It all began several generations before the Age of Lords finally fell. Now they laugh at us for believing in its eternity, for our conviction that their might was unshakeable as mountains. But this laughter is merely noise with which the living mask their fear of what happened too swiftly and too mercilessly for everything that seemed monumental. I could unravel those events across hundreds of pages, but not today. Today it's about him.
In those years was born he whom we've grown accustomed to calling our lord. Then he was still a lad—thin, often sickly, with pale skin that almost glowed in the twilight. Yet his stubbornness outweighed any bodily weakness. Each morning, before the guards changed shifts, he would run out to the outer wall and race along it until his lungs burned. Atop one of the towers, where the wind was sharpest, he would stop and take up his sword. There, away from eyes and tongues, he trained under the first rays whilst the fortress still slept. But hiding forever wasn't possible. As soon as the changing bell rang, he would dash down the stairs, carry his sword to the barracks, and set about his duties as a squire: cleaning armour, sharpening blades, oiling leather, checking straps. This routine was merciless, but he didn't complain—only pressed his lips together and did everything faster than the others.
His name then was Olekir. He was uncommonly clever—his mind worked quietly but precisely. However, on the Great Northern March this mattered less than the ability to hold a spear or endure the cold. Myroslava, our lord's mother, was one of those beauties whom the North remembers long—quiet, with eyes that always seemed weary. She made every effort to give her only son at least a crumb of warmth in the stone world of the fortress. But her position was barely higher than that of a head housekeeper—and this was felt in the guards' glances, in the servants' whispers. She didn't complain: she sewed by tallow light, hid her tears, thinking no one could see.
His father, Voivode Boryvitir, fulfilled his paternal duty as a man of the March understood it: he took his sons hunting beyond the walls, showed them tracks in the snow, taught them to hold spear and bow. But beyond that he belonged to the fortress—councils, reports, maps, letters. The sons grew up more on their own than under his gaze. The elder ones—Ratybor and Mstyslav—from the main wife grew up loud and broad-shouldered. They trained in the inner courtyard before everyone and together with others, and their laughter rolled along the walls as if the fortress already belonged to them. After such training sessions, Olekir also tended to their equipment as the weakest.
Their mother, the chief sorceress Velymyra, oversaw order in the fortress. Without her word, no important decision was made. Her power and her forged skills had been proven in numerous clashes with wild northern creatures. She had also borne the voivode a daughter—Yaroslava, who for some reason avoided her mother's gaze. Instead of sitting in her chambers amongst books and scrolls, she often disappeared into the corridors and came to Myroslava in the evenings. When Olekir was ill, she would bring him warm broth or simply sit beside him, holding his hand until the fever broke. Velymyra considered this nothing more than a childish fancy that would pass on its own, and paid no attention, having matters more important than a girl's whims.
Until his coming of age, Olekir still believed he could prove himself. Training under his brothers' influence became not merely exhausting—it was merciless. His pain and fatigue, which he carefully hid behind a smile, everyone could see, but no one dared intervene. Only when it went too far would the warriors or sorceresses step in, unable to simply watch any longer, and carry him to the infirmary. It was then that Boryvitir would intervene, weary, stern, but incredibly lenient towards the main culprits, Mstyslav and Ratybor.
They hated him and, at the first opportunity, using their influence, made his life unbearable. Mstyslav was the chief cause of Olekir's injuries. At every chance he sought to strike or trip him. During runs he would ruthlessly shove him out of formation, and during sparring he held nothing back, demonstrating all his strength and sword skill. Or he would plant stolen sweets from the kitchen on him, or pilfer herbs from the Undercroft. Ratybor was different: he didn't resort to direct violence, but rather isolated everyone from Olekir—with a cold look or quiet growl. And he became incredibly irritated when someone intervened, especially when Yaroslava did so. For him, her behaviour was unacceptable, incomprehensible, and impermissible.
Yet justice did come. When the lads became too arrogant, Velymyra would always intervene, especially when Yaroslava asked her to. In such moments her presence could make one feel such cold that fierce frosts seemed like warm wind. Usually this was enough to prevent them from daring to do anything for several weeks, which, naturally, only intensified their hatred. And though for her Olekir was no greater an existence than a beetle that could die at any moment, she gradually began to respect his desire to live. Myroslava always gave thanks, bowing low, to which Velymyra barely reacted, simply passing by.
Yet it was she who, at her daughter's next request or from her own curiosity, using her influence, saved Olekir from the fate of a "ward" of the Magic Tower, forcing him to join the Northern Company, which dealt with reconnaissance and expeditions into the deepest and most dangerous lands. Whether he died or survived didn't concern her. He passed several trials, but the outcome had been decided long before.
The company's training was hard, but, strangely enough, even gentler than training in the fortress, and within just a few weeks they were gathered for their first expedition. They set out immediately after the reconnaissance units. It was hard for Olekir to hide his awe when he saw how the warriors on silver wolves rode out to battle the creatures of the north. Their target was a distant peak on a mountain, where they were to establish an observation post. And though this expedition was the most dangerous, Olekir managed to prove his worth in it, for which he was honourably transferred to the reconnaissance unit.
