Scene 3 : Ice's Resolve
The Tree Giant roared — a sound that split the heavens.
Its bark-flesh twisted, roots snapping through the streets as it hurled chunks of towers, shattered rooftops, and broken homes toward the three warriors below.
The battlefield became a storm of ruin.
Each throw came faster than the last — like volleys from a living catapult. Entire buildings tore free from their foundations, hurtling through the air in arcs of soil and dust.
But Avi didn't flinch.
He dashed forward, his boots shattering ice as he moved. The greatsword on his back gleamed, runes flaring blue-white.
Avi (calm, under his breath):
"Too slow."
He swung.
A single arc of his greatsword sliced through the oncoming rubble, freezing it midair — each fragment turning into glittering shards that scattered like snow before melting into mist.
Another boulder came flying. Avi spun mid-leap, blade whistling, and cleaved it clean in two.
He landed on one of the frozen halves — then launched himself upward, using the falling debris as steps.
Yudhir, behind him, grinned.
The winds answered his will. A cyclone burst around him, catching the debris Avi missed and hurling it back toward the giant.
They struck the creature's bark with explosive force — splinters of rotted wood rained down like ash.
Yudhir (shouting):
"Go, Captain! I've got your back!"
Avi:
"I know you do!"
The giant's arm swung — a wall of thorns and vines crashing toward them. Avi met it head-on, channeling icy Zhivava through his sword.
He slashed downward — the blade released a crescent of freezing energy that split the limb apart in a flash of frost and steam.
For every blow the giant launched, Avi carved a path through it — relentless, unyielding.
Each strike pushed him higher, closer to the monster's chest. His movements were surgical — calm precision under chaos.
Yudhir's storms followed, weaving through Avi's rhythm — a perfect harmony of wind and ice.
Together, they carved a spiral of devastation through the forest of roots and debris surrounding the Tree Giant.
Simargl's roar tore through the sky, shaking the ground beneath them. His wings expanded, hurling divine flame across the battlefield to shield them from a falling barrage of roots.
Simargl (commanding):
"Forward, warriors of Pskov! Sever the corruption — free the bound one!"
The Tree Giant retaliated — slamming its hand into the earth. The shockwave tore through the city, sending a forest of roots upward. Buildings cracked apart.
Avi leapt from one rising root to another, his body a blur of blue streaks against the dull sky. His breath formed mist, his focus absolute.
He could see Ostap now — the faint glow of his body inside the giant's chest, barely visible beneath layers of bark and twisted roots.
Avi (murmuring):
"Hold on… I'm coming."
Yudhir's voice echoed behind him, wild with energy.
Yudhir:
"Bring him back, Captain!"
The wind howled. The sky fractured with divine flame and frozen light.
And amid the chaos — Avi cut his way upward, every swing of his greatsword turning destruction into a staircase.
The calm soldier who'd lost his wrath now burned with something fiercer — purpose.
The music of battle swelled — steel, wind, and divine roar — as the boy who could not rage became the blade that never hesitated.
The Tree Giant's roar shook the skies. Its roots surged like tidal waves, splitting stone, tearing through towers, and sweeping across the battlefield with unnatural force. One of them lashed toward Avi — and before he could react, it coiled around him like a serpent made of thorns.
He tried to cut through, but the roots tightened faster than he could move. The next moment, he was yanked into the giant's chest. His greatsword slipped from his grasp, tumbling down in slow, gleaming arcs before striking the ground with a metallic cry that echoed through the ruined city.
"AVI!" Yudhir shouted, voice raw. His eyes widened as the giant's torso bulged, swallowing Avi completely. Inside the creature, the corrupted tendrils began absorbing his Zhivava, leeching away his life force.
Simargl's eyes blazed like molten suns. He roared, divine fury shaking the forest. White fire ignited along his mane, cascading down his body in waves. The Guardian unleashed a torrent of sacred flame against the Tree Giant's chest, burning through layers of bark and root. The air trembled, heat distorting reality itself.
Yudhir dove beside him, wind swirling around his fists. He summoned a cyclone, feeding it into the flames to spread them deeper — but the Tree Giant regenerated almost instantly, black vines re-knitting its body faster than the divine fire could consume it.
