Ch 6 : Andry, Alkonost & Novgorod ( Part - 1 )

Scene 1 : Sorrow of Snow

From the high ridge overlooking Novgorod, Andry crouched beneath the frost-kissed limbs of a pine, his eyes fixed on the city that had haunted his bloodline since childhood. The skyline was jagged with cold iron spires, rising like spears from ancient stone, their silhouettes cutting sharp against the pale northern sky. Smoke curled from massive chimneys, smudging the heavens with the breath of blacksmiths and forges. Shrine domes shimmered with eldritch runes, pulsing faintly beneath layers of soot and snow.

Pale granite walls coiled around the city like sleeping serpents. Along their battlements, watch-fires burned an unnatural green—fueled by artificial Zhivava. And down below, between frozen alleys and silent courtyards, the people moved like ghosts beneath layers of wool and fear.

Andry’s heart ached—not from the cold, but from the memory of a lullaby he could no longer fully remember. The one his mother used to hum before vanishing behind these very walls. He tightened his cloak, then slipped into the city undetected, his ash magic cloaking him like smoke.

As he moved through the narrow streets, the city felt unnervingly familiar. The way footsteps echoed off the cobblestones… the shape of the rooftops… the smell of smoked meat and snow-melt. It reminded him of Pskov—and yet not. Something colder lived here. Still, he couldn’t help but hear traces of his mother’s lullaby in the hush of the wind and the ring of church bells far off.

He walked on, not knowing where to start. But his resolve, forged in grief and duty, kept his boots moving. He couldn’t return empty-handed. Not without her.

The wind swept gently against his cheek, like a father’s consoling hand. He took it as a sign.

Eventually, he reached the heart of the city—the square. There stood the forgotten statue of Novgorod’s guardian: Alkonost, the winged songbird of legend. Though majestic, the monument was cracked and weather worn, its wings dulled by time and neglect. People passed it by like a forgotten fountain, giving no nod, no prayer. Unlike the revered statue of Simargl in Pskov, this one stood abandoned—an echo of a faith slowly fading.

Andry stepped closer and lowered his head. He offered silent respect—not just for Alkonost, but for what had been lost here.

Some townsfolk glanced at him with mild curiosity. A boy praying at a forgotten idol. Perhaps a country bumpkin. He ignored them.

Then—a sound. A soft, silvery voice carrying over the winter breeze.

On the far side of the statue, a young girl sat cross-legged with a gusli in her lap. Her dress was simple linen, hand-stitched with faded floral embroidery. Pale brown hair framed her youthful face, and her fingers moved delicately over the strings like weaving feathers in air.

She was singing.

Not loudly. Not for show. But like someone whispering an old secret into the wind.

Andry froze.

The melody touched something inside him. A memory. A heartbeat. A fragment of that forgotten lullaby his mother used to sing.

Sleep, my little sun, don’t cry,
Mama’s here and stars are nigh.
River hums a silver song,
Novgorod will wait so long.

Snow is soft on ancient stones,
Chimes are ringing far from home.
Dream of bells and swans that glide,
But stay close to Mama’s side.

Hush now, wind will kiss your head,
Lay your thoughts in feather bed.
Golden roofs may call one day—
But tonight, in Pskov we stay.

The small crowd around her clapped politely. A few tossed coins. Nothing more.

But Andry stood still, struck not by her beauty, but by her voice. There was warmth in it. Truth. Memory.

He reached into his pouch and gently tossed a handful of coins into the bowl by her feet. Far more than anyone else.

The girl blinked, surprised. She looked up at him—really looked—and Andry simply gave her a soft nod. Not in flirtation, but in reverence. As if thanking her for a song only he had truly heard.

Her name was Alena, though he didn’t know it yet.

But the music… he would remember it forever.

Alena: “Hey… I think you tossed more than you meant to.”

Andry turned, caught off guard for a moment.
Andry: “No, it’s for your beautiful performance. I was really moved by your song.”

The word beautiful echoed in her mind, clinging to her like morning dew on flower petals. He had said it so casually—but something about the way he said it made it feel like a secret whispered only to her. She blushed, caught between her ethics and her emotions.

Alena (softly, flustered): “I… I can’t accept this much. It wouldn’t be right.”

Andry smiled, still oblivious to the effect his words had on her.
Andry: “Please. Think of it as my mother paying you too. That lullaby... it reminded me of her. She would’ve scolded me if I didn’t give something for such a beautiful performance.”

Her face turned redder. The mention of his mother made the compliment even more sincere—and harder to refuse. She looked down, clutching the coins in both hands, her lips curling despite herself into a shy, uncontrollable smile.

Alena (with a soft chuckle): “You’re not from around here, are you?”

Andry (casually deflecting): “Just visiting. Sightseeing, mostly. Any places you’d recommend?”

Alena's eyes lit up like lanterns. She leaned closer with a grin.
Alena: “You’re my age and traveling alone? That’s kind of impressive.”

She tapped her chin dramatically, then snapped her fingers.
Alena: “Well, thanks to your very generous patronage, I can pack up early today!”

Before Andry could react, she swiftly gathered her gusli, slung her pouch over her shoulder, and grabbed his hand.

Alena (beaming): “Come on! I’ll give you the best tour in Novgorod. But no getting lost, alright?”

Andry blinked, surprised by her sudden energy—but oddly, he didn’t pull away. Maybe it was the way she smiled. Or maybe, in a city full of stone and frost, she was the first warmth he'd felt.

So he let her lead.

And for the first time since stepping into Novgorod, Andry smiled.

