Ch 5 : Pskov and the Novgorod Army (Part - 2)

Scene 4 : Subzero

The speech of Ruslan Petrovik thundered through Pskov like a bolt 

of sacred lightning—echoing through crumbled alleys, splintered stone, and heavy hearts. The people, the hidden rebels, the frightened children, the praying priests, even the dying men—everyone heard him.

But not everyone was pleased.

Far away, in the grand balcony of the Mayor’s seized office, Alexander Nevsky’s face remained composed—too composed. He held his glass with the same poise a nobleman does at a masquerade, but his fingers trembled slightly. His jaw clenched. The voice of that boy and the echo of his name, Ruslan, rang in his ears.

Alexander (voice calm but eyes burning):
"My wellwisher... it seems we’ve been gifted with a complication."
"The tree-walker battling Simargl, the masked ash-bearer, and that boy—Ruslan. Along with his companions. They were not part of your plan."

He leaned forward, rubbing the smooth marble-like regalia on his palm, barely larger than a thumb. Its glow pulsed faintly, like a heartbeat in stone.

"Gabriel might be able to contain Simargl, but this is becoming a little too theatrical, even for me. I’ll need your help."

On the other side of a magical relay, came a voice—low, composed, and unmistakably female.

The Mysterious Wellwisher (smooth, amused):
"Mr. Nevsky... You're cleverer than most. But remember—knowing when to sip and when to bite… is what separates leaders from corpses."

Alexander’s fingers froze mid-motion. That voice… it was always a little too calm. A little too knowing.

Alexander (masking unease, with a forced smirk):
"So I was right. You're not just anyone. You're from the top echelons of the Red Winter. Perhaps... higher than I thought."

Wellwisher (flatly):
"You’ve done well. You’ve taken Pskov, activated the Regalia of Alkonost… and I upheld my part."
"Now… uphold yours."

Alexander (fiddling with the Regalia):
"Of course. With this Regalia, I can feel the divine blood of Alkonost coursing through me. Defeating that guardian wasn’t easy, even with Gabriel. But thanks to your instructions, I now have power unmatched."
"One day, even the capital will bow to me."

Wellwisher (with a razor-thin smile behind the words):
"A small reminder, then: the tree-man… is not alone. He is bound to a force equal to mine. Do not test him."
"And do not test me."

Alexander (his face twitching with quiet rage):
"Of course. I will remain… loyal. For now."

He ended the communication with a flick, the magical relay fading into smoke. Then his composure shattered. The oil lamp shattered against the wall, firelight flickering madly across the room.

Alexander (muttering like a mad king):
"You think you're above me... You all think that."
"Just wait—when I control both Regalias, Alkonost and Simargl—I will rip the gates of the Capital open myself. I’ll be the true ruler. Not some lizard playing god in the shadows."

But as his voice roared in fury, he remained oblivious to the shadow that had already been watching him—seated silently atop the balcony railing like a wraith of silence.

A figure in a cloak that shimmered like void, face hidden behind a blank white mask with no eyes, no mouth—just nothingness.

Bezlik the Faceless.

The observer slipped away like mist, without disturbing even the wind.

Bounding across rooftops, the ghostly agent contacted his mistress. The magical sigil in his ear buzzed faintly.

Bezlik (cold, monotone):
"Mistress Kikimora. I’ve heard your orders. I am en route to the target."
"Also… the Mayor plans to betray you. He seeks both Regalias for himself."

There was a short silence. Then—

Kikimora (calm but with venom buried deep):
"So he bares his fangs already… how quaint."
"Let him try. I, Kikimora—the General of Silence and Shadows—do not lose to rats. Let him claw all he wants. I will tear the city from under his boots."

"Bezlik, execute the mission as instructed. Do not engage with the Divine Guardian unless it becomes necessary."

Bezlik:
"Yes, My Mistress. The shadows shall walk with me."

And then he vanished again.

Running faster than wind, unseen, unfelt—the ghost of Red Winter moved like a curse toward the battleground where Simargl and Ostap raged.
The Faceless one was coming…
…and with him, the will of Kikimora.

Smoke coiled through the broken avenues of Pskov, rising from charred homes and collapsed roofs, staining the sky in mourning. Avi and Yudhir walked briskly through the devastation, their boots pressing into ash and blood, past bodies of soldiers—some no older than themselves. Lifeless animals, shattered barricades, and the whispers of those who had fallen surrounded them in silence.

Yudhir (bitterly): “This... this isn’t war anymore. It’s slaughter.”

Avi (quietly): “Wars never belong to people like us. It’s the madness of rulers, dressed in flags.”

He paused for a breath, gazing at the ruined horizon. His fists were clenched.

Avi: “But I keep wondering... why us? Why were we sent to this world?”

Yudhir: “I’ve asked myself the same. But after seeing all this... I think it’s clearer now. Maybe we’re here to stop it.”

Avi’s expression softened, the resolve in his voice deepening like the calm before a storm.

Avi: “To protect kids like Ruslan. That’s reason enough for me. I’ll keep fighting—until I find and bring back all of my brothers. That’s my promise.”

