Ch 5 : Pskov and the Novgorod Army (Part - 1)

Scene 1 : The Fall of Pskov

The city of Pskov bled.

Smoke coiled from shattered rooftops like the breath of a wounded beast, darkening the sky with its grief. Ash and dust swirled in the air, cloaking the once-proud city in a mournful veil. The wind, once filled with the scent of baked rye and pine, now carried only the acrid sting of burnt timber and blood. The devastation wasn’t just physical—it was personal. A wound carved into the heart of a people.

Homes were no longer homes. They stood broken, their wooden frames splintered and slumped like dying men. Doors hung loose from their hinges, windows shattered inward, and hearths once glowing with warmth were now choked with soot. The laughter that once danced through cobblestone alleys was gone—replaced by silence thick enough to drown in.

Only the rhythmic clatter of foreign boots echoed through the streets. Novgorod banners fluttered like shadows of conquest, carried by faceless troops who marched with cold precision, sweeping through the wreckage in search of stragglers and souls still brave enough to defy them.

The bodies of Pskov’s defenders lay sprawled across the dirt-streaked ground, their once-proud armor now dulled with soot and blood. Some still clutched broken spears or shattered shields—as if refusing to surrender even in death. Their flags, torn and scorched, had been trampled underfoot, reduced to little more than ash-stained cloth beneath foreign heels.

The city’s lifeblood had stopped flowing.

The marketplaces—once bustling with chatter and haggling—were now eerie graveyards of ruin. Stalls had been overturned, their goods either looted or burned. Chimneys lay in ruin, carts broken like the spines of beasts, their wooden wheels scattered like bones. The very soul of Pskov, once etched in every painted tile and carved beam, had been ripped away and fed to flame.

There had once been life here.

Men in rough-spun tunics with axe-belts at their waists, who worked the earth and held laughter in calloused hands. Women in flowing sarafans, their aprons bright as spring tulips, moving gracefully through the streets as they weaved, baked, tended. Children had played freely, weaving between market stalls, giggling like the wind—their joy a shield against the harshness of the world.

Within the kremlin, nobles once convened beneath high wooden arches, draped in fur and duty, debating matters of defense with calm pride. Priests of the Temple of Rod, robed in shadow and solemnity, had walked the streets offering blessings and hope, their chants laced with ancient truths.

At twilight, the city would gather around fire pits and within their izbas—wooden cottages built with love and endurance. They shared stories under flickering firelight, of heroes long fallen, of spirits in the forest, of gods who watched silently from the stars. Pskov wasn’t just stone and wood—it was memory, it was community, it was sacred.

And now… it was silent.

Only a single sound remained—a lone gusli, its strings plucked by wind or spirit, echoing through the smoke like a requiem. No hands played it anymore. The melody carried no joy. It was a ghost, mourning the city it once serenaded.

The town square, once a place of festivals and prayers, had become a pyre. Flame-licked banners fluttered weakly in the scorched wind, their once-proud symbols devoured by soot. Each one trampled, stomped into the cracked earth by the boots of men who knew nothing of what they’d destroyed.

Pskov wept.

Not with tears—but with ash, ruin, and the hollow ache of all that was lost.

The smoke in Pskov no longer rose—it lingered. Thick, heavy, grieving. It coiled like serpents through shattered archways and across the bodies of the fallen, as if the city itself refused to exhale. Amid this death-stilled silence, footsteps echoed softly. Heavy boots walked over cracked cobblestone and through the remains of what once was a shrine, where the scent of burnt incense had long given way to charred bone.

Then… came movement.

A flicker in the ash.

From the edge of a ruined rooftop of the marketplace, a figure cloaked in tattered black, his long robes trailing through the soot like smoldering silk, stepped into the open. A faint gust blew, and the ashes rose with him, dancing at his feet, responding like shadows to a command long etched in blood.

His presence halted a Novgorod patrol dead in their tracks.

He wore a rune-woven cloak, lined with charcoal threads that glimmered like embers beneath the smoke. His face was hidden behind a full mask, carved smooth and featureless except for faint lines glowing in dull crimson—a sigil not unlike the runes etched on old stone altars.

His left hand lifted—not hurriedly, but with solemn grace.

Ash stirred.

Like a wave drawn to breath, the air thickened with black dust. It whirled around him in unnatural patterns, circling his body before sweeping outward in a spiral. Soldiers shouted, panicked—but it was too late. The ash moved like it was alive.

One raised a crossbow.

But before the bolt could fly, a rune flared on the figure’s palm, and the ash thickened—dense, binding, burning. It filled the archer’s lungs. He dropped, gasping in silence.