Alena led him through the winding streets of Novgorod, her excitement bubbling over as she pointed out everything from ancient clocktowers to sacred rune-stones half-buried in snow. Andry smiled, enjoying her company—her lightness was a contrast to the tension knotting his chest—but something gnawed at him, an instinct he couldn't ignore.

His eyes flicked over the crowd. Too many glances lingered. Too many shadows moved just a second too late.

Then, it struck.

Without a word, Andry grabbed Alena’s hand and pulled her into a narrow, snow-dusted alleyway, empty and silent.

“Eh?! W-What’s happening?” she stammered, her cheeks flaming red. She stared at him wide-eyed, her mind suddenly a flurry of delusions—was he going to confess something?

Before she could daydream further, an arrow hissed through the air, missing Andry’s head by inches and thudding into the wall behind them.

She screamed and stumbled to the ground in shock.

Andry didn’t hesitate. His fingers snapped into position, swirling ash gathering instantly from his palms and forming a protective dome of grey haze around them. Another volley of arrows clattered uselessly against the shield.

The archer wasn’t just a random sentry. His speed. His precision. The way he vanished after each shot…

He was trained.

Alena, still trembling, clutched his sleeve. “Wh-Who is that?! Why is someone attacking us?!”

“I’d like to know that myself,” Andry muttered, eyes narrowed. “But we can’t stay here.”

Alena’s fear fought with her courage, and then—“Wait! My house. It’s not far. We can hide there! I-I mean… if you want to…”

He nodded without hesitation. “Let’s move.”

Andry placed his hand on the stone-cold ground, drawing a quick rune circle with his fingers, glowing with pale light. The inscriptions flared, reacting to his ash magic, and a wave of thick, shifting smoke poured into the street—choking the view, cloaking their escape.

In the chaos, they vanished.

The elite soldier stood above, perched on a rooftop, his eyes narrowed behind a visor of blackened steel.

“Tch… Got away.”

He dropped down silently into the ash-drenched alley, crouching beside the rune marks left behind.

“Rune amplification… ash element. That’s Pskovian style.” His jaw tightened.

“So, the girl has help… and it’s a spy from Pskov, no less. I need to report this to the boss.”

Then he melted into the shadows, just as the smoke began to clear.

They slipped through winding streets, ducking beneath clotheslines and leaping over slushy puddles, the smoke of Andry’s magic slowly thinning behind them. Alena led the way now, her breath short and quick, her boots crunching on frost-laced cobblestones.

Finally, they reached the outskirts—where the stone roads gave way to patchy snow-covered dirt, and the smell of the city thinned to cold pine and old chimney soot. Nestled between two crooked fences and a barren winter orchard stood a small wooden house, its roof slightly slanted, patched with a quilt of moss and old bark shingles.

The home looked weary but alive.

The wooden walls were worn smooth by years of wind and rain, a few planks warped, but no hole unpatched. A humble porch leaned forward with creaks, guarded by a crooked lantern and a squeaky iron hinge. Beside the door, a pair of thawed boots and a wooden bucket lay forgotten. Dried herbs hung from the beams like faded jewelry—lavender, birch leaves, even mountain rowan.

“It’s not much,” Alena said, breathless, a little embarrassed as she unlocked the door with a key from around her neck. “But it’s home.”

Inside, the space was tight but warm. A single room with a low ceiling and a clay stove in the corner, its fire barely glowing under smoldering embers. Woven rugs stretched across the wooden floor, patched and hand-dyed. There were shelves lined with jars of pickled vegetables, an old spinning wheel, and a table covered in scattered sheet music and hand-copied verses of folk songs.

A simple bed sat tucked in the corner beneath a thick quilt. A small shrine to the household spirits rested on the sill, decorated with candles and a single hand-painted icon of Alkonost.

Andry looked around, gently brushing ash off his coat. “It’s... cozy,” he said sincerely.

Alena let out a breath she didn’t realize she was holding. “I live here alone but I could manage by myself.”

She turned toward the hearth and stirred the fire with a stick, lighting a few pine chips to coax the flame back to life. Andry stood near the window, watching for movement beyond the trees, but the path behind them was quiet.

“I think we lost him,” he said.

“Good,” she replied softly, wrapping a wool shawl around her shoulders. “But you can stay here tonight, if you need.”

Andry looked at her, the light from the rekindled hearth reflecting in his eyes.

“Thank you. I owe you.”

“No… I think we’re even,” she smiled, hiding the redness in her cheeks as she looked away.

The wind howled softly outside, but inside the small house on the edge of the city, warmth began to return—not just from the fire, but from the silent comfort of two hearts beginning to understand each other.

Her heart was fluttering as she never had a boy in her house. She couldn’t stop smiling and quickly went to the kitchen to make something for him. Although she was struggling financially she still wanted to show him how good of a cook she is.

Andry sat down at the small dining table, its surface uneven from years of use, worn smooth around the edges by countless elbows and tired hands. The chair creaked beneath him—not from poor make, but from age and memory soaked into the wood. He ran his gloved fingers across the tabletop, feeling the faint scratches—perhaps made by a spoon dropped in haste or a carving knife mislaid during an old mealtime.

The room smelled of pine smoke, dried herbs, and something sweet he couldn’t place. A low-burning oil lamp hung from a rusted chain above, swaying slightly with the wind outside, casting flickers of golden light across the cottage walls. The flame’s soft pulse lit up the old clay stove in the corner, where cast iron pots rested, one still slightly warm. Beside it, a kettle breathed steam, as if whispering in its own tongue.