Even amidst the ruins, something in Avi’s words gave Yudhir hope. They weren’t heroes. Just boys trying to do what was right.

Yudhir (smiling faintly): “You haven’t changed, have you?”

Avi: “By the way… have you or Varun remembered anything about our past selves?”

Yudhir: “Not exactly. But... it’s strange. I feel it in my bones. Like we’ve fought side by side before. Maybe those other four—maybe they’re part of this too.”

Avi: “Then we must’ve been a team. All seven of us. And if we were… I’m glad I found you two first.”

Yudhir (grinning): “So… what were we called? You remember that?”

Avi (pauses, thinking): “Maybe we called ourselves… Dragon Fury.”

Yudhir: “…That sounds too familiar.”

Avi (smirking): “Then let’s bring it back. Maybe the others will remember when they hear it.”

Yudhir: “And if they don’t want to return?”

Avi (firmly): “Then we wait. Or lie. Or drag them back kicking and screaming. I won’t leave anyone behind. My Dragon God Father told me — our memories depend on each other. So I won’t give up. Not until we’re all together again.”

Yudhir (with admiration): “Yeah… you were definitely our Captain.”

Avi (smirks): “Then listen up, soldier. Our next mission—aid Simargl and be ready for Gabriel.”

Yudhir (saluting playfully): “Roger that, Captain.”

With newfound energy, they sprinted through the stone alleys and smoke toward the chaos echoing in the distance.

When they reached the heart of the battlefield—what was once the city square—they saw it.

A storm of roots, vines, and fire.

Ostap, no longer himself, towered with bark-forged limbs and demonic strength, tangled in the roots of corruption. Simargl, the mighty guardian beast of Pskov, roared against the bindings choking him—iron shackles on his limbs, cracked fangs bared, fur soaked with blood and ash.

Ostap (possessed): “Simargl... Give me the Regalia. And I will let you die with honor.”

Simargl (snarling): “The Sacred Regalia shall never fall to your cursed hands.”

The possessed Ostap grinned—his voice warped, a symphony of demonic whispers.

Ostap: “Fool. Your friend, Alkonost—the Novgorod Guardian—is dead. The Regalia he guarded is already in the hands of the mayor. Yours will be mine and then I will get the other Regalia from that man too.”

The news hit Simargl like a blade to the heart.

Simargl (shaken): “Alkonost… no...”

His strength faltered. Vines wrapped tighter, curling around his throat, his limbs—his flame flickering out. The city's final hope was falling.

Ostap (raising his arms): “Now die, you relic of a dying world!”

Suddenly—

CRACK!

A glacial spear shot through the air, impaling Ostap’s side with a burst of freezing mist. The tree-man howled in fury.

Through the haze stepped Avi, his hand still extended from the throw, eyes burning with righteous fury.

Avi: “You talk too much for a possessed corpse.”

Ostap roared and lashed out, launching vines toward him—but a blade of wind sliced them mid-air.

Yudhir had joined the fray, his arms glowing with sharp, wind-carving energy. The two boys didn’t flinch.

Ostap: “You again… You ruined my perfect ambush!”

Avi (calm but resolute): “And I’ll ruin you again.”

He summoned a broad sword of ice, pulsing with cold fire, and with a cry, cleaved a wave of frost through the roots coiling around Simargl. The bindings shattered like glass, freeing the Guardian in a surge of divine breath.

Simargl blinked at them, surprised—but nodded, recognizing their intent.

Ostap: “Meddlesome brats!”

He extended both arms, conjuring dozens of roots to lash at them. Yudhir spun, slashing with air blades that roared like typhoons, shielding Avi as he readied his stance.

Avi planted his feet, the icy sword rising. In his mind, he thought of Ruslan, of the children huddled in the temple, of the people who still had hope. He shouted—

Avi: “Dragon Fury, bring him down!”

The battlefield shook again—not from despair, but from the arrival of its unexpected heroes.

The possessed Ostap seethed with fury the moment his eyes landed on Avi. Rage twisted his already corrupted face as his magic surged like a rising tide. The very air around them thickened, alerting everyone to the storm of wrath that was about to break loose.

Suddenly, his voice changed—eerily ghostlike, distorted, echoing with something ancient and vengeful.

Ostap (ghostly voice): “Subzero... this time you won’t leave alive. How dare you foil my plans?! Now—repent for your sins!!”

Avi, unfazed, narrowed his eyes. His mocking tone was laced with steel as he responded with calm defiance.

Avi (mocking, turning cold): “Subzero? Is that some sort of slang?... Doesn’t matter. All I know is—I need to crush your plans and save Ostap. You better be ready... to suffer my wrath.”

He lifted his broad, ice-forged blade and pointed it toward Ostap in silent challenge.

Then—Ostap slammed his fist into the ground.

The earth shuddered.

In the blink of an eye, the battlefield transformed. The ground ruptured as roots exploded outward. Within seconds, a forest erupted—lush, violent, and alive. Trees spiraled toward the heavens. Vines lashed like whips. Bushes bloomed, thorns unfurled, and nature devoured the ruins around them.