Then it struck back.
The ground split open beneath their feet as its massive leg came down, unleashing a shockwave. A forest of roots erupted outward, twisting and lashing toward them in all directions. Each vine pulsed with corrupted energy, screaming like something alive.
Simargl and Yudhir fought to contain the onslaught — divine flame meeting storm winds — but the regeneration was too fast, too unnatural. The creature was feeding directly on Avi's Zhivava now, growing more powerful with every passing second.
The wave of roots surged again — too fast this time. The Guardian's flames dimmed slightly, Yudhir's wind wavered—until, suddenly, a surge of ash and water crashed over the corrupted forest.
A flood.
The wave hit like a storm-front, dousing the spreading corruption and leaving only scorched, steaming earth in its wake. Yudhir turned sharply, breath heavy, his eyes searching through the mist.
Out of the haze came three familiar figures.
Andry stood first — bent slightly, chest heaving, the residue of Zhivava still flickering faintly around him like dying embers. Sweat and exhaustion lined his face, but his stance was steady.
Andry (with exhaustion from using his Zhivava): "You don't doubt yourself a bit, do you?… We could have been engulfed by that."
Beside him, Varun grinned — wide, fearless, unbothered by how close they had all come to being crushed. His clothes were singed, his hands glowing faintly blue from water energy, but his spirit was the same untamed spark as always.
Varun (with a wide smile): "I trust my friends more."
Rusalka, standing just behind him, crossed her arms — her moss-green armor catching the dim light. Her tone was sharp, but her voice betrayed the slightest hint of relief.
Rusalka (sarcastically): "Well he is an idiot."
A rush of wind announced Yudhir's landing. He dropped from the air beside them, Simargl touching down moments later in a burst of white embers. Without hesitation, Yudhir smacked the back of Varun's head.
Yudhir (faking his anger): "You should have given me a signal. And come sooner next time."
Varun winced, clutching the back of his head dramatically.
Varun (in pain but playful): "Ouch ouch… I am sorry buddy."
Rusalka smirked faintly.
Rusalka (smirking): "Good, he deserved that."
Yudhir chuckled under his breath, the tension easing.
Yudhir (smirking): "Then next time you give him punishment on our behalf."
Varun, still rubbing his head, looked at her with a grin that could melt glaciers.
Varun (smitten): "I wouldn't mind that if it's from you."
Rusalka sighed and rolled her eyes — though her ears reddened slightly under her seaweed-colored hair.
Rusalka: "Jeez… why do I get paired with him always."
Andry finally spoke, cutting through their banter.
Andry: "Ummm guys… shouldn't we focus on that tree giant."
Yudhir straightened, wind swirling faintly around him.
Yudhir: "Don't worry. Avi will hold it."
Rusalka scanned the battlefield, her eyes darting across the colossal figure.
Rusalka: "But where is he? I couldn't see him."
Simargl's voice thundered behind them, deep and mournful.
Simargl: "He was engulfed by the giant."
Rusalka's eyes widened in horror.
Rusalka: "WHAAATTT!!"
Before anyone could answer, the giant groaned — a deep, resonant sound like mountains shifting. Cracks spread across its bark. From its chest, frost began to bloom, spreading outward in glimmering veins of ice. Its left side shattered as the freezing curse advanced, pieces of its body falling away in chunks of frozen wood and crystal.
Yudhir's expression hardened.
Yudhir: "But he will still need our help."
Varun clenched his fist, his smile fading into determination.
Varun: "Let's go, guys."
Together they advanced, the corrupted ground quaking beneath their steps. The Tree Giant thrashed wildly, torn between rage and fear, its corrupted heart trying to stave off the spreading ice that was devouring it from within.
Simargl's eyes turned toward Andry. The faint glow of Alkonost's Zhivava pulsed through the boy like a heartbeat, its warmth defying the corruption that filled the battlefield.
Simargl: "My child… are you the one who received Alkonost's last song?"
Andry (with sorrow): "Yes, Guardian."
Simargl (with pride): "Then you must use that power to protect Pskov and your older brother."