A flash of light arced from beneath the cloak.

A blade—curved and whispering with runes of its own—was drawn, not loudly, but with reverence, as though each inch of steel remembered something ancient. Its edge pulsed faintly, coated with something—ash, or was it decay?

The masked warrior rushed forward, the ash following his movements like a phantom’s cloak. The sword danced in his hands—not wild, not brutal—but precise, deliberate, poetic. Each slash left behind trails of embered air, lingering like afterimages in the fog.

One soldier lunged. A rune burst to life on the phantom’s shoulder—a sudden flash, and the attacker’s sword turned to rust in his hand, disintegrating into ash before his eyes. Another tried to flee, but the phantom merely pointed toward the ground—and the ash obeyed. A ring of burning sigils lit up beneath the escapee’s feet before swallowing him whole in a muffled scream and a flurry of choking soot.

He never spoke. Not even a breath was wasted.

But his style—the way he held his blade, how the runes responded to his silent will, how the ash bowed to his steps—echoed something eerily familiar. Something unspoken, a rhythm seen before in younger, less battle-hardened hands.

The fight ended quickly.

Smoke settled.

And in the aftermath, the cloaked phantom turned toward the scorched mural of Pskov’s city crest—cracked, blackened, half fallen. He paused. Beneath the fabric of his cloak, a soft glow flickered against his chest, something pendant-shaped briefly visible, then hidden again.

With a turn, he vanished into the alleyways, the ash following him like loyal ghosts, scattering behind him in fading silence.

The smoke still hadn’t settled in Pskov.

Ash drifted like snow over a city that no longer breathed. The wind slithered low across burnt stone and shattered timber, carrying with it whispers of the fallen. Broken walls leaned like weary sentinels, and the faint creak of scorched wood was the only protest left in this hollowed place.

And then… something stirred.

Not a man. Not a shadow. Not even a sound.

Just… presence.

Emerging from the veil of smoke was a figure cloaked in nothingness. His robe — not black, not white, not even gray — bore no color, as if reality itself refused to define him. It hung like mist on his frame, clinging to his every step yet never touching the ground. There were no emblems, no armor, no sound of boots. Only silence.

His face was hidden behind a mask — smooth, blank, inhuman. No eyes. No mouth. No identity. Just an empty canvas that stared back at the world with unbearable quiet.

He moved through the ruins like a thought half-forgotten. Where Novgorod soldiers stumbled over debris or kept watch from rooftops, none reacted to his presence. He was unseen, not by magic or trick, but by sheer force of intention.

At the site of a scorched crater, he stopped.

Ash swirled beneath him, then parted, revealing faintly glowing runes embedded in the earth — the residue of a powerful clash. He crouched slowly, gloved fingers brushing over the markings, feeling the heat, the remnants of essence still echoing like a heartbeat after death.

No words were spoken. No conclusion voiced.

He simply understood.

Then, just as silently, the figure rose… and disappeared into the smoke — swallowed by it, as if he had never been there at all.

A nearby soldier froze, suddenly uneasy. His torch dimmed, and the hairs on his arm stood on end.

“...Is someone there?” he whispered to no one.

No answer came. Only silence.

And the sense… that something was watching — and had already left.

Scene 2 : Mayor & the Temple

The city of Pskov still burned beneath the blood-red sky. Its tears ran as smoke, and its soul as ash.

And above it all, seated on the balcony of the once-proud Mayor's office — now repurposed as a seat of conquest — was Alexander Nevsky, the Mayor of Novgorod.

He sat like a king upon a broken throne, the hem of his fine coat fluttering in the evening breeze. His sharp cheekbones caught the dying sunlight, his jawline carved like granite, and his lips curled with a satisfaction that was both regal and unholy. His brown-blonde hair, thick and wind-tossed, crowned him like a lion’s mane, brushing against the high collar of his double-breasted coat — tailored to perfection, ceremonial in design but bloodstained at the cuffs.

He was dressed like a statesman. He grinned like a tyrant.

In one gloved hand, he swirled a cut crystal glass, dark liquor inside reflecting the flames that still flickered across rooftops. The city of his ancestors' shame — the city that mocked their failed conquests — now smoldered under his feet.

And he drank to it.

“Finally... Pskov kneels,” he muttered, half to himself, half to the ghosts of history.

Behind him, standing in unwavering silence, was Gabriel — his most trusted commander, the Warlord (High Commander).

Gabriel was still. Always still. His tall frame, clad in a dark Novgorodian officer’s coat, stood like a sword planted in the earth — firm, obedient, and cold to the touch. His eyes did not move, but inside them, a storm brewed. He had once watched Alexander grow up — a fierce, spirited boy who once cried when a bird died in his hand.