Simargl, despite its massive form, was ensnared by the vines and branches, struggling as the possessed Ostap siphoned its life force. Avi and Yudhir leapt nimbly across rapidly sprouting branches, moving like phantoms through the untamed canopy. Avi swung his greatsword, slicing through the wood—but it regenerated as fast as he cut. Yudhir’s wind-based attacks fared no better; even the sharpest gusts only delayed the relentless growth.

Suddenly, a cold, commanding voice echoed through the wild.

Ostap (resonant, cold): “Welcome to my Verdant Court! You now stand before The Verdant Sovereign... and for your transgressions, you shall be judged.”

The trees parted to reveal a grand throne of twisted vines and flowering thorns, rising from a living dais of tangled roots. At its center sat Ostap, now fully possessed, his form regal and monstrous, like a lord of the forest gone mad.

Avi, standing on a massive branch, leapt into the heart of the forest court. His landing was silent, but his challenge thundered louder than words.

Around them, the forest consumed the shattered city—swallowing buildings, absorbing corpses, and siphoning magic from Simargl, feeding the unholy power of the possessed.

Despite the grim setting, Avi’s face remained calm—too calm. His posture, his breathing, even the way he held his blade—all pointed to a warrior with immense discipline. Memories may have failed him, but instinct did not.

Avi: “I don’t know if I’ll ever regain my past self… but something tells me—I wouldn’t have spared someone like you. So I’ll carve out a new path, and carry the weight of both my past and present.”

“I will protect the people of this city... and end this war of madness. You will pay. Remember that.”

Ostap let out a roar, shaking the forest canopy.

Ostap (furious): “Such arrogance! That pride will be your downfall. Let me show you the might of a forest.”

Avi (calm and firm): “Dragon Fury, get ready... it’s showtime.”

Yudhir, without a word, sprang into action. He understood the unspoken command—free Simargl, and stay alert for Gabriel’s arrival.

As the possessed Ostap descended the staircase of roots with the poise of a monarch, Avi took his stance below. His ice blade stood upright before him, like a knight awaiting his fated duel.

Ostap opened his palm. Seeds fell and embedded into the ground. Within moments, thick, muscular plants sprouted up to his waist. He grasped them and, with a twist of magic, pulled forth an elegant wooden sword, sculpted from living flora—a weapon both graceful and terrible.

He stood poised.

Ostap (curious): “This stance is Romanov Swordsmanship. An art of this land. But yours… I’ve never seen it before.”

Avi (coolly): “Oh, this? I call it... Dragon Style. Prepare to be slashed by it.”

The two locked eyes.

Their auras swelled.

Then—they clashed.

Ice met wood, and the shockwave rippled through the trees, making even the possessed forest tremble. The impact sent leaves flying and cracked the bark beneath their feet.

But this was only the beginning.

High above, Yudhir’s eyes widened. Ostap was doing something worse—using Simargl’s drained energy to conjure a twisted, corrupted mockery of the divine beast. A monster made of roots and bark—a Simargl-shaped abomination—began to rise from the forest floor, glowing with stolen power.

Yudhir clenched his fists.

“If I don’t save Simargl now…” he thought, “that thing will tear through the city and everything left in it.”

As Avi battled Ostap below in a clash of blade and belief, Yudhir steeled himself. A second war was beginning—one that had to be won before it even took form.

Scene 5 : Melody of Battle

Varun and Rusalka sprinted through the ruined streets toward the garrison, where the remaining leaders of Pskov were believed to be held. As they neared the fortified structure, Rusalka suddenly halted, raising an arm to stop him.

They ducked behind the charred remnants of a collapsed house. Smoke rose in the air. The garrison was swarming with Novgorod soldiers—armed and alert.

Varun crouched close beside her, clearly more interested in her than the mission. Her damp seaweed-colored hair swayed as she peered through the cracks, focused. But Varun’s eyes didn’t leave her for a second.

Varun (softly, with a grin): “Judging by your looks, I’d say you’ve got water-type magic. Am I right?”

Rusalka (cold, but slightly shy): “So what? Looking at you... I can guess you do too.”

Varun (charmed): “Then isn’t that perfect? We’re an excellent match.”

Rusalka (eye roll): “Can we focus on the mission already?”

Varun (sighing, love-struck): “Whatever you say.”

She squinted toward the garrison. The high concentration of guards meant only one thing—the leaders were definitely inside. A sly smirk tugged at her lips as an idea sparked.

Rusalka: “I have a plan. But you must follow my orders. Exactly.”

Varun (immediately): “Yes, ma’am!!”

That mischievous glint in her eye should’ve warned him—but before he could process it, she shoved him out from cover—straight into the soldiers’ line of sight.

Varun (nervously): “Umm… Rusalka? Is this really part of the plan? Why do I feel like I’m the bait?”

Rusalka (whispering from cover): “Because you are. Now go distract them while I save the prisoners.”

A dozen Novgorod soldiers surged toward him like a tidal wave of steel and fury. Left with no choice, Varun exhaled calmly, clenching his fists as the battle cry rose within him. His feet shifted, his body flowed—
—and with the memory etched in muscle and spirit, he entered the forgotten stance...
The Dragon Style.
The very same form awakened by Avi and Yudhir while fighting Ostap—now awakened in him too.