His gaze wandered across the shelves lining the walls—no glass, only carved wood and roughly hammered nails. On one, a line of humble treasures caught his attention.

There were faded paintings—charcoal and pigment on old scraps of parchment. One showed a small girl sitting beneath a tall pine, hugging what looked like a gusli half her size. Another showed a family—three figures, indistinct but warm, a man with a thick beard, a woman with flowers in her hair, and a child nestled between them, eyes bright with wonder. The colors were faded, but Andry could tell the strokes were careful, deliberate… someone had loved the people in those pictures.

He leaned forward, resting his forearms on the table.

This was not a spy’s lair. Not a rebel’s den. Just a home—humble, honest, and strangely untouched by the machine-throated breath of the Red Winter rising around them. No artificial lamps buzzing with Zhivava. No metal piping or crystal monitors like in the cities further north. Just firelight, wood, warmth, and memory.

And for a brief moment, Andry forgot the mission. The war. Even his pain.
Because this—this little house on the edge of the world—felt more human than the whole empire beyond its walls.

From the kitchen, Alena peeked out now and then, her hands fidgeting as she ground dried herbs into a tiny bowl. Her cheeks were burning pink, and no matter how many times she told herself to calm down, her heart refused to obey. Never before had she brought a boy home—especially not one so kind, so mysterious, and… well, handsome in that quiet way that made her knees wobble.

She stirred something in the pot—a barley porridge, thinned out more than she liked, but it was all she could afford today. She added a touch of wild honey, a pinch of dried berries, and prayed it would be sweet enough to hide the simplicity. It wasn’t about impressing him. Not really. But she wanted this stranger—this boy with storm-dark eyes and a heavy silence—to feel cared for. Even just once.

Andry sat silently, watching the shadows play across the wall, listening to the quiet rattle of clay dishes and the bubbling of something cooking. He didn’t want to admit it aloud, but this place reminded him of a memory he couldn’t name. A warmth he thought he’d lost.

He looked back toward the kitchen doorway where Alena's silhouette moved in bursts—flitting between confidence and hesitation like a bird unsure whether to take flight. He smiled faintly. Not at her nervousness, but at how real it all felt. In a world of ruins, blood, and cold gods whispering through magic, this small home was a defiant ember refusing to be snuffed out.

A gust of wind knocked against the cottage window with a soft thud. Outside, the frost deepened, but inside… inside it was warm.

Her heart was fluttering like a bird trapped in a locket.She couldn’t stop smiling, couldn’t keep her fingers still. Her feet moved before her mind caught up, carrying her into the tiny kitchen tucked beside the hearth.

As soon as she reached for the cupboard, reality returned like a whisper in her ear: she had almost nothing.

A half-sack of barley. A small pot of honey, crystalized around the rim. A few dried berries, some wild herbs. She stared at them, fingers trembling slightly. It wasn’t much. But it had to be something. She was Alena of Novgorod—poor, yes, but not without pride. She would make this humble meal with the love and care her mother once taught her. That would be enough.

She bit her lip, thinking. Maybe a sweet porridge, simple but warm? Yes—something that clung to the ribs, softened the cold, soothed the soul. She worked quickly but gently, pouring water into the pot, humming softly beneath her breath to keep her nerves in check. Her cheeks were still warm—so warm it was embarrassing—and her thoughts, no matter how she scolded them, kept drifting back to the boy sitting at her table.

He touched the table like it was something sacred, she thought. And when he looked at the paintings…

She shook her head, face redder now. Alena, get a grip. But still, she smiled.

She didn’t have gold or power or even a full pantry—but she had this moment. And for him, she would make the best porridge in all of Novgorod.

Andry: “Umm… the people in those paintings… are they your family?”

Alena didn’t answer at once. Her smile faded, and her fingers trembled slightly as her gaze lingered on the faded images. The faces in those paintings—her father pushing her on a swing, her mother braiding her hair beside the old stove, a small version of herself dancing in the backyard—rushed back into her mind like a flood breaking through cracked walls. Andry saw the pain on her face.

Andry (softly): “I’m sorry… I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

Alena (sobbing gently): “No… it’s okay. I just… I haven’t been able to forget them, even after all these years.”

Andry (gentle): “You don’t need to forget them. They’re still here—with you. In your heart, in this house. I can feel it... the warmth they left behind. I wish… I wish I could’ve met them too.”

Alena (sniffling but smiling faintly): “Thank you…”

Andry (with a warm smile): “If you don’t mind… I’d like to know more about you. You’ve helped me so much—I want to know the girl behind that beautiful song.”

Alena (teary-eyed but teasing): “Hey, shouldn’t the boys be introducing themselves first?”

Andry (grinning): “Ah, pardon my manners, my lady. I’m Andry Petrovik, from Pskov. My father runs a clock shop, and I have two brothers—one older, one younger.”

Alena (smiling through her tears): “I’m Alena Romasof. I love playing the gusli… my mother taught me when I was little. My parents were city council members. They worked hard, always helping others... until the outbreak.”

Her voice wavered.

Alena: “It came so fast—people got sick and died within days. My parents were among the first to help... but they never came back. After it ended, the council found documents in their office—claims of illegal magic experiments. They blamed the entire tragedy on them. I begged them to investigate again, but they ignored me. I still don’t know if my parents were guilty… or if they were scapegoats for something darker.”

Her tone turned bitter, her eyes wet with grief and injustice.

Alena: “I lost everything—my home, my name, their honor. I left the council quarters, brought what I could, and moved to my grandparents’ old house. I started playing my gusli before the statue of Guardian Alkonost—hoping maybe someone would remember the good my parents did.”