Now… he watched a man transformed. A man twisted.

And yet… Gabriel said nothing. Loyalty, after all, was not always born of admiration. Sometimes it came from blood-debt. Sometimes from love. Sometimes from the fear of what would happen if loyalty wavered.

Alexander took another sip.

Below him, Pskov lay broken — its people scattered, its soldiers dead, its soul burned. Only one structure stood untouched: the towering statue of Simargl, guardian of the city, and the Temple of Rod, whose walls now shielded the last remaining citizens.

Alexander's gaze paused there, resting on the solemn monument like a lion eyeing a chained beast.

He sneered. But he did not move against it.

“I know they're hiding,” he said flatly, fingers drumming the glass. “Civilians, priests, frightened old men clutching relics… huddled under their god.”

A pause. He lifted the drink again but didn’t sip.

“Let them rot in that temple.”

Gabriel’s voice was calm but laced with tension. “We agreed. You would not provoke Rod. Let the faith survive… so the city can, too.”

Alexander turned slightly, eyes flickering. “Yes, yes. Your advice, wasn’t it?”

Gabriel gave a small bow, saying nothing more.

The Mayor turned back to his panoramic ruin. “We need their hands to rebuild,” he said. “Let them weep for their dead gods… and raise temples to mine.”

A cackling laugh escaped his throat — wild, unrestrained, borderline maniacal.

The balcony quaked under his boots as he stepped forward and raised his glass toward the crumbling city below.

“To Novgorod! To vengeance fulfilled!”

His laugh carried through the smoke like a curse.

Gabriel stood behind him, rigid. Loyal. Silent. But in his mind, a shadow flickered: the boy Alexander once was, buried now under victory… and madness.

And the war, he feared, was far from over.

The scent of burning timber still lingered in the air as Alexander sipped from his crystal glass, sitting upon the ornate balcony of Pskov's Mayor’s residence—now repurposed as his war room. Behind him, the Pskov skyline crumbled in silence, smoke trailing upward like the final breath of a dying city.

Victory tasted strong, almost too strong. But he savored it like a long-aged vodka—his family’s dream fulfilled. The shame of past failures was now buried under rubble and bodies. The conquest of Pskov had not just restored Novgorod’s pride—it crowned Alexander as the greatest Mayor in their history.

His brown-blonde hair shimmered in the reddish glow of sunset, the gold trim of his politician’s coat gently fluttering in the breeze. Though dressed like a statesman, Alexander’s eyes betrayed something far more dangerous—a mad general cloaked in civility. His grin was the grin of a man who had cracked.

Behind him stood Gabriel—stoic, disciplined, and loyal. He wore the silence like armor. Though his eyes followed his master with unwavering focus, his heart weighed heavy. The boy he once swore to protect had long vanished beneath ambition and delusion. Still, loyalty bound him like iron chains.

Just then, a Komandir stormed in, saluting rigidly. Gabriel turned to receive him, but Alexander waved his fingers lazily.

“Say it out loud,” he muttered without looking, his voice soaked in calm tyranny. “I like my reports with a little theater.”

The Komandir stiffened. “My liege, there was an attack—near the marketplace. A patrol squad was ambushed.”

Alexander twirled the rim of his glass. “How many?” he asked. “A rebel group, perhaps? Or the temple rats trying to breathe again?”

The Komandir swallowed. “Only… one man, sir. And he had the powers of ash, from what we gathered so far.”

The sound of the wind outside filled the pause. Glass stopped spinning.

Alexander turned his head slowly, his voice dropping to a cold whisper. “You had the nerve to come all the way up here… to tell me that a single person routed my men?”

The Komandir froze.

“I admire your bravery,” Alexander continued, rising to his feet, “but I value results more.”

A deadly smile touched his lips.

“Find him. Drag him here. I want to see who dares spit on my victory. Dismissed.”

“YES SIR!!” The Komandir bowed so sharply it looked like he might snap his spine before bolting from the chamber, chased by the weight of Alexander’s chilling gaze.

Alexander turned to Gabriel.

“Warlord Gabriel. Report to me the moment you find this ghost. I will go and meet my well-wisher, you—”

His words stopped mid-air.

A thunderous quake shook the entire building. Bottles fell and shattered on the stone floor. Gabriel immediately reached for his blade as Alexander staggered back, steadying himself on the table.

Both rushed out to the balcony.

What they saw stole their breath.

The city below writhed in chaos. Cracked roads, collapsing homes—Pskov was tearing itself apart once more. Soldiers screamed as debris rained from shattered rooftops. And then—like a cruel omen—the massive statue of Simargl, guardian beast of the city, began to tremble… and collapse.