Inside the garrison, Rusalka slipped past the chaos with practiced grace. Thanks to the commotion Varun caused, the number of soldiers guarding the interior had thinned significantly.

She moved like mist through a marsh, her moss-covered armor muffling every step. One by one, she disabled the remaining soldiers with elegant efficiency—her seaweed-blade sword flowing like water, striking like a serpent. She didn’t kill. Just incapacitate. Quick. Clean.

She moved from room to room, searching for the cell keys, whispering to herself with an edge of frustration.

Rusalka (thinking): Where are the keys? Are they hidden? I need to get these people out quickly... and then help that idiot… Why does he keep clinging to me? I’ve betrayed everyone I was ever close to. I shouldn’t stay... I can’t stay. I need to find my sister.

Her thoughts weighed her down more than any armor. A swirl of guilt, grief, and uncertainty clouded her mind. She had come to Pskov seeking clues about her sister, but instead, she had found conflict—and a strange kind of comfort. The boys—Ruslan, Yudhir, Avi, and Varun—made her feel something she had long shut away: belonging.

She didn’t want to care. But she was starting to. And Varun, with his maddening grin and unwavering faith in her, was somehow finding the cracks in her armor.

"I can’t let myself feel this. I have a mission... I have a sister. But I’ll save these people first. I’ll help them... just this once."

She pushed open the officer’s chamber—and froze.

Inside, smoke and ash danced in the air. A single figure moved with lethal precision, striking down the last of the garrison soldiers. He turned sharply, raising a knife-blade toward her.

Andry (husky voice): “You one of those Novgorod bastards? Get ready to be smoked.”

Rusalka (defensive, sword raised): “I’m not with them. Are you from Pskov? Did you sneak in here to save the prisoners?”

Andry (lowering blade slightly): “Yeah. My plan was working fine... until that mess you caused.”

Rusalka (deadpan): “So that’s why there were fewer guards deeper in.”

His glare sharpened. Frustration burned in his voice. Just as he was about to retort, Varun burst into the room with his usual charm—and completely derailed her sense of order.

Rusalka (panicked): “WHAT ARE YOU DOING HERE?! WHO’S HOLDING OFF THE SOLDIERS?!”

Varun (grinning): “Relax, relax. I already took care of them.”

“Impossible,” Rusalka thought. “Fifty trained soldiers?”

Andry blinked. Something about Varun’s expression told him it wasn’t a bluff. He extended his palm, releasing a wave of ash that crept into every room of the garrison.

Andry (quietly): “It’s true... no one's conscious. He really beat them all.”

Rusalka (softly, stunned): “Seriously...? He was really this strong...?”

Varun turned to Andry, finally putting the pieces together.

Varun: “Hey... you’re Ruslan’s brother, right?”

Andry (tense, emotional): “How do you know him?! Is he alive?! What have you done to him?! Please—give me back my brother!”

Varun: “Whoa—calm down. We didn’t do anything to him. We’ve been protecting him. Look—this is one of the healing beads he gave us. You’ll know it’s real.”

Andry snatched the bead, clutching it tightly to his chest. He closed his eyes. A flood of memories overtook him. Laughter. Siblings chasing fireflies under summer skies. The sound of Ruslan’s voice.

Tears burst from his eyes. He dropped to his knees.

“He’s alive... Thank the God Rod… he’s alive…”

Varun (gently): “We even found your older brother, Ostap.”

Andry’s head snapped up.

Andry (urgent): “Where? Where did you find him?! Tell me everything.”

Varun shared the story—skipping the sacred trials, but recounting their journey through the realm of Simargl, how they found Ostap turned into a tree-man, and the battles they faced.

Rusalka listened in stunned silence. Every word painted a world she never imagined—one she now found herself a part of.

Andry, on the other hand, was torn. He was grateful—but furious. Ostap had disappeared during a trip to gather wood for their father, a clock craftsman. He was never supposed to vanish.

Andry (low, angry): “First, I’ll save our father and the elders. Then… I’ll bring my brothers back.”

He held up a ring of keys.

Andry: “I’ve got the keys to the cells. Let’s move fast—before those soldiers wake and reinforcements arrive.”

Varun: “Yup, let’s get going. I don’t think I can take on another fifty... today, at least.”

Rusalka (smiling faintly): “Then let’s go. Lead the way, Andry.”

And just like that, the three of them rushed toward the underground cells—a warrior cloaked in moss, a cheerful aqua fighter, and a brother burning with purpose—to liberate the last hope of Pskov.

Amidst the chaos erupting across the shattered city—where screams echoed against broken walls and the flames of war danced in the distance—there was one soul who sat untouched.
High atop one of the crumbling bastions, he perched like a silent guardian, singing not for the crowds below, but for the wind above—as if the sky itself were the only audience worthy of his tale.