The tears returned, and this time Andry gently took her hand, brushing her tears away with his fingers. Without thinking, she threw her arms around him. He stiffened for a second, surprised—but then softened and held her, letting her cry freely.

Andry (whispering): “Don’t cry… please. You know… you look more beautiful when you smile. I like that cheerful side of yours.”

He blinked, stunned at what he’d just said. It wasn’t like him—yet somehow, with her, the words came easily.

Alena (blushing deeply, her voice soft): “Can I stay like this… for a little while? If you don’t mind.”

Andry (shy but gentle): “Umm… yes. You can.”

A thought flickered across Andry’s mind as his eyes returned to the shelf—the soft hues of pine smoke and memory still lingering around him. His gaze settled again on the faded paintings.

Andry (curious): “Do you know who painted those? The way they captured the moment… it feels like someone painted them with their heart, not just their hands. They must’ve known you well.”

Alena (tilting her head, softly): “I don’t know them personally. My parents once said they were gifts—someone gave them to us long ago.”

Andry (thoughtful): “Then they must’ve been close to your family. No stranger could’ve painted warmth like that. I’d like to meet whoever it was… just to say they gave something beautiful to this world.”

Alena (smiling gently): “You think so? I… I’d like to thank them too. Somehow, they made those moments feel alive again.”

A silence passed between them, warm and unspoken. Then Andry chuckled, brushing his hand against the table.

Andry: “So… shall we eat before your cooking gets cold and I get blamed for that too?”

Alena (playfully): “Of course! I won’t forgive you if you let it go to waste.”

They sat together at the small wooden table, sharing the humble meal—bread slightly crisped on the edges, warm vegetable stew from the clay pot, and a mug of steaming herbal tea for each of them. The taste wasn’t lavish, but it was honest—seasoned with care, made with hands that wanted to offer comfort.

From the outside, the cottage still looked worn, barely holding against the creeping snow. But inside, laughter flickered against the lamplight. A girl rediscovering her smile. A boy who’d almost forgotten how it felt to be at peace.

Yet in the silence between gusts of wind, a shadow didn’t move with the snow.

Beneath the crooked pine, half-concealed in the frost-dusted undergrowth, a figure crouched still and silent. The elite soldier who had fired the arrow earlier. His breath curled through his mask, slow and steady. He watched them through the fogging lens of a scope.

Only the snow knew he was there, and it whispered nothing.

Elite Soldier (into crystal, low voice):
“Boss… the boy is with the girl. I'm watching, as ordered.”

A pause crackled in the communication crystal before the response came—calm, heavy with thought.

Boss (voice measured, protective):
“I still have doubts about the boy. If anything seems off—intervene. Keep her safe. Nothing… nothing must happen to her.”

Elite Soldier (after a beat, with sincerity):
“Yes, Boss. But…”
He hesitated, eyes watching the warm glow from the cottage window—laughter, gentle and human, filtered through the soft veil of falling snow.
“…I truly believe he means her no harm. She’s smiling again. I haven’t seen her smile like this… in years.”

The Boss was silent for a moment. Then, more gently than before:

Boss (with quiet emotion):
“If that is your judgment… so be it. Let her have this moment. But remain vigilant.”
His voice dropped, touched with something almost paternal.
“I don’t want even my own shadow to bring pain to my Alenushka.”

Elite Soldier (smiling faintly):
“You chose the right man, Boss. I’ll guard her with my life… as I always have.”

And so, the snow kept falling.

The cottage glowed with laughter and firelight. From his hidden perch beyond the trees, the soldier relaxed slightly, the tension in his shoulders loosening as he allowed himself a moment of peace. Inside, the girl laughed, the boy grinned—two young souls momentarily untouched by the world's cruelty.

But peace is fragile.

A blast shattered the silence.
BOOM.
Flames erupted from within the house—glass burst, wood splintered, and smoke clawed into the sky like a dying beast. The soldier's heart dropped.

“No…” he whispered, stunned. “No, no, no—”

He broke cover, sprinting toward the burning cottage. His instincts screamed, his feet pounded the frozen ground—
—but before he reached the gate, a shadow moved behind him.

CRACK.

A blunt force struck the back of his skull. The world tipped sideways. Snow and blood mixed as he collapsed to one knee.

“Damn it—!” he groaned, trying to lift his crystal communicator with a trembling hand.

He managed to activate it, the glow flickering to life—
—but a boot came down.

SMASH.
The crystal shattered, his last lifeline gone.

Another blow followed—his vision blurred, swimming in red. He couldn’t see the attacker’s face, only the vague silhouette of a boot, a cloak, and a mask hiding a hideous face. The attacker was definitely stronger than him to catch him off-guard.

The cottage burned in front of him, the warmth he had guarded now consumed by flame.

His tears weren’t for himself.
They were for her.
For Alenushka.

He tried to crawl, tried to reach her—just a little further—his fingers scraped the snow, stretching—

CRUNCH.

His outstretched hand was crushed beneath a heavy boot.

Pain surged—but not as much as the sorrow.

His lips moved in silent prayer.
Not for vengeance.
But for a miracle.

“Please…” he mouthed. “Let someone save her…”

The light left his eyes as the smoke curled around the burning home, devouring everything warm and alive. The loyal sentinel—the silent guardian of the boss’s goddaughter—was no more.

And in the snow, where he fell, only blood remained to mark his vow.