It didn’t fall from damage.

It was pulled down—by something below.

A jagged portal of searing white flame erupted beneath the base, opening like a divine maw. And from that blinding chasm… emerged Simargl himself, a vision of fury and divine majesty. His flaming mane whipped with every motion, molten runes glowing across his silver-furred body as he let out a roar that cracked the skies.

But he was not alone.

From behind the beast emerged a twisted silhouette, gnarled and pulsing, like a tree fused with flesh. Ostap, consumed by the same cursed force as in Ruslan’s memory, walked like a demon possessed—his face masked by bark, his eyes glowing with pain and rage.

The two figures clashed mid-air with godlike force, the shockwave leveling the remains of the square. Cracks split through Pskov like veins of judgment. The battle had begun, one not of mortals—but of divine relics awakened.

Gabriel’s eyes narrowed. He recognized the portal. It was the same breach the boys had passed through to reach Simargl before.

He turned swiftly. “I’m going down. The troops need to regroup—now!”

Alexander didn’t answer. He stood frozen at the balcony, glass falling from his hand and shattering at his feet.

He sat down slowly, almost dazed… then reached for the communicator crystal with trembling fingers but excited.

“To my wellwisher…” he whispered, eyes wide with awe and madness.

“…It’s begun.”

Inside the great stone walls of the Temple of Rod, sanctuary had turned into sorrow.

The inner halls—once a refuge of prayer and community—now echoed with weeping, shouts, and whispered prayers. Priests moved frantically among the masses, their robes dragging across the worn wooden floor as they attempted to calm the growing storm of human despair.

Children clung to their mothers, faces red from crying. Elderly citizens sat slumped against pillars, whispering half-formed hymns. Men stared blankly at the cold stone, their hands trembling—once calloused with work, now useless in a conquered city. Smoke from incense coiled through the rafters, failing to mask the anxiety in the air.

Outside, the tremors had returned—louder, closer, shaking the walls like the wrath of Rod Himself. Dust trickled from the ceiling beams. The stone underfoot vibrated as if protesting against the violence just beyond the walls.

The Volkhvacharya, their Arkhiyeri, stood tall among them, his aged eyes calm but burdened with sorrow.

A young male priest rushed forward, voice filled with concern.
“O Arkhiyeri, you mustn’t venture outside. The soldiers could be waiting! If they capture you—”

The old priest raised his hand.
“I must,” he said with quiet finality. “I will not allow the people to suffer more than they already have. If my words might save even one soul from further pain, then I shall offer them freely—even if it costs me my own.”

A young female priest stepped forward, her eyes brimming with tears.
“Please… don’t speak like that. Without you, we will crumble. You are the heart of this temple, of our people. We cannot lose you too, Arkhiyeri.”

Another priest added desperately, “Then let me go instead. If there’s danger, I’ll face it. Please allow me this duty.”

The Arkhiyeri paused, voice trembling with emotion.
“You all are more than disciples… you are my family. I will not stand by and watch my children perish before their time.”

“Then let me go with protection,” the priest insisted. “We need someone… someone capable.”

The Arkhiyeri turned toward the gathered crowd. “Is there anyone who can stand beside him? Someone with strength… and purpose?”

A murmur passed through the people—then silence. A single figure stepped forward.

She was barely noticed before, sitting quietly with the others. But as she stood, her presence silenced the room. A pale-skinned maiden, hair flowing in waves of deep green seaweed, eyes dark as moonlit rivers. She wore scale-shaped armor the color of wet moss and salt-stained bronze. Her shoulders bore remnants of old barnacles, as if the sea itself had once tried to claim her. A flowing sash trailed behind her like a wave in still air, and at her back, a sword braided from hardened seaweed, humming faintly with ancient magic.

She did not speak. She only nodded once.

The young priest stared, awestruck. There was something… unworldly about her. Not frightening—but unfathomable.
The Arkhiyeri looked into her eyes, and though she said nothing, he understood.
“Then go. But return quickly. And if the world turns against you—run. Through the Fifth Light of the Creator Rod… may your path be lit beyond illusion.”

The heavy temple doors groaned open. And as they stepped out, the sacred silence was swallowed by the chaos of a world on fire.

Outside, the city was unrecognizable.

The priest and the seaweed maiden stepped onto broken stone steps, their feet crunching against rubble. The once-proud central square of Pskov lay in devastation. The grand statue of Simargl, which once stood tall like a divine protector, had collapsed—its carved wings shattered, its noble face split.

But it was no earthquake that had felled it.