He was a slender, soft-spoken youth with long black hair streaked faintly with silver, tied loosely behind him. His eyes were pale grey, often half-closed, as if always listening to a song only he could hear. Dressed in a flowing, earth-toned robe and a weather-worn patchwork cloak, he looked more like a wandering monk than a musician. Across his back he carried a strange, ancient instrument wrapped in a sky-colored cloth, glowing faintly at the edges. There was something otherworldly about him—something in the way the wind quieted when he sat, or how birds circled overhead when he played, as if the world remembered him even if he did not.

Resting across his lap was a strange and beautiful instrument. It looked like a long, ancient harp fused with a lute—its body about the length of his torso, carved from deep, polished wood that gleamed like midnight bronze. One end bloomed into a wide, rounded base, while the other stretched into a gracefully curving neck, arched like the spine of a swan. Twin hollow orbs balanced the instrument on either side, like two moons cradling his song.

Across its surface ran seven luminous strings, faintly glowing with a silvery sheen. The wood itself was etched with delicate carvings—birds in flight, celestial dancers caught mid-twirl, and lotus blooms blooming through waves.
This was no ordinary instrument.

This was called a Kinnari Veena—a relic from a time this world had forgotten.

With his right hand, he gently plucked its strings. With his left, he glided across them, bending the sound into a flowing, sorrowful raga. The melody didn’t feel like a performance—it felt like a memory being born. A dream being remembered. Each note shimmered in the air, slow and haunting, like the heartbeat of a forest mourning its trees.

And as the song poured out of him, the wind hushed its cry. The fires flickered low. The air grew still.

His eyes half-closed, yet behind the lids he saw far beyond the bloodstained streets.
He saw visions.

Ruins that were never part of this world. Temples long buried. Faces from dreams that felt too real. And with each note, he slipped deeper—not into slumber, but into the astral river that flowed beneath all things.

No one noticed him.

And yet, his music was there—woven into the fabric of that moment, like a thread of light in a cloak of shadow.

As smoke curled into the sky and flames danced over the broken city, he sat quietly—alone, but not untouched. On a forgotten bastion, high above the war-torn streets, he watched the chaos unfold below. The cries of the dying, the clash of swords, the crackle of magic—it all churned through the wind. And to that wind, he sang.

With the Kinnari Veena resting across his lap, he played—not with pride, but with sorrow. Each note he drew from the ancient strings seemed to mourn the city with him. Birds, once startled by the sounds of war, circled him only briefly before settling quietly nearby, huddled close as if to share in his grief. His fingers moved slowly, reverently, as though every vibration was a prayer for peace.

He could do nothing to fight. Nothing to heal the wounded or repel the enemy. But music—music he could offer.

Talavan (softly, with a voice like moonlight):
"Brave warriors… my name is Talavan. I am a Nādayogi—one who unites with the divine through sound. I am just one instrument of the god through which performs Maya. I may lack the strength to stand beside you in battle… but let this dhwani, this sacred resonance, be my offering to your struggle. May it carry the hope and strength you need… May my song reach your hearts… and the hearts of all who suffer."

Then, with a single breath and a touch full of love, he struck a note.

It shimmered.

The wind caught it, lifted it, and carried it.

The sound drifted through the streets and alleys, over rooftops and crumbling walls, through blood-soaked soil and shattered homes. A divine tune—at once gentle and powerful—poured across the city like a river of light.

And everywhere it went, it stirred the soul.

In the hidden corners of ruined temples, survivors stilled their trembling.
Children stopped crying. Tiny fingers let go of clenched fists.
A broken mother looked to the sky with tear-lined eyes and whispered a prayer to Rod.
The priests of the Temple bowed low, recognizing the celestial nature of the melody.
Even the dying smiled.

Inside the infirmary of the temple, Ruslan stood among the wounded.
The melody touched him—not just in his ears, but in his very core.
He turned toward the sound’s direction, eyes softening.
He didn’t know who this bard was, but for the first time that day, he believed again.
"Please," he thought, "just a little more strength… we will protect them all."

Elsewhere, amidst the clash of elemental might, Avi’s great ice blade locked with Ostap’s wooden sword, sparks of frost and bark flying.
The sound of Talavan’s melody reached his ears—and in it, he heard something ancient… something from the world they belonged.
He didn’t smile, but his resolve sharpened.
Without turning his gaze from Ostap, he muttered,
"That sound… it’s from our world."

Yudhir, trapped in battle against the monstrous mimicry of Simargl, heard it too.
He paused, just for a breath, as if remembering a lullaby long forgotten.
"It can’t be a coincidence," he murmured.
"There’s someone else out there… someone who belongs from our world."

And deep within the writhing roots and tangled vines, Simargl—ensnared and drained—felt it stir something ancient in him.
The notes of the Kinnari Veena echoed the voice of his long-departed creator.
A promise once made. A light not yet extinguished.

Far from the battlefield, inside the mayor’s sealed quarters, Alexander heard it too.

He clenched his jaw.

"Who dares…?" he hissed, rising from his seat.
A melody so pure had no place in his twisted rule.
And yet—it slipped through even his walls.

But it was Bezlik, the faceless one, who felt it most profoundly.