Andry (with resolve): "Yes I will."
Andry's gaze rose to the glowing blue heart of the Tree Giant — to the still, pale figure trapped within. Ostap. His brother.
The memories hit him like a blade through the ribs — the laughter of three brothers racing through the snow, the smell of clockwork oil from their father's shop, the way Ostap used to lift him onto his shoulders so he could reach the stars. Now that same brother hung motionless, swallowed by corruption.
He could feel Ruslan's pain echoing through his heart — the grief, the helplessness, the fury restrained only by love. It was unbearable. But it was also what gave him strength.
Andry's fingers curled into a trembling fist, Zhivava pulsing faintly beneath his skin. The tears on his cheeks glimmered in the reflected light of the frost-covered colossus.
He whispered to himself, though his voice was steady now — not despairing, but resolute.
This time… he would not fail.
Inside the Temple of Rod
The stone pillars of the Temple trembled with every distant clash.
Ruslan felt each vibration in his bones — not as fear this time, but as a thread tied directly to Avi and the others.
He believed in them now. Not blindly, but fiercely.
Around him, the people huddled close, watching him the way sailors watch a lighthouse through a storm.
Ludmila stayed near his side, while the Arkhiyeri tended to frightened children and weary elders, whispering soft prayers.
The temple doors slammed open.
The young priest — the same one who had guided Rusalka earlier — came sprinting inside, robes flapping like he was being chased by lightning.
Young Priest (breathless, shaking with excitement and fear):
"O–Arkhiyeri! They've returned!"
Arkhiyeri (raising a hand):
"Peace, child. Who has returned?"
Young Priest:
"The mayor… and the ones taken by Novgorod! They're alive — all of them!"
A hush fell.
Then — like a spark catching dry grass — hope spread.
Murmurs rose. Tears appeared. People looked at Ruslan not with desperation now, but with belief. His earlier words, spoken in trembling conviction, echoed through their hearts.
Arkhiyeri:
"Bring them in. Quickly!"
Ruslan:
"I'm going too."
He didn't wait for permission. He ran.
The colossal temple doors parted, and evening light spilled across the steps like molten gold.
Ruslan reached the staircase just as Timothy's rescued group appeared — bruised, limping, exhausted… but alive.
And among them—
Taras.
For a heartbeat Ruslan couldn't move. Then his feet carried him.
He crashed into Taras' arms with a sound that was half sob, half relief.
Taras staggered but held him tight, burying his face into his son's hair.
Father and son shook with the force of their reunion — two souls who had lived a lifetime of fear in a single day.
Tears flooded Taras' weathered eyes. The man who had lost a wife, lost a home, and nearly lost all three sons — now clung to the smallest one like he was the last star in the sky.
Even Timothy, hard as chiselled granite, wiped his eyes in silence.
Ruslan (choking on his words):
"Dad… I thought… I thought I'd never see you again."
Taras (voice breaking):
"I'm here. I'm right here. I'm not going anywhere."
Ruslan:
"I thought I… lost you like Mom."
Taras (laughing through tears):
"Not so easily, my boy. Rod hasn't written me off yet."
Timothy (clearing his throat, trying to sound stern):
"As long as I'm around, this stubborn fool won't die. Someone has to keep him in line."
Ruslan (managing a shaky smile):
"Uncle Timothy… you're alive."
Timothy (stroking his beard with forced dignity):
"Alive? Hmph. I'm still your master, boy. You Petrovik brothers are my best students — don't go replacing me so soon."
Ruslan wiped his eyes, but the worry remained.
Ruslan:
"Dad… I need to tell you something. Ostap — he's alive. But he—"
Taras:
"I know." He squeezed Ruslan's shoulders gently.
"Varun explained everything. We'll save him. No matter what he's become… we'll bring your brother back."
Ruslan sucked in a breath — relief and fear blending into one.
Ruslan:
"And Andry… he still hasn't returned from his mission. I know he's strong, stronger than me… but—"
Timothy:
"Andry's back too. He and Varun and Rusalka saved us."
Ruslan's knees weakened with relief. For a moment, the chaos outside felt far away.