A hole gaped beneath the ruins of the statue—a portal, dark and swirling, like the mouth of another world. And from it had emerged chaos incarnate.

The guardian beast, Simargl, stood in its full, divine glory—its silver fur streaked with battle, its eyes glowing with holy fire. Every roar it let loose shook the city to its foundations.

But opposite it stood something twisted. A humanoid tree, malformed and wretched, bark and sinew twisted into a monstrous shape. Vines slithered like veins, and its face—once perhaps human—was distorted by rage and madness.

The two collided, and each impact tore the air like thunder. Shockwaves cracked walls and flipped carts. Debris flew through the streets like shrapnel. Divine flame met cursed root, and the city trembled beneath them.

The priest dropped to his knees, overcome by awe.
“Rod preserve us… Simargl Itself fights for us!”

But the maiden’s face did not move. Her seaweed hair whipped in the wind as her eyes locked on the tree-beast. Something in her heart whispered otherwise. There was no victory in this fight—only tragedy. And in her silence, she knew the city’s fate still hung in the balance.

She turned to the priest, voice like water sliding over stone.
“Go back. Tell them to remain inside. Until I return.”

The priest hesitated. “But… you…”

She gave him a glance—quiet, calm, unwavering.

He saw it in her eyes then. She was not afraid.

He ran back toward the temple, heart racing—not out of fear, but awe.
She turned back toward the battle, her sword humming faintly behind her.

And as a bolt of divine light collided with a blast of cursed root, illuminating her seaweed hair against the broken sky—
—she walked forward.

Into a war that legends would never forget.

Scene 3 : Pskov's Heroes

The battle had reached its crescendo.

Across the shattered streets of Pskov, possessed Ostap, now fully consumed by the twisted force that had taken root in his soul, unleashed a barrage of corrupted nature. Wild vines tore through the ground like serpents from the underworld, bursting from cobblestones and broken wood, snaring anything in their path. Ancient roots, thick as tree trunks, curled around debris and clawed at the air, trying to bind the radiant form of Simargl in their grasp.

Simargl fought with the grim precision of a guardian divine. It did not flinch. With a swipe of its mighty paw, it tore through the encroaching vines like paper. Its claws left trails of embers with each blow. Then, from deep within its throat, a roar built—an infernal heat crackled in its maw.

A stream of searing flame burst forth, engulfing the tendrils in golden fire. The vines withered, turning to ash mid-air. Smoke rose, carrying the scent of burnt wood and something deeper—something unnatural. This wasn’t just a battle; it was an exorcism written in fire and fury.

But the battle wasn’t going unnoticed.

Simargl could feel the convergence. The ripples in the city’s air—others drawing near. Some hostile. Some unknown. All dangerous. It couldn’t afford to continue this destructive struggle any longer.

It had to end this.

Raising its head high, Simargl’s body glowed with radiant light—divine essence pulsing like a second heartbeat beneath its fur. It let out a roar, not just of fury, but of command. The very air trembled. The cursed vines recoiled for a brief moment. Ostap’s monstrous form halted mid-lunge, eyes wide with a flicker of hesitation.

In that fleeting silence, Simargl lunged.

Its paw, glowing with holy might, smashed into Ostap’s twisted body, hurling him across the air like a broken puppet. He collided with the ancient stone of the city’s outer fortress, the walls cracking and trembling under the force of the impact. Dust erupted like a dying breath from the fortress’s base.

Simargl did not move immediately. It stood still, chest rising and falling heavily, steam rising from its body. Its eyes scanned the surroundings.

No enemies in sight.

No soldiers. No spies. No eyes watching… not yet.

It turned toward the space near the Temple—its sacred ground. Its fur shimmered once more, then parted slightly at the chest, and from within that divine warmth, four unconscious boys emerged—Avi, Varun, Yudhir, and Ruslan—nestled and protected within the beast’s divine mantle during the battle.

They lay cradled on the stones, bruised but safe—witnesses of a divine trial, and survivors of a battle beyond mortals.

Simargl looked down at them for a brief moment. Its expression, though beastly, held a strange serenity—an ancient sorrow, perhaps, or pride. Then it turned its gaze once more toward Ostap’s broken form.

That last attack would not be enough.

The guardian beast lowered its head, and began to move again—slow, deliberate, divine.

It had one more duty before the storm arrived.

To stop Ostap.

To protect the Regalia.

To buy time… for what must come next.

The first to awaken was Varun.

Still groggy, he rose with a start, his instincts kicking in like an old reflex. Battle-hardened and bursting with restless energy, he surveyed his surroundings—what greeted him was not a battlefield, but a graveyard of dreams. Pskov, the city that once pulsed with life, now lay ruined around them.