Hidden in the distance, cloaked in his illusions, he had watched Avi and Ostap’s duel in silence.
The song pierced even his veil. It touched something he didn’t know existed.

For the first time in his cold, empty existence—he felt something.

A flicker.

An ache.

A… question.

He reached up to his face.
There was no mouth. No eyes. No expression.
But for the first time, the thought entered his mind—

"What kind of expression… should I make… for this music?"

And still, high above it all, Talavan played.

His eyes half-closed, a tear running silently down his cheek, he walked the space between dream and sorrow—hoping that his music might be enough to shift the tide, or at the very least, remind the world that even in darkness…

There still existed beauty.
And memory.
And light.

Scene 6 : Andry's lament

Avi, Yudhir, and Varun—scattered across the war-torn city—each felt it.

A divine dhwani, ancient and unknown to this world, flowed through the wind like a sacred whisper. It spoke not in words, but in memory—of a home they had forgotten and a strength they had buried. Talavan’s music, gentle yet commanding, surged through their veins like fire igniting slumbering coals.

Something inside them awakened.

Avi’s eyes narrowed mid-clash. The moment the note struck his heart, his blade surged with chilling brilliance. His strength doubled. Tripled. Blow after blow pushed the possessed Ostap backward.

Their swords clashed with thunderous force.

Avi spun, sharp shards of enchanted ice forming mid-air and hurling themselves at Ostap like spectral lances. The forest-born warlord responded, raising colossal, blooming flowers as shields. They shattered on impact.

Then—Avi drove his broadblade into the ground.

Avi (voice like echoing frost): “Dragon God Style: Ice Form – Frost Garden.”

A silence fell. Then—crystalline blossoms burst forth from the earth.

In an instant, the entire battlefield transformed into a frozen sanctuary. The massive flowers summoned by Ostap were now sculptures of ice, their petals brittle and still. Even Avi paused—stunned. He had never seen this technique before.

But it came to him instinctively. As if *someone—or something—*had reached into his soul and pulled it forward.

Raging, Ostap unleashed a storm of seeds. They sprouted instantly into thick trees with thrashing limbs. The branches whipped and lashed like serpents. Roots burst through the icy ground, seeking to entangle Avi.

But Avi answered with frozen defiance—summoning titanic ice-blooms to meet the assault.

The clash was apocalyptic.

Magic crackled, the forest howled, and the ground itself trembled as both powers collided. Aether and instinct—force and will. Ostap screamed, vines snaking around Avi’s limbs and neck, seeking to drain his mana.

But Avi didn’t falter.

In fact—his mana grew.

Talavan’s music filled the skies.

And Avi—fueled by it—glowed with white, icy aura. His eyes lit like twin stars, casting back the forest’s green.

Ostap staggered. “Impossible! How is your mana still rising?! What… what are you!?”

He wasn’t prepared for what he saw. A boy, barely in his twenties, holding the power of a god. And for the first time—the spirit possessing Ostap felt fear.

At the edge of the battlefield, Yudhir too was resonating. His aura surged, wind circling him in a furious spiral. He channeled it, forming a living tornado that erupted around him. The storm shredded through the forest.

The abominable Simargl-copy—crafted of roots and fury—was helpless.

Yudhir (whispered): “Sky Dragon Style : Wind form - Whispering Tempest ”

As if patiently waiting for the right moment he casted the tornado upon the creature. Razor winds tore it asunder. The beast was trapped and grinded by the winds. Its howl was silenced in pieces.

Yudhir fell to one knee, breath ragged—but his task wasn’t done. He turned, teeth gritted, to free the real Simargl.

Back in the icy court—

Avi shattered the vines binding him with a single step. With each footfall, the frost spread wider. The possessed Ostap—now trembling—watched the boy advance, blade drawn and glowing with divine chill.

He tried to run.

He summoned every plant, root, and limb the forest could spare. They all lunged—

Avi swung his blade once.

SPLASH! A wave of pure frost cleaved the battlefield. Ostap’s chest tore open, the wound immediately freezing over. He collapsed, gasping.

The entity possessing him felt terror… Why is this body afraid?

Avi stood before him—no longer a boy. A beast of ice. A predator. A sovereign.

Ostap (possessed): “Who are you…? How can you instill fear in a puppet I control?”

Avi (calm, icy, divine): “I am… Avikarh, son of the Dragon God Garjhimagni. And I am here to tell you one thing—leave Ostap’s body. Or I will destroy you along with it.”

The spirit reeled. This couldn’t be a coincidence. This boy… was no mere hero.

Ostap, still half-possessed, tried one last strike. He plunged his wooden sword into the ground—roots shot out, aiming to bind Avi again.

Avi slashed once.

The wooden sword split in two. Clean. Effortless.

Ostap’s body screamed. He backed away, crawling, desperate to flee from the ice-clad dragon before him. The fear wasn’t just physical—it was spiritual.

Ostap (spirit voice): “Boy… I’ll remember you. Next time, I’ll destroy you… I’ll devour your hearts, make you beg for death! YOU AND YOUR DRAGON FURY—WILL DIE!!”