There, during one of the missions, fleeing from wraiths, he heard howling and, having no better option, headed towards the sound, hoping to encounter one of the senior company members. To his surprise and disappointment, he came upon a young silver she-wolf standing triumphantly over the bodies of northern creatures. Believing he had fallen into a trap, knowing that silver wolves valued only strength, which he then lacked, Olekir, unwilling to accept death, threw himself at her. She accordingly threw herself at him, but direct combat was never in his plans. He shamefully rolled beneath her, surprising both her and his pursuers, forcing them to collide. Thus began a chaotic brawl in which Olekir used everything that came to hand—from stones to branches—to prevail. As a result, the wraiths were dead, and both the she-wolf and Olekir were wounded. In a final effort they tried to lunge at each other, but powerless, they collapsed into the snow, unable to deliver the final blow.
When they were able to more or less recover, a blizzard began. And, understanding they had no other choice, they were forced to make peace and help each other. Olekir tended her wounds, and she warmed him with her own heat. That's how they were found in a small cave, entwined together. And when the time came to part, she followed him, helping him in subsequent adventures.
Once Olekir requested an assignment. He wanted to visit his native home—no, his mother's grave in the fortress of the March, but couldn't abandon his service. The leadership accommodated him and assigned a simple task: deliver routine reports to the voivode. Olekir hesitated, but it was the she-wolf who made him go. Passing through the forests, he visited the cemetery where they scattered the ashes of those who died in the fortress and recorded their names. But there he didn't find his mother's name. He checked several times, finding the names of the old instructor who died right after her, and the herbalist who died earlier.
Confused, he went to the fortress and responded somewhat sluggishly to the gatekeeper. When he entered, he saw changes he had only read about, and familiar faces he thought he'd forgotten. He was quickly led to the voivode, who was now Ratybor, with Mstyslav as his assistant. And though Olekir desired revenge, he restrained himself, simply smiling at their remarks, and attended the festivities taking place in the fortress. There he hoped to find Yaroslava, to ask about his mother's grave, barely noticing who was betrothing whom there. However, there he met her—the sorceress who captured his entire field of vision and made his mind foolish. He paid no attention to the ribbon adorning her hair or the amulet decorating her neck. And when evening quieted, they disappeared together; he was surprised by her childish naivety and shyness, which vanished somewhere in the middle of the night.
But fate played a cruel joke on Olekir. In the morning, when he awoke to a servant's trembling voice, he learned who exactly that enchanting stranger was and whom he had so wanted to find. He wanted to sink into the earth, to rage, but finally, subdued, he simply sat on her bed and gently stroked her hair. And pulled away when she awoke and tried to kiss him. Whilst she looked at him in surprise, he couldn't utter a word, but finally squeezed out something clumsy.
"Hello, Yaroslavna. I'm... Olekir."
It's hard to describe her horror and the madness that came instead. Naturally, this attracted unwanted attention, and the girl tried to disappear, to flee from him. It took him some time to calm her and finally hear her constant muttering.
"Forgive me, forgive me..."
Olekir couldn't understand what exactly she was apologising for, until Myroslava's name slipped through her sobs. Here he made her calm down and tell the truth he didn't want to know but had to hear. With each of her words his world crumbled. His mind blazed and raged. Somewhere in the middle of her tale he was already dressed and held his sword at the ready, continuing to listen.
When she had nearly finished, there came a knock at the door. And a voice rang out—rough, mocking, and angry. Here Olekir heard no more words. The sword pierced the door, and the force that flowed along the blade like a turbulent stream tore them to splinters. There stood Mstyslav, still alive, but only for a moment. Fury took the place of consciousness; it screamed that everyone here was guilty, and it didn't matter who it was. Thus began the slaughter: blood flowed in rivers. Some he recognised only when his sword had already taken their lives. Olekir knew from Yaroslava's words that they had tried, but for his mind now this was nothing more than a pitiful excuse. Finally he stood before the doors to the dining hall, amidst bodies; behind them could be heard weeping and children's cries. And when his sword rose towards the doors, he was stopped by magic. Yaroslava—she had finally caught up with him in a shift over her bare body, tear-stained, standing there, forming a spell. And the very next moment her lips spoke the final words, and her eyes closed forever.
"No more."
Olekir stopped that very instant and, as if doused with cold water, burst into tears. Holding her close, he tried to make her heart beat, but it was in vain. When time passed and he realised what he had done, he began to run—to run as far away as possible. The she-wolf followed him, listening to him but offering no support, even though she understood. Together they vanished like mist. Yet this was only the beginning. Velymyra and Boryvitr, upon hearing the news, could not hide their fury, nor could the country that gladly rallied behind them. And so, the hunt began.
Olekir fled for years and weeks, often ready to simply give up and die, but he wanted to live and kept on fighting. By helping people, he felt a little better, and people followed him. Eventually, his actions led people to stop believing the truth and start making excuses for him. Thus, he found himself at the head of an army, with tens of thousands standing by him, fighting for justice. They wanted to change the world and arrived at the final point where everything was to be decided. And the world was meant to become a better place when a new Lord took his throne among the others.
That was how it was supposed to be: so it had been calculated by the powerful spells of the Queen of the North with the support of the Lord of the Heavens, but one mistake, one oversight allowed a powerful soul to grasp the cruel truth and break free.