Scene 2 : Black Wings

The flames roared like beasts let loose from a cage. The house, once filled with warmth and laughter, was now an inferno—fire clawing at every beam, every cherished memory, every forgotten shadow

The blast had shattered the silence of the outskirts, and smoke spiraled high into the sky—visible even from the city’s heart. Alarm bells rang in the distant districts, and the citizens of Novgorod were stirring. Stersly officers—steel-armed enforcers of the Red Winter—were already mobilizing, but the road was long. Out here, at the city's edge, help would not come swiftly enough.

Inside, amidst falling embers and groaning timber, Andry stirred.

His body ached—seared with pain—but his ash magic, cast in the blink between instinct and destruction, had saved them. The swirling cloak of dark particles had shielded them from the worst of the explosion. He had thrown himself over Alena, wrapping her fragile frame in both his arms and the last reserves of his power.

She lay in his embrace, unconscious—breathing, but pale.

Andry (weakly, with relief):
“You’re alive… thank Rod.”

His legs trembled beneath him, but he forced himself upright, lifting her into his arms. Around them, beams collapsed and glass cracked under the pressure of heat. With a whispered command, his ash shroud enveloped them again, allowing him to push through the fire as though it parted out of respect.

They emerged into the cold night—only to find death waiting.

THWIP.

An arrow whistled through the smoke and slammed into his left shoulder—his dominant arm. He staggered, his knees nearly buckling, but he didn’t drop her.

Andry (through gritted teeth):
“Damn it—he’s still here?!”

Blood dripped from his sleeve as he ducked behind a crumbled stone wall. He laid Alena down gently, shielding her with his own body. Yanking the arrow free, he examined the shaft—the same black-feathered design. His stomach dropped.

Andry (horrified):
“It’s him… the elite soldier. Is he behind all of this…? Or—”

THWIP.

A second arrow pierced his right arm—a cruel mirror to the first. He cried out, his hands slick with blood.

Andry (confused and gasping):
“What…? This can’t be… his aim—his timing—it’s like he’s…”
“…toying with me.”

He ripped the arrow out—but too late did he realize the runes etched on the shaft. His eyes widened.

“No—!”

The arrow exploded in a blinding flash of fire and pressure.

Andry had just enough time to roll over Alena, casting one last thin veil of ash between her and the blast. She was spared. But he wasn’t.

The force hurled him backward. He hit the snow with a sickening thud, blood staining the white beneath him. His mind spiraled into darkness, his vision dimming.

As he faded, one thought looped in his mind—not pain, not anger.

Andry (inwardly):
“That wasn’t him… someone’s impersonating him… someone dangerous…”

The flames behind them flickered, the snowfall whispered, and the night swallowed everything.

The snow hissed where burning timbers fell, steam coiling like dying breath into the bruised night. Andry lay crumpled beside Alena, scorched and bleeding, his body still shielding hers even as pain threatened to drown him. Each breath clawed at his lungs—the smoke from the arrows was laced with something toxic. His vision swam. He tried to rise, but his limbs betrayed him.

Then he heard it.
A click.
Another.
Sharp, deliberate, like claws tapping stone in the dark.

A laugh followed—high-pitched and cracked, like shattered glass scraping against bone. From the veil of smoke, a figure slithered into view, tall and hunched, his silhouette jagged beneath the crimson glow of the flames. A coat of black, matted feathers swayed around him like wings wet with blood. A beaked mask, twisted and grotesque, hid his face—its red-glass eyes glowing like furnace embers.

He crouched low, inches from Andry, one hand twitching in gleeful spasms, the other holding a long, gleaming needle, runes pulsing faintly across its shaft.

"So much beauty in a broken body," he crooned, voice gurgling with mirth. He tilted his head too far, too fast—like a carrion bird sizing up its next incision.
"Shall we see how your Zhivava screams when I play your bones like a harp, little ash boy?"

“Do you know what they call me boy, Strzygomir - The Surgeon of Black Wings.”

He was Kikimora’s talon. Her plaguebird.

The Doctor Who Never Sleeps.

Andry knew he had no chance in a fight—not in this state, not against this kind of monster. His lungs burned, his head swam, but he clenched his teeth and summoned the last of his Zhivava, swirling ash from the scorched snow and cinders.

With a trembling hand, he thrust the ash upward, forming a blinding cloud around Strzygomir’s face.

The madman recoiled with a guttural shriek, his red lenses cracking with sudden heat. He clawed at his mask, stumbling back a step as soot hissed into the gears of his breathing device.

Strzygomir (howling, half-blinded):
"You filthy little trickster! You dare scratch a surgeon’s hand?!"

But even half-blind, even injured, he was dangerous.

Strzygomir (snarling but grinning):
"You’re lucky, boy. If I wasn’t on schedule, I’d open you like a hymnbook and make your Zhivava sing in octaves."

His head snapped toward Alena, lying motionless, framed in flame and shadow. A chilling giggle escaped his mask.

Strzygomir:
"For now, I’ll take the girl."

Andry (groaning, weak):
"Please… leave… her alone…"

Strzygomir’s laughter rose again—fractured, jagged, echoing through the burning field like broken glass in a drum.

Strzygomir (mocking):
"Why would I? She’s precious. A porcelain doll from a shattered house. Don’t worry, boy… I’ll take very good care of her."

Andry tried to crawl forward, his arms trembling, blood trailing from both shoulders. But his vision tunneled. The toxins were pulling him down into darkness. The last thing he saw before losing consciousness was Alena’s limp form being lifted into the smoke, and Strzygomir vanishing with her into the night like a bird of death.

Moments later, boots crunched through snow and ash.