The cobblestones were coated in ash and memory. He quickly found his companions and tried waking them.

Avi stirred next, rubbing his eyes, followed by Yudhir—ever the watcher, who instantly assessed their position. Ruslan was the last. As his eyes opened, and as they took in the broken skyline, recognition struck him like a blade to the chest.

This was his home.

He rose shakily, lips trembling, before collapsing to his knees. Tears rolled freely down his cheeks as if trying to wash away the image of his beloved city, now a hollowed husk. His fists clenched and struck the cracked earth beneath him.

It wasn’t just a boy crying—it was a child mourning a world stolen.

The grief was raw, his sobs like the broken roar of a lion cub left without a den. The others could only watch. Avi's jaw clenched—not from anger, but from helplessness. He had promised to protect this child. Now, he felt that promise had shattered like glass. Varun stood awkwardly, his usual charm useless in the face of such despair. Yudhir placed a hand gently on Ruslan’s shoulder—his patience was his gift, but even he felt the fracture inside him.

There was something strange about their inability to fully express their emotions. It was as if something unseen had robbed them of it, hollowing out their sorrow and letting it echo instead of flow. They each saw that missing weight reflected in each other.

A shifting gust cleared the dust around them—and in the distance, a tall structure remained standing.

Yudhir pointed. “The temple,” he said softly. “It’s still there.”

Avi looked up. “There might be people… hiding inside. We should check.”

Ruslan sniffled, raising his head. “R-Really? You think… they might be alive?”

Varun smiled, placing a hand on Ruslan’s back. “I bet they are. Look! Someone’s coming this way!”

Yudhir's caution kicked in. “Wait! It could be an enemy—”

But Varun had already sprinted off, arms flailing, voice echoing down the empty street like a boy chasing a butterfly.

He stopped in his tracks.

Coming toward him was a girl—no, a knight. She moved with otherworldly grace, her moss-green scale armor dappled with barnacle fragments. Her sash billowed like a wave in still air, and her sword—if it could be called that—was a sleek, hardened strand of seaweed magic, humming with forgotten oceanic power. Hair flowed down her back in seaweed-colored waves, and her eyes were deep as moonlit tide-pools.

Varun forgot to breathe.

The girl tilted her head, curious. “I am Rusalka,” she said in a voice like waves pulling back from the shore. “Are you the only survivors? And… why are you staring at me like that?”

“I-I’m not! I mean—I am! I mean, no! I’m Varun!” he blurted, flushing. “The others are back there. Come! I’ll show you!”

She gave a very soft, very unimpressed sigh. “Okay, weird boy. Lead on.”

Varun practically skipped ahead, his steps suddenly lighter. Rusalka followed. Avi noticed his unusually goofy smile from afar and raised an eyebrow.

Yudhir, of course, understood immediately. A devilish smirk bloomed on his face. Oh, he would be using this later. He glanced at Ruslan, who still looked shaken—but when he caught Yudhir’s expression, something clicked. For the first time since waking, the boy laughed.

It was a soft laugh. But it was there.

Avi was relieved. Whatever game Yudhir had started, it was working. Even if he didn’t understand the silent exchange, he saw that the boy had smiled.

Varun and Rusalka joined them again. Varun walked stiffly, bracing himself for a teasing ambush, but to his surprise, Yudhir just smiled.

Too much.

Ruslan ran up, eyes wide. “Are you real? Are there more people? Please, tell me—did the temple hold?”

Rusalka nodded. “Yes. Many citizens are hiding inside. The priests barred the gates. But… many others weren’t as lucky.”

Avi’s voice turned grave. “How bad is it?”

Rusalka looked away, her voice quieter. “The soldiers fought valiantly. But they’re gone. The Mayor, the Veche elders, even the Stersly commanders—they were all taken by the Novgorod invaders and are imprisoned beneath the garrison.”

Ruslan’s eyes darkened with resolve. This time, he didn’t fall to the ground. He stood straighter.

“We’re getting them back,” Yudhir declared, his voice sharp.

Rusalka blinked. “Excuse me? There’s a battle going on between a giant beast and a tree-monster, the city is crawling with Novgorod soldiers, and you want to launch a rescue mission?”

Avi grinned, cracking his knuckles. “Perfect timing, then. While they're distracted.”

Varun added, “Besides, I’ve got unfinished business with Gabriel. Time to settle scores.”

Rusalka turned to look at him. “What are you even—? No. Don’t tell me. I regret asking.”

Yudhir let out a laugh. “You two make a nice pair.”

“I don’t!” Rusalka snapped, her cheeks tinted with seafoam pink.

Varun, meanwhile, was over the moon.

