal began to close.

Its swirling light dimmed, the runes along the gate pulsing one final time before fading into stillness.

With a sigh like a breeze exhaling into eternity, the massive gate sealed shut once more.

And just like that—they were gone.

A moment passed.

Gabriel stood still.

The silence that followed was heavy.

He clenched his fists.

His brow twitched.

A ripple of sheer rage crawled beneath his calm surface.

“Damn it!” he roared, voice cracking through the night like a storm. His boot struck the stone, sending a crack down the ancient steps.

But only for a moment.

Then, as if swallowing his own fury whole, Gabriel inhaled deeply—his rage dissolved into steel composure. He turned on his heel, eyes sharp like the blade of a veteran forged by a thousand wars.

“Bring the remaining elites. We return to the base. This is to be reported to Lord Mayor Alexander personally,” he commanded.

The soldiers straightened, saluted, and moved out swiftly.

But none noticed it.

Up in the shadows, where the leaves no longer rustled and the night clung like a cloak—

the stranger was no longer there.

He had slipped through the portal too.

Silent. Unseen. Uninvited.

The air around the closed gate shimmered once, then faded.

And the night fell still again.