Ruslan:
"Then… let's go. Everyone's waiting."
Timothy (groaning as he stretched his back):
"Yes, yes — move, before these old bones turn to dust."
Inside the Temple, the flood of emotion hit like a tidal wave.
Families reunited in tight, trembling embraces.
Some collapsed in joy.
Others broke in grief upon hearing the names of those who would never return.
The Arkhiyeri and priests moved through the crowd, tending wounds, whispering comfort, lighting candles before Rod's altar.
And above it all, prayers rose — raw, pleading, desperate:
"Protect our city."
"Protect our children."
"Protect the ones fighting for us."
The Temple of Rod became what it had always been meant to be:
A sanctuary.
A beacon.
A heart still beating in the ruins of a fallen city.
Scene 4 : Lion's cub
The atmosphere inside the temple had shifted — not healed, not hopeful…
but breathing again.
The incense had long burned out; instead, the hall smelled of blood, damp wool, and cracked stone. Ruslan and Ludmila moved between wounded bodies like two lantern-bearers in a dark mine, cleaning cuts, whispering steadiness into shaking shoulders. Children whimpered against priests' robes, and old veterans stared blankly at the icon of Rod as if trying to remember how to pray.
Everywhere, reunion and loss wrestled.
The young blacksmith collapsed to his knees, clutching the mother he thought dead.
A merchant sobbed into the skirts of his granddaughter.
The scholar cradled his wife's face, trembling harder than any boy.
For those moments, the temple sounded like life trying to start again.
Taras stood apart — shoulders sagged with relief.
All three sons alive.
Even the one he buried in his heart long ago.
But beside him Timothy was quieter — fists closed, eyes scanning shadows even here.
Joy didn't soften him; war had carved suspicion too deep.
Someone orchestrated this.
Someone beyond Alexander.
And that thought gnawed at him while everyone else celebrated survival.
A tremor suddenly cracked through the floor — first mild, then violent, rattling icons and sending dust cascading from rafters.
Gasps tore through the hall.
Timothy's voice snapped like a commander's whip:
"Sound off! Is anyone hurt? Check the walls!"
Ruslan braced a faltering statue, jaw tight.
"I'm guessing that's the Tree Giant again," he muttered grimly.
The fear rushed back — children screaming, mothers clutching little ones, the wounded rolling on pallets in panic. Priests rushed to them and Ludmila knelt among the smallest children, brushing hair from their foreheads, murmuring comfort that didn't sound convinced even to herself.
Arkhiyeri folded his hands near the altar, whispering prayers that echoed like rain in the silent dread:
"Rod… protect our warriors…"
Ruslan stood mid-hall, body rigid.
His heart was outside —
in that battlefield —
with Avi and Andry and Yudhir.
He had promised Avi he would stay here, hold the line of hope.
But that promise now burned like a chain around his ribs.
Timothy watched him — really saw him — not as the shaking boy who clung to others but as someone trying to burst out of a skin that was too small.
Taras saw too —
but where Timothy saw potential,
a father saw only danger.
Timothy stepped closer, voice low but firm — the voice that once barked orders on walls and trained men for death.
"Ruslan."
The boy turned, breath catching.
"Go. Join them. They'll need you."
Taras snapped upright.
"He's still just—"
Timothy cut him off, eyes hard but not unkind.
"He was a child. Look at him now.
You feel it too — the fear you used to cradle is now strength he carries."
Ludmila flinched — the words no one wanted to say aloud.
Her hands balled in her skirts.
She had tried to keep Ruslan anchored here, where he wouldn't die like the others she failed.
She hated that she wasn't strong enough to save them back then…
and hated more that she couldn't stop him now.
Ruslan reached her, fingers brushing hers — steady, warm.
"Ludmila… I know. But I have to go."
Taras stared at his son — and for a moment saw him as the boy who once cried whenever lost in the market streets.
Now the same boy stood before him —
back straight, eyes unflinching, voice older than it had any right to be.
Taras' throat bobbed with something between fear and awe.
"I know… I just—
you'll always be my boy."
Ruslan stood taller, voice shaking but determined:
"Dad… I want to stand beside them.