Avi, still focused, said, “We’ll split up. Some of us will assist Simargl. Others will storm the garrison. And someone has to guard the temple.”

To keep it fair, they used magic to conjure a glowing dice. Each of them received a number: Ruslan was 6, Yudhir 5, Avi 4, Varun 3, Rusalka 2.

The first two numbers: 4 and 5—Avi and Yudhir, headed to aid Simargl.

Next: 3 and 2—Varun and Rusalka would free the prisoners.

That left Ruslan, assigned to guard the temple—a decision he accepted with quiet maturity. His city still needed a voice of calm.

Rusalka grumbled at being paired with Varun again. “I hope you will stop being a weirdo.”

“Oh, come on,” Varun winked, “It’s not being a weirdo. It’s tactical charm.”

Yudhir nearly choked laughing. Ruslan, still smiling, leaned into the moment. Avi looked at them—his team—and nodded.

“Let’s move. For Pskov.”

Everyone split toward their missions. Ruslan stayed behind.

He watched them go, the wind brushing past his face. Then he felt something in his pocket.

A small, glowing marble—warm to the touch, lit with a soft fire. He stared at it, confused, then clenched his hand around it as he turned toward the temple.

And walked.

The boy had wept. The boy had smiled. Now, the boy had hope.

The Temple of Rod rose solemnly from a stepped stone plinth, its wooden frame darkened with age and soot yet unmarred by time. Slender spires crowned its high roof, curving gently like branches yearning skyward. The facade bore geometric carvings of stars, rivers, and sacred animals—symbols whose meanings had been whispered from one generation to the next. Guardian figures, neither fully human nor beast, stood silently on either side of the grand doorway, their watchful presence casting long shadows across the moss-covered steps. Amid the ruin of the city, the temple alone remained untouched, like a relic immune to conquest.

Ruslan approached slowly, his boots brushing against the moss-grown steps. The flame of grief still simmered within him, but now it danced alongside a growing resolve. He wasn’t the same weeping child from moments ago—his pain hadn’t lessened, only shaped into something steel-edged.

He knocked gently. The massive doors groaned in return.

A male priest’s voice answered from within, cautious and restrained, “Who seeks entry? Identify yourself. If you're not the maiden, then speak your name.”

Ruslan stepped closer, voice steady despite his swelling chest. “I am Ruslan Petrovik. My father is Taras Bulba Petrovik… owner of the clockwork shop near the Mayor’s Office. I… I’m looking for my brother, Andry. Is he inside?”

There was a pause. Then—quick footsteps.

Before the doors could creak open, a blur rushed from the shadows within.

A girl—taller than Ruslan by a few centimeters, but still bearing the youth of sixteen—threw herself into his arms, sobbing uncontrollably. Her grip was tight, desperate, as if confirming that this wasn’t a ghost she was embracing. Her tears soaked his shoulder; her nose, runny from all the crying, left a damp patch against his sleeve. Ruslan froze at first, blinking at the sudden warmth against him—but he didn’t move away. He couldn’t. Because he knew that voice, those tears, that name stitched deep into his memory.

“Ludmila…” he whispered.

Her hair brushed his cheek as she clung tighter, a familiar scent of wild herbs and old ink lingering on her clothes. They had played in the courtyards together, argued over plum pastries, watched the mechanical gears turn at his father's shop like curious philosophers.

Ludmila didn’t speak right away—her sobs were her answer. But the moment she pulled back slightly to look into his eyes, her lips trembled with a smile that wavered between relief and disbelief.

“You’re alive… you’re really here,” she breathed, as if the world had returned to color for the first time in days.

Ruslan looked at her—really looked. Her eyes were red, her dress dirtied from the chaos, and yet she stood with the same fire he remembered. Despite the rubble outside, she was still Ludmila. And in that moment, the Temple of Rod was not just a refuge. It was a home—reclaimed, however briefly, in an embrace.

The doors creaked wider as Arkhiyeri stepped into the light. Seeing the two children reunited, he bowed his head softly and allowed them inside.

Behind them, the weight of Pskov’s pain still loomed. But within these walls—just for a moment—there was warmth.

Within, the air was thick with incense and memory. Massive wooden beams arched across the vaulted ceiling, and the stone floor was etched with runes and floral patterns worn smooth by centuries of prayer. At the sanctum’s heart stood the statue of Rod—stern, powerful, and singular-faced, with deeply carved eyes that seemed to gaze through time itself. One hand rested over his chest in solemn blessing, while the other pointed downward, fingers nearly touching the earth—a posture said to represent the binding of the divine to the mortal. Behind him, a circular relief marked with abstract flames and lotus-like spirals pulsed faintly in the flickering light. Despite the silence, the space seemed alive… as though listening.