Stersly officers, clad in black coats with violet sashes, reached the scene, coughing through their masks. The flames still hissed, but their attention was drawn to the body of the elite soldier—crumpled in the snow, hand outstretched toward the ruins.

Senior Official (grave):
"That's one of ours... or was."

A shout came from further ahead.

Junior Official:
"Sir! There's someone alive!"

They surrounded the battered body of Andry, barely breathing.

Junior Official (kneeling):
"Not local, sir. His clothes… not Novgorodian. And—here. A blade. Poskovian make, but customized. This one’s no commoner."

Senior Official (coldly):
"Pskov? Hmph. We haven’t closed the roads… but why would a soldier travel so far, and alone?"

He stared at the distant plume of smoke, eyes narrowing.

Senior Official (quietly):
"Take him in. Quietly. I’ll question him myself."

Junior Official:
"Understood."

As the wind howled over the burning ruins, Novgorod remained unaware. But in the shadows, the game had begun—and the snow no longer fell clean.

Andry woke up in a cell, confused and aching with a dull throb behind his eyes. The stone beneath him was cold as death, the damp seeping through his clothes like creeping fingers of ice. He blinked slowly, eyes adjusting to the pale shaft of moonlight filtering through a rusted iron grate above. Around him, the cell breathed years of misery—rough-hewn walls etched with old names, chisel scars, and dried patches. A splintered wooden bench sagged in the corner, and the metallic stink of rust mingled with the scent of mildew and old blood. Chains dangled from iron rings, swaying slightly. A rat darted across his boot, vanishing into the shadows.

Then came the sound—measured, deliberate footsteps in the corridor beyond. Echoing like a heartbeat in stone.

The cell door creaked open. A tall man in an official’s cloak stepped through, the red trim of his coat catching the faint light. His expression was unreadable, like a mask carved from polished granite. He closed the door behind him, sat on a stool opposite Andry, and studied him in silence for a moment—like one might study a weapon left behind on a battlefield.

Senior Official (calmly, without emotion):
“So… you're finally awake.”
He leaned forward slightly.
“You were found near a fire, unconscious. A Poskovian blade on your person. Care to tell me what exactly you were doing in Novgorod… soldier?”

The chains rattled violently as Andry jerked upright, eyes wild with panic. His breath steamed in the cold air, still wheezing from the smoke inhalation. His arms burned from the wounds, but the pain couldn’t match the fire in his heart.

Andry (shouting, desperate):
“Where is she?! Where is Alena?! I have to save her—he took her—that madman took her! Aaaagh!”

A calm voice cut through his frenzy like a blade through cloth.

Mikhail Zolotnikov, the Senior Official, seated just beyond the flickering torchlight, leaned forward, hands clasped, voice low and composed.

Mikhail (measured):
“Calm yourself, boy. You’re saying someone else caused the fire? And kidnapped the girl?”

Andry (biting his lip, rage seething):
“Yes! That monster with the bird mask—he ambushed us… I couldn’t stop him.”

Mikhail studied the young man closely—bloodied, half-broken, but clearly not a liar. His sharp eyes narrowed, thoughts whirring.

Mikhail:
“So you admit you're not a Novgorodian… and still you ask me to believe you, to help you?”

Andry (pleading):
“Please… you have to believe me. He’ll hurt her. He’s not human—he’s something else entirely…”

The pause was long. Then Mikhail exhaled, slowly. He stood, the weight of command in every motion.

Mikhail:
“Fine. But I want the full truth. Why were you in my city? Tell me everything.”

Grateful yet trembling, Andry told him everything—from his secret mission to find his mother, to how he met Alena, and how the attacker, Strzygomir, came like a nightmare out of the smoke. Mikhail listened in silence, hands steeled, calculating the deeper rot that had begun to fester in Novgorod.

When Andry finished, Mikhail stood fully, the firelight casting long shadows across the stone wall.

Mikhail (grim):
“You’re lucky it was me who responded. Any other officer would’ve had you shot on sight as a spy.”

Just then, the door creaked open. Lev Sidorov, the Junior Official, crisp in his long black coat, stepped in and saluted.

Lev:
“Chief Zolotnikov. Reports confirmed. That soldier we found… he was one of ours, from a unit directly under the Rosgvard’s Guard Commander of Novgorod Branch. The girl’s missing. Local witnesses say they saw a figure fleeing into the forest carrying someone.”

Mikhail’s expression darkened.

Mikhail:
“Oh… the Guard Commander is also involved himself. This is seriously a mess now. According to the reports, the Strzygomir is active again. He was officially listed as the No. 3 most wanted criminal in the Red Winter’s whole history. That lunatic’s been abducting citizens for weeks—and no one’s had the spine to pursue him.”

He turned to Lev, issuing rapid orders.

Mikhail:
“Sketches from the boy. Distribute them across every outpost. Form an elite squad—Rosgvard and Stersly operatives only. I want spellcasters, rune-specialists, anyone with tracking expertise. In the meantime I will inform the higher ups. Move quietly. No leaks. Understood?”

Lev (saluting):
“Yes, Chief Zolotnikov.”

He left, boots echoing into the corridor.

Mikhail returned to Andry, his voice losing some of its steel. He unlocked the chains and offered him a flask of water and a small ration of bread.

Mikhail (gently):
“I’m Chief Mikhail Zolotnikov, Head of the Novgorod Stersly. And you are?”

Andry (lowering his eyes):
“Andry Petrovik. From Pskov… Stersly unit. My father owns a clock shop. I came without clearance. I thought… if I filed a request it would be denied. So I slipped in.”