Avi (voice sharp as glacial steel): “Dragon Fury is ready to face you all. Hurt those I care about… and I will uproot you from your own garden.”

With a final curse, the spirit forced Ostap’s hand to the ground—one last spell.

Then—the connection snapped. Ostap collapsed, unconscious.

And the forest went mad.

Roots screamed. Trees twisted. The entire jungle bent backward, then forward—pulling Ostap’s body deep into the earth.

Avi lunged, reaching for him—but the vines shoved him out. A barrier rose.

On the other side of the field—

Yudhir had freed Simargl, though the divine beast was weakened, its glow fading. But it sensed something far worse coming—and used the last of its strength to pull Yudhir out just in time.

The forest rumbled.

And then—it rose.

A giant.

A titan of bark and root, vines and moss. Towering far above the fortress walls, its chest pulsed—and at the core, barely visible—was Ostap, trapped, like a soul in a cage.

It was towering even the walls of the fortress.

The heroes stood, wind in their faces, staring at the living colossus.

It had no master now. Only chaos.

Avi clenched his fists.

Avi (commanding): “Dragon Fury… new mission—stop this tree giant. And save Ostap.”

Yudhir (steady and sure): “Roger that, Captain.”

They turned.

The forest giant had risen.

And the battle… had only just begun.

Talavan completed his melody just as the entity possessing Ostap lost control. The birds that had circled him gently landed near his feet, as if they too had witnessed a divine performance. They fluttered their wings softly in joy—no longer anxious, but calmed by the dhwani of the master. Talavan nodded to them with serene gratitude, acknowledging their presence as his last audience.

The musician gazed down one final time upon the fractured city—the smoke, the cries, the distant clash of blades. His fingers strummed a parting note, a farewell wrapped in silence and sound.

Talavan (softly, like wind through sacred halls):
“Forgive me, brave warriors… I cannot linger any longer in this world. I wish I could witness more of your journey. May this final note carry strength to your hearts.”

Then, closing his eyes in solemn reverence, his voice rose like a prayer echoing through time:

Talavan (in sacred tone, like a hymn):
“May this melody carry the grace of the Four-Faced One who birthed wisdom…
the radiant voice who rides the swan and flows like a river of eloquence…
the lord of storm-chariots who roars across the heavens…
the keeper of balance who sleeps on the endless sea…
the silent dancer who spins time with a drumbeat…
the mountain-born windwalker whose shout shakes the stars…
and the unyielding one whose strength crosses oceans and lifts the fallen.”

That sacred dhwani echoed across the city—not as sound alone, but as spirit. It passed through every alley, every broken home, every wounded soul. And though most heard only a melody… three boys, bound not by this world alone, understood its true meaning.

Avi, Yudhir, and Varun—scattered across different corners of the city—paused amidst chaos and bloodshed. They each bowed their heads, not to a man, but to a master of music. They could feel the power, the reverence, the blessings buried within the music. It was a message not meant for their ears alone, but for their powers… and what they would one day become.

And then, as gently as mist in morning light, Talavan faded—his figure vanishing from the bastion stone, as if the very world had decided his performance was complete.

Beneath the garrison, in the cold-blooded bowels of the fortress, despair hung thick in the air. Dozens of prisoners, leaders of Pskov—Veche council members, merchants, scholars, craftsmen—sat in rusted chains. And among them was Mayor Timothy Dovmont—once hailed as a warrior-saint, now just another prisoner of war.

Dovmont sat near the bars, his powerful frame dulled by weariness. The iron chains around his wrists seemed almost ceremonial, unable to weigh down the spirit he refused to let die. His armor, scarred by fire and steel, was still strapped to him—streaked in ash and blood. His grey-streaked beard clung to his chin like frost. But his eyes… they stared down like a lion too tired to roar, yet unwilling to surrender.

He whispered no prayers. He offered no words. Only the slow, aching breaths of a man who had fought too long and still lost. His blue eyes scanned the floor—the same stones now stained by the blood of the people he swore to protect.

Beside him sat Taras Bulba Petrovik, his best friend, the humble clock-maker. His fingers trembled not from the cold, but from grief. The image of his sons, the cries of the streets, the smoke of his shop—all haunted him. He had lived a life of hardship, raised three sons after his wife was taken back to Novgorod… and now he had lost them all. He clutched the chain between his hands like it was the handle of a broken clock he couldn't fix.

Dovmont, seeing the tears fall from his friend’s cheeks, placed a heavy, calloused hand on his shoulder—not as comfort, but as anchor. His voice, when it came, was low and ragged.

Dovmont:
"We fought for her, brother... and still she fell. Not by might… but by betrayal."

All around them, men sat broken. A merchant muttered dryly:

Merchant (weakly): “Anyone know when they'll release us? My boy… he’s reckless. He’ll get himself killed without me.”

A shopkeeper wept quietly:

Shopkeeper (sobbing): “Please… my wife’s health is failing. She needs me. My daughter can’t handle it alone.”

An elderly Veche councilor whispered a final plea:

Elder: “Let these younger men go. Take us, the old stones. We've lived our time.”

The guards above barked down, venom in their voice.