People from every walk of life—craftsmen, traders, elders, mothers with infants, children clinging to worn shawls—sat huddled together in the sacred space of the Temple of Rod, their breath shallow, their eyes vacant, longing only for a return to the ordinary days now lost. The air was thick with sweat, soot, and silent prayers. In this fragile refuge, the priests moved with quiet purpose, their knee-length robes the color of old blood, tied with braided golden cords, the lotus symbol over their chests flickering in the dim temple light like a forgotten promise. At the center stood the Volkhvacharya ( also called Arkhiyeri, the head priest) distinguished only by the ceremonial lotus-shaped crown upon his head, worn with solemn grace.

Ruslan and Ludmila entered slowly through the carved archway. The people turned. There was a pause, and then a subtle stirring. Word of the boys who brought Simargl had already begun to thread through whispers like a pulse. Arkhiyeri, leaning on his staff, approached with concern.

Arkhiyeri: “My child, are you alright? Are you injured, perhaps?”

Ruslan: “I am alright, my holiness. I was in the woods when the invasion struck. I found an injured soldier—he told me what happened. My father… the mayor… the elders—captured. The soldier insisted I escape… He didn’t make it. I ran—ran as far as I could…”

His voice faltered with the memory, the guilt. Ludmila held his hand tightly.

Ludmila (softly): “Did you… did you see any magical beasts?”

Ruslan (nodding): “Silvermane wolves. I hid in the bushes… then I met Big Bro Avi.”

He recounted their journey—meeting Avi, their confrontation with Gabriel, the trials within Simargl’s realm. But he left out the revelations of the memory realm, and of the First Emperor. The people listened with bated breath, their silence now tinged with awe. Hope, for the first time, stirred in their chests.

Arkhiyeri (with reverence): “It’s only by the grace of the Eternal Flame that the Divine Guardian revealed itself. Thank you, my child, for carrying our prayers into the wild.
O Rod, Eternal Flame beyond the Four Lights, you have not turned your face from us. In our darkest hour, you sent the guardian flame—may your unseen grace forever dwell in this sacred soil.”

Ludmila (choking, eyes misted): “Thank the gods you’re safe. I… I don’t know what I would’ve done if I’d lost you too…”

Ruslan (freezing): “What… what do you mean, you too?”

He turned sharply. Panic bloomed in his eyes as he scanned the room.

Ruslan (voice rising): “Where are they? Ludmila, where’s Rodgai? Ratmir? Finn?! I see their parents but—WHERE ARE THEY?!”

His knees gave way. His voice cracked, breaking the silence like glass. Ludmila caught him in an embrace, weeping now openly. Ruslan could see the hollow eyes of his friends’ parents across the chamber. He didn’t need an answer anymore.

Gone.

Three lives—Rodgai, proud and fiery; Ratmir, dreamy and kind; Finn, his oldest friend and truest companion. Lost in the fires of war.

Memories surged—mud-flecked races through cobbled streets, shared loaves of black bread at school, voices echoing in the market square. They were his Pskov. His heart ached to the point of rupture. And yet—he remembered.

He remembered what Avi told him, in that world suspended between time and flame.

“Your two greatest strengths—bravery and honesty.”

He always thought he had neither. But now—he had to.

No one else would carry the flame. Not when the city needed it most.

He rose slowly, trembling, brushing away the weight of grief from his shoulders.

The people watched. Some wept. Some just waited. But all watched.

He lifted his hand, pointing to the vaulted ceiling where candlelight danced.

Ruslan (steady, loud, clear):
“I cannot let myself despair anymore. To be drowning in sorrow is not the way of a son of Pskov.
My name is Ruslan Petrovik.
I am that son of Pskov who brought back the Divine Guardian Simargl to protect our home!”

He looked at the crowd—not as a child, but as their voice.

Ruslan:
“My friends and I will do everything to save our city. Please, believe in us—and fight on.
Many of you have lost someone dear. I have too. But if we all surrender to this pain,
who will be left to comfort those still with us?
Hold tightly to those you love, cast away the fear that chains your spirit.
Be like Simargl—our flame in the darkness. Let us burn away despair together!”

“And leave the rest to us!”

At the back of the hall, Arkhiyeri’s fingers gently tapped the hidden crystal node embedded in the offering basin—activating the silent transmission device. Ruslan’s voice was carried, word for word, to the corners of the city.

To the crumbling homes.

To the frightened hearts.

To the ears of soldiers, friends—and foes alike.

And like embers catching dry wood, something began to burn again.

Hope.