Please — let me go."
Timothy moved closer, dropping a heavy hand on Ruslan's shoulder — pride radiating through his scarred palms.
"Believe in him, Taras.
I do. You taught him heart. I taught him spine.
Now let him walk."
Arkhiyeri turned from the altar, prayer beads clutched.
"I, too, believe the Guardian chose him for a reason.
Let him go."
The hall hushed —
eyes shifting between father and son.
Some looked pleading — don't let the boy die.
Others looked hopeful — let him save us.
Ruslan faced his father — voice thick now, every word forged with memory:
"I know you fear I'll fall. That I'll vanish like before."
"But I want to stand beside Andry — who never stopped believing in me."
"Beside my friends — who trusted me before I trusted myself."
"Beside the Guardian — who chose me when I had nothing."
"And beside Big Bro Avi — who… gave me strength."
Taras inhaled sharply.
When had this child learned to speak like that?
A small, broken smile lifted his beard.
"Who knew you would grow so much… so fast."
He lifted his chin — a father's surrender dressed as a warrior's command.
"Go — but promise me you'll bring yourself and your friends home alive."
Ruslan's eyes burned, but he grinned through it.
"I will, Dad."
Timothy barked a laugh, clapped Ruslan's shoulder — a little too hard.
"Hah! Go then! Leave your father with me — someone needs to babysit him."
Laughter — cracked, exhausted, but real — rippled through the hall.
Ruslan didn't look back again.
He strode for the doors with the urgency of a storm breaking chains.
And as he crossed the threshold, the ground trembled again —
but this time the people did not scream.
Because someone they believed in
was running toward the monster.
Mayor's Office — Western Pskov
The once-proud mayoral chambers had become a carcass of authority—charred beams, shattered marble, and banners torn and scattered like flayed skin. Wind howled through the collapsed walls, fluttering ragged curtains like mourning veils.
Alexander stood on the fractured balcony, one boot grinding ash as he surveyed his handiwork. Beyond the ruins, the silhouette of the Tree Giant raged on the eastern skyline—its roar shaking the bones of the city. He watched with intent, not awe. This was not terror to him—this was theater.
His gloved fingers brushed against the railing, as if savoring the ruin.
Then—bzzzt—
his receiver flared with a private encrypted pulse.
He didn't bother masking his irritation.
Alexander (flat, venomous):
"What do you want, madman?"
A light, broken laugh spilled from the device—too playful to be sane, too cold to be harmless.
Strzygomir:
"Ahhh… Mr. Mayor.
I have something delightful for you."
Alexander's jaw clicked. He didn't like surprises—unless he was the one dealing them.
Alexander:
"What?"
The voice sharpened, a serpent coiling around a whisper.
Strzygomir:
"The First Disciple wishes to meet you.
In person.
Bring the Regalia."
A tremor—quick, hungry—ran through Alexander's spine. His expression darkened into something dangerously close to joy.
Alexander (breathless, triumphant):
"Finally… the moment I've waited for."
He turned his gaze outward again. Flames rose from the east; stone trembled; the Tree Giant's bellow rolled like thunder.
Chaos—wrapped like a cloak over Pskov.
His vengeance—visible, visceral.
But beneath victory's shadow, a question gnawed at him.
Alexander (muttering):
"And Pskov's Regalia?
What of it?"
Strzygomir's laughter returned—soft, deranged.
Strzygomir:
"The First Disciple is already pleased.
The city is broken.
Leave it as is.
Another Disciple will… tidy up after you."
The call cut abruptly, the echo of laughter staining the silence.
The Zhivava in the office stirred—like dust caught in a draft.
Space warped at the center of the room—folding inward, cracking outward. A tear opened, rippling like liquid glass—just wide enough for a man to walk through.
Alexander regarded it with the detachment of someone walking across a threshold he always knew would open.
He spared one last look at the battlefield.
At the desperate mortals fighting their monstrous fate.
At Pskov's broken spirit refusing to die.
A faint click of his tongue.
Alexander (disappointed, amused):
"I wanted to savor this longer.
But duty calls in higher halls."
He stepped forward.