Mikhail chuckled dryly, shaking his head.

Mikhail:
“Next time, come with a permit. Sneaking into Novgorod is no small crime, boy and not certainly for a soldier.”

He poured himself a drink, then added more gravely:

Mikhail:
“But I can’t blame you. You came for family. For someone you love. And now you're tangled in something deeper than even you realize.”

He stepped closer, offering his hand like an old commander to a new recruit.

Mikhail:
“There’s a war beneath our city’s feet, Andry. Shadows thick with secrets and blood. If you’re ready to face it—really face it—then I could use a fellow soldier like you. Not just to save the girl… but to uncover the truth behind this madness. Will you stand with us?”

Andry took his hand, eyes burning with resolve.

Andry:
“For Alena. For my mother. I’ll fight whoever I need to.”

Mikhail nodded once.

In the distance, snow began to fall again—softly veiling a city that had no idea the game had already begun.

And far beyond the walls, players in the dark stirred their pieces.
And the cost… would be blood.

Scene 3 : Rod's Factor

The soft gurgle of water outside the thick glass walls was the only natural sound in the hidden depths. Inside, the dim lights of alchemical lamps flickered blue and green, casting ghostly glows across steel tables, jars of pickled organs, and rune-etched instruments humming with restrained madness.

Strzygomir, the crow-faced madman, strolled with manic glee through his underwater sanctum—his black-feathered coat brushing against shelves of volatile elixirs and ticking brass contraptions. He hummed a broken lullaby, stopping before a stone slab where Alena lay, bound at wrists and ankles with rune-inscribed cuffs. Her breaths were shallow. Her eyes closed.

He raised a syringe gleaming with etched runes, excitement twitching in his gloved fingers.

But a hand shot out, gripping his wrist mid-motion.

Alexander Nevsky—Mayor of Novgorod—loomed behind him in his black formal coat laced with armor-straps, face partially shadowed by his ceremonial mask. His cold eyes flashed with imperial command.

Alexander: “Stop, you crow-faced freak. We need her alive… and intact. She’s the key to the Regalia of Novgorod.”

Strzygomir (tilting his head with a wicked grin): “Hehe… I know, I know… I won’t break her. Not yet. But just a little peek inside her essence wouldn’t hurt, would it?”

Alexander (growling): “Awaken her Rod Factor. The gateway to Alkonost’s realm lies somewhere beneath this cursed city. Once I hold the Regalia in my hand—Novgorod and Pskov will both kneel.”

Strzygomir leaned back against the table, swirling a bubbling vial of black liquid.

Strzygomir (mocking, sly): “But will the Red Winter remain quiet? You’ve seen what they did to me… how they buried me under ground and history.”

Alexander (cold, mad glint in his eyes): “Once I possess both Regalias, not even they will stop me. One of the leaders of the Red Winter is already playing into my hand. She thinks she’s using me—let her. I’ll bury her too when the time is right.”

Strzygomir laughed, lips curling under the beaked mask.

Strzygomir: “A delicious betrayal. But we have a slight problem, dear Mayor. That Poskovian boy—he might have spoken. If Zolotnikov digs too deep—”

Alexander (snapping): “What?! You didn’t tell me this earlier?”

Strzygomir (shrugging, casual): “Relax. No one knows how to reach this lab. They’d have to dive five sazhen deep in pitch-black water… and even then, they wouldn’t find the entrance. Only you and I know the path through the dry tunnels hidden beneath the canal system.”

The room fell into an eerie silence, broken only by the mechanical hum of containment rings and the whisper of moving water.

Everything—physically and magically—was fortified. Runes veiled the lab from sight, sound, even Zhivava detection. To fish, it appeared as nothing more than ancient stone reef.

Alexander (pulling on his gloves): “Fine. I must attend the council meeting. While I play the fool above, you find a way to awaken the Rod Factor in her. As for your… hobbies—no more disappearances. Not for a few months. Otherwise, even I won’t be able to protect you.”

Strzygomir (bowing low, arms spread like wings): “Thank you, Your Excellency… for overlooking my minor mischiefs. I will try to be... well-behaved. Hehehe…”

Alexander left through the secret passage, his boots clicking against stone, the sound fading with each step.

The madman turned back to his humming equipment, already lost in some new twisted thought, a vial now bubbling violet in his hand.

But what neither of them realized was that the girl on the slab—Alena Romasof—was not unconscious.

Her breath slowed, steady, her heart burning with fear and rage.

She had heard everything.

The dim blue glow of the alchemical lamps hummed quietly, casting long shadows across the damp, metallic walls. Bubbles of soundless pressure drifted past the reinforced glass as fish swam unknowingly around the submerged tomb of science and madness.

Alena stirred.

Her lashes trembled slightly before her eyes slowly blinked open, flicking toward the empty hallway where Alexander had disappeared. She lay motionless, barely breathing, listening. Only the sound of bubbling vials and faint mechanical clicking filled the silence.

The chains around her wrists and ankles were cold—rune-etched, tightly bolted to the slab beneath her. She tugged them, subtly, but they didn’t budge. The cuffs bit into her skin, and she winced.

And then—laughter. A shrill, broken noise—like bones snapping in rhythm.

Strzygomir loomed over her, the red lenses of his beaked mask glinting with sadistic glee. He had noticed.

Strzygomir (chuckling): “Awake, are we? Good morning, my little heirloom.”

Alena flinched, her voice trembling, but she tried to feign ignorance.

Alena (weakly, pretending confusion): “Wh-where am I? Who are you? Why did you take me?”