Novgorod Soldier:
“SHUT UP, PSKOVIAN SCUM! You’ll rot down here until our superiors decide what to do with your bones!”

The silence after that was heavy, like a casket sealed with hopelessness. The torchlight flickered, casting shadows that danced like ghosts across the cell walls.

But then—a rumble shook the earth.

Booms echoed above. Dust rained from the ceiling. Explosions—real ones—lit up the stone slats.

The guards tensed, curses on their lips. They scrambled up the stairs, weapons drawn.

When the last soldier reached the surface, what he saw nearly made him drop his spear. Three figures stood in the middle of the garrison yard, surrounded by the unconscious elite soldiers of Novgorod—handpicked men of Warlord Gabriel, all lying in a heap.

And still standing… were two boys and a girl.

He foolishly charged toward the girl—thinking her the weakest.

Varun and Andry snickered.

Varun (amused): “Oh, poor man… you really picked the wrong one.”

In a flash of motion, Rusalka’s seaweed-shaped sword sliced the guard’s blade from his hand and knocked him out cold with a strike as elegant as a flowing river.

Then, together, the three of them descended below—to free those who had once led Pskov… and give hope a second breath.

As they descended the stone steps into the underground cells, a sudden thought struck Varun.

Varun: “Hey Andry… how come you didn’t hear Ruslan’s speech?”

Andry: “Ah, that’s because I was unconscious for a while. I pushed myself too far—used up too much Zhivava. Normally, I rely on elemental magic. But when I tapped into rune magic… it drained me. So, I found a safe spot and hid until I recovered.”

Varun (wide-eyed): “Rune magic? That sounds… wow. Okay, once we’re done with this mess, you have to fill me in on all of this.”

Rusalka (raising an eyebrow, unimpressed): “Seriously? You don’t even know the basics of magic?”

Varun (sheepish): “Umm… well, we three came from pretty far. There’s still a lot we don’t know about this country.”

Andry chuckled, catching the awkwardness.
Andry (teasing): “You two look great together, though.”

Rusalka (startled, blushing): “W–We’re not!”

Varun froze. That one little denial sent his thoughts spiraling into daydreams. He didn’t even realize she had punched his arm—lightly, but with a flustered glare. Andry laughed harder, but beneath the teasing, a heaviness lingered in his eyes. Varun noticed, but said nothing.

They reached the cell blocks. The air was thick with mildew and hopelessness—until the prisoners saw them. Gasps and tears broke out like rain. The people of Pskov, once ready to die forgotten, now clung to new hope.

“They’ve come… the gods have sent them…”

Rusalka swung her seaweed-forged blade, slicing through iron locks like they were paper. Varun summoned water into his palm, shaping it into a curved edge—cleanly severing cell bars in one strike.

As they worked, Andry scanned every face, moving with increasing urgency—until his eyes landed on a familiar figure in the farthest cell.

“Dad.”

Taras turned, his weary eyes widening in disbelief.
Taras: “Andry?! My boy?!”

In seconds, Andry broke the chains. Taras stumbled into his son’s arms, clinging to him like he might vanish again.

Taras (weeping): “Thank you… Rod, thank you for keeping him safe! Where were you all this time, my son?”

Andry (holding back tears): “I’ll never leave again. I had to… go on a mission. For you. For Mom.”

From behind, Timothy Dovmont stepped forward, his old face lighting up.

Timothy: “Good to see you alive, lad.”

Andry (grinning despite his emotions): “Hey, Uncle… are you sure that beard wasn’t all black before?”

Timothy (smirking): “Still got fight in me. You still owe me seven wins in our duels.”

Andry: “Hey, it’s 10 to 3 now. One day, I’ll beat you fair and square.”

Timothy: “I’ll be waiting. I’m still the master of you three rascals.”

He paused, his tone softening.
Timothy: “But… what about the mission? Did you find anything?”

Andry’s smile faltered. His knees gave out, and he sank to the floor, guilt rippling through him like thunder in his chest. He couldn’t meet their eyes.

Andry (voice cracking): “I failed… I was caught. I was reckless… naive. I’m sorry, Uncle. Sorry, Dad.”

Tears fell freely now. Even the prisoners looked on in silence. Timothy reached forward instinctively, but Taras held his arm.

Taras (soft, fatherly): “Shhh… my boy… come here. Don’t cry like that. You came back to me—that’s all a father can ask. But tell me… tell us what happened.”

Andry leaned into his father’s arms and spoke between sobs.

Andry: “I went to Novgorod… to find Mom. You said she went back to her family—I thought maybe… maybe they kept her prisoner.”

His voice wavered, but he pressed on.
Andry: “I snuck into the city. From what I’d read, it was supposed to be grand. And it was…”

He sat up, wiping his face with the back of his hand, and began describing it—the jagged spires, the frost-touched rooftops, the ghostly citizens wrapped in wool, the watch-fires glowing green with artificial Zhivava. And finally, the square… the girl with the gusli… and the lullaby that carried the warmth of a forgotten home.

Everyone listened in silence. Even Rusalka, arms crossed, was no longer scolding—only watching with quiet empathy.