Alexander (whispering as the rift swallowed him):
"Goodbye, Pskov.
And goodbye, little heroes."
And then he was gone—
vanishing through the fracture in space,
leaving behind the reek of ambition,
the stain of betrayal,
and a city abandoned to its own struggle.
The tyrant exited the stage—
not defeated,
only moving to another theater.
Eastern Pskov
The assault against the Tree Giant intensified, but the creature refused to topple.
Every strike, every flame, every blade seemed only to awaken more stubborn hatred within its twisted form.
Its eyes — hollow pits moments ago — began to glow with a sickly green hunger, pulsing like veins filling with stolen life.
It wasn't merely defending itself.
It was feeding, drawing out the Zhivava that belonged to Avi.
The frost crawling across its chest — faint at first — began hardening into pale plates of ice.
That ice wasn't the giant's doing.
It was Avi fighting back, even while buried alive.
The Tree Giant bellowed, a deranged sound halfway between fury and fear, and hammered its heel into the torn earth.
The tremor that followed ripped across the district like a dying heartbeat.
Shattered walls caved, dust billowed like dark smoke, splinters and shattered tiles rained through the air.
Then came the real danger — a ring of roots bursting outward, as though the ground itself was trying to swallow the world.
Simargl reacted first.
His eyes burned molten gold, and with a roar that shook the rafters of heaven, divine flame erupted from his jaws.
The inferno rolled outward in sweeping waves, incinerating the advancing tendrils — but even the Guardian's fire met resistance.
The corruption pushed back, hissing like something alive.
Andry stepped forward, hesitation meeting resolve.
Before Alkonost's blessing, his ash-based Zhivava had always been clumsy — too wild, too emotional.
Now, the ash moved with intention, serpentine but elegant, as though guided by unseen music.
It flowed across the battlefield like a river of smoke, weaving through cracks in the roots, slipping inside them rather than over them.
The vines screamed.
They withered — collapsing inward as if hollowed from the soul rather than scorched from the surface.
The ash behaved not like destruction, but decay — gentle, quiet, absolutely terrifying.
Yudhir caught the shift immediately.
His eyes sharpened — not just as a warrior but as a strategist who never stopped calculating.
He hovered mid-air, wind coiling around him like playful spirits, shredding chunks of flying rubble before they could strike the refugees behind them.
For someone with a mischievous tongue, he looked unusually focused — almost professor-like — mentally noting every reaction the giant showed to Andry's ash, even while carving debris apart.
"Irritated," he murmured to himself, "good."
Below, Varun and Rusalka were their usual contradictions — chaotic teamwork wrapped in banter and quiet trust.
Varun, grin wide even in ruin, unleashed spiraling spears of pressured water — elegant but brutal — drilling into the giant's left leg.
Rusalka's expression, on the other hand, had hardened into the cool disgust of someone who saw corruption and took it personally.
Her seaweed blade unfurled and stretched, twisting like ivy, slicing across the giant's right leg in measured strokes.
But the monster refused to collapse.
Varun's water — normally cleansing, life-giving — was sucked into the wood, absorbed greedily like nourishment.
Rusalka's surgical strikes sealed almost as quickly as they landed, the regeneration obscene in its eagerness.
She hissed under her breath, not frustrated — insulted.
"Don't heal from me," she muttered like a threat.
Meanwhile, deep within the creature — beneath bark, blood and stolen souls — something shifted.
The frost around its heart thickened, sharpening, creeping through arteries of corrupted roots.
Avi wasn't simply resisting.
He was evolving.
The giant spasmed, and for the first time since the battle began, its movements faltered — not from external damage, but from fear of what was happening inside it.
Snow-like dust seeped from cracks in the bark.
Steam curled upward.
The air tasted sharp, metallic — as though winter itself was inhaling.
Yudhir felt it first.
His wind stuttered for a heartbeat.
A subtle smile tugged the corner of his mouth.
"Oh," he whispered, almost with admiration, "he's waking up."
Even Simargl paused — flames dimming, eyes narrowing — like a parent recognizing a child's first true roar.
The battlefield did not go silent.
It held its breath.