The figure leaned in, tilting his mask like a bird of prey inspecting a trapped mouse.

Strzygomir: “I am the Black Physician—Strzygomir. And you, my dear, are far more precious than you understand.”
He paused, the joy in his voice like glass scraping over metal.
“That's why you’re here.”

Alena (desperate): “Why? I’m just… just a poor girl. I haven’t harmed anyone. Please… where is Andry?”

Strzygomir’s laughter came again—so delighted it was nauseating.

Strzygomir: “Ah, your brave little ash-boy. Don’t fret. I’ll bring him soon. You two will be reunited, I promise. Together—in chains, in needles, in flame, maybe.”

Tears welled in her eyes. Her throat tightened. Guilt stabbed her chest like ice. She had pulled Andry into this nightmare.

Strzygomir (whispering with theatrical menace): “Do you know why you’re so special? No? Then allow me to educate you.”

He stepped back and raised his arms like a deranged prophet.

Strzygomir: “You are a Romasof—descendant of the Romanov dynasty of the Volgorin Empire. Blood of the emperors flows in you. More specifically… from Sofia Petrovna, sister of the first Tsar.”

He leaned closer, the voice behind the mask dark and giddy.

Strzygomir: “And what sets your bloodline apart is something even the Red Winter couldn’t fully grasp—Rod’s Factor. A spiritual anomaly. A divine mutation. A key. Every descendant carries it. But awakening it? Ah… that secret vanished with time. Just like your ancestors.”

Alena (terrified, trembling): “But… how did you know I was one of them?”

His fingers tapped the mask with mock modesty.

Strzygomir (proudly): “Because I discovered how to trace it. I, Strzygomir, created the very method to identify the blood of Rod. While I served the Red Winter.”

Alena’s breath caught. Her thoughts were reeling.

Alena (softly): “Then… why aren’t you with them now?”

The smile beneath the mask widened. His voice dropped into a theatrical whisper.

Strzygomir: “Because I betrayed them.”

He laughed again, louder this time, the echo bouncing like madness through the lab.

Strzygomir: “I stole my work. Burned the records. Ran like a phantom into the night. So they scrubbed me from history. But I survived. And now? I’m number three on the Red Winter’s most wanted list.”

He leaned in once more, voice cold and final.

Strzygomir: “So don’t even dream of escape, little Romasof. Not unless you want to know why I’m called The Black Physician.”

Strzygomir’s shadow loomed near her like a black cloud of madness. He tilted his head with a sudden, theatrical snap, red lenses gleaming.

Strzygomir: “Oh yes... I nearly forgot something.”

Alena (nervous, her voice small): “What is it?”

He chuckled, the sound cold and hollow like wind through a crypt.

Strzygomir: “Do you want to know how your parents really died?”

Alena (startled, her breath caught): “What… What do you mean? They died… in the outbreak… helping people—”

Strzygomir (grinning): “Oh, they helped alright. Helped me.”

He stepped closer, savoring each word like venom on his tongue.

Strzygomir: “It was I who created the outbreak. And your beloved parents? I forced them to aid me in it.”

Alena (shocked): “No… That’s a lie!”

Strzygomir (mocking): “They resisted at first—‘I can’t destroy my city!’ they cried. So noble, so tiresome. But then I told them I’d carve you open, piece by piece. And just like that—poof—they bent the knee.”

He tapped his beaked mask with a rusted finger.

Strzygomir: “I was embedded in the city council, you see. Disguised as a harmless official, hiding in plain sight. But when they discovered who I really was… oh, the guilt. The shame. They threw themselves into the flames of their own creation to save their name and their city.”

Alena (trembling): “No… that can’t be true…”

Strzygomir: “Oh, but it is. The outbreak wasn’t just chaos, dear girl—it was a filter, designed to awaken the Rod’s Factor. And do you know what I found when the smoke cleared? You—the perfect little carrier. Daughter of traitors, blood of queens. What a delicious irony.”

His laughter echoed against the steel and stone, piercing her soul. Alena’s face contorted in pain—not just fear, but betrayal, grief, rage, and a sorrow that words could never hold.

Alena (screaming, tears streaming): “You monster!! You made them suffer!! You killed them!!”

Strzygomir (spinning theatrically): “That’s why some call me The Whisperer of Plague!”
He cackled, arms wide, basking in his cruelty.

But Alena’s sobs shifted. Her grief didn’t vanish—it changed. Hardened.

Behind the veil of her tears… her eyes began to burn.

The silver-blue hue of Zhivava pulsed beneath her skin like a rising tide. The chains trembled. The air around her grew heavy and alive.

Strzygomir stopped laughing.

He turned, flicking open a small notebook etched with metallic ink and glancing at the readings.

Strzygomir (murmuring with glee): “Yes… yes! The threshold is crossing. The reaction is perfect… it’s happening.”

Suddenly—

A shockwave of pure radiant energy burst from Alena’s body, engulfing the lab in blinding white light. Strzygomir screamed as he was flung into a corner, crashing into the shelves of vials and rusted tools.

And then—silence.

Both of them lay unconscious. The shackles around Alena had melted. Her hair floated as if underwater, her body alight with the ethereal glow of awakened Rod’s Factor.

The light poured out through cracks in the hidden passage, through rusted pipes, through the ancient tunnels and into the sewers. From there, it reached the surface—and spread like dawn breaking over the city.

Pedestrians stopped in their tracks. Dogs howled. The sky shimmered. Zhivava-sensitive mages across Novgorod gasped and clutched their chests. Authorities were alerted within minutes.

A storm was coming.

And it had her name on it.