Olekyr nodded and moved toward the gates—heavy doors sheathed in dark iron that led to the fortress's main hall. The metal was cold, rough, dented from ancient blows, as if it remembered every siege. The guards flanking the entrance—burly, with wind-worn faces and narrow, distrustful eyes—didn't even raise an eyebrow, only exchanged a brief glance. Once, he would have waited with his mother for someone "important" to appear, but not today.
He pressed his palms against the iron, feeling the scars of the metal under his fingers. The hinges groaned like a wounded beast, and the heavy panels began to slowly part. The guards shot him mocking looks, certain a child couldn't handle such weight. But to their surprise, the wooden leaves, reinforced with iron, yielded. Olekyr shoved them again—and they swung wide open, letting him into the light.
The hall that opened before him had never seemed so bright. Torchlight and the central fire pit chased away shadows, exposing every crack in the stone, every claw mark, every dark stain of baked blood on the flagstones. The air mingled scents of smoke, old wood, spices, and metal. It was the history of the fortress's struggle, which he had only ever seen through twilight and flame.
Behind him—Yaroslava and Myroslava, both tense. Yaroslava, with long golden hair falling over her shoulders and blue eyes clear as winter sky, had a beauty that already drew looks and would only grow more dangerous with time. Myroslava—dark-haired, with sharp features and an attentive, almost predatory gaze—stood slightly behind, but her presence was felt like a taut bowstring.
Before him—his father, Boryvitr, tall, broad-shouldered, with silver in his hair and deep wrinkles cutting his face like scars. His calm was heavy as stone, carrying the strength of a man used to winning without shouting. Beside him—brothers with their wives and children, a few servants. Their glances were curious at first but quickly faded, focusing on Yaroslava.
Ratobor, the elder brother, stepped forward with slow, almost predatory confidence. Tall, solid, with a face like carved stone and eyes cold as steel, he let his gaze slide over Yaroslava—first her face, then lower, lingering on her figure. Something more than familial affection flickered in his eyes: the daughter of the First Sorceress could be a decisive card in future voivode elections, once Boryvitr stepped down.
"Yaroslava, my dear. I hoped you would come," his voice was warm, but it carried a note of possession.
"Ah, Ratobor… Yes, I'm glad Olekyr woke up and we could come," she replied, not removing her hand from the boy's shoulder.
Ratobor gave Olekyr a condescending look:
"Look, even the little one found the strength to push the gates… Maybe it's time he carried a sword?" His tone held mockery.
"He opened these gates himself. And you still have to brace yourself to move them every time."
A slender girl in a light dress—one of those often seen near Ratobor at feasts—approached Yaroslava.
"Yaroslava, come, I'll show you the fabric from the south, it's thin as spiderweb…"
"Thank you, but for now I'll stay with Olekyr," she replied softly but firmly.
Another, with a goblet in hand, leaned in as if to block the boy from view. Her glance flickered toward Ratobor, as if seeking approval.
"You must taste this mead, it's sweeter than any words…"
"Maybe later. Right now, I want to be near him," Yaroslava didn't even step aside.
A third, with a barely restrained smile, leaned closer:
"Yaroslava, a messenger brought news that will surprise you… but not here."
"If it's important, you'll tell everyone. I'm not going anywhere," her voice was calm but unyielding.
Ratobor leaned in closer, his words quiet, almost a whisper:
"Be careful, sister… Attach yourself to him—and he'll drag you down."
"Or maybe he'll lift me higher than you can imagine," she replied, looking him straight in the eye.
Olekyr felt each of Yaroslava's refusals as a small victory, but also a challenge. The hall grew quieter, and glances that had once slid past him began to linger.
He looked at the crowd and smiled—not a boy's smile, but a predatory one that only a few noticed. To him, no one here was worth attention. Each of those who prided themselves on their strength was no better than a frog in a well—content with its puddle and certain nothing existed beyond its walls.
Before, he hadn't looked—hadn't noticed. Now he saw: the North, a place feared and avoided, was a treasury of power. It filled the air, flowed with the water, hardened in the stone. But these people saw it as a yoke, dreamed of escaping, and didn't even try to grow. With such a source, after so many years, they had achieved… only this?
Olekyr laughed. Everyone in the room—even Yaroslava and Myroslava—looked at him in surprise until his power surged outward. What the people felt was sheer, wild terror. Boryvitr and the other warriors released their own might, and though they outnumbered him, in quality they couldn't match him.
Olekyr's power began to recede—not because he held it back, but because it was being displaced by another. Heavy, coordinated, battle-tested might of the warriors. It wasn't sharp like his—more like a depth pressing from all sides, forcing lungs to gasp for air.
The warriors froze, bewildered. They had seen confident youths before, those who challenged their elders. They themselves had once been such. But now—for the first time in a long while—they felt they couldn't suppress the one standing before them. And that made them look at him differently, with a caution they didn't want to admit.
Olekyr felt the pressure, but not fear. He knew: he could teach these frogs in the well about the real world, show them that beyond their fortress walls lay other heavens. And perhaps even break their arrogance.
But around his neck was a yoke—not of iron, but of flesh and blood. Myroslava, standing slightly behind, and Yaroslava, holding fast beside him. He knew: Yaroslava could hold her own, her power ran deeper than they guessed. But against seasoned warriors, she wouldn't last long. And that changed everything.
He felt his body remember the motion forward—a lunge, a strike, a breakthrough through any obstacle. Muscles were ready to tense, but now every step came at a cost not only to himself. In his chest, under his ribs, a heavy feeling arose—not fear, but the realization that any mistake could spill another's blood.
The warriors stood in a semicircle, their shadows trembling on the walls from the firelight. The air thickened with silence, mixed with the smell of hot metal and smoke. One of them shifted almost imperceptibly, another gripped a sword hilt, but no one dared take the first step.
Olekyr slowly swept his gaze over their faces—from the old, battle-hardened, to the younger, whose eyes still glowed with self-assurance. He saw something new kindling in those looks—not contempt, but caution. And he understood: now he held their attention as firmly as he had held the gates minutes before.
"Oh, I feel it… yes, this is your strength," his voice was even, but each word carried a hint of mockery. "It presses like an avalanche… only an avalanche tears down mountains, and you—you're throwing a handful of crumbs in my face."
Someone in the front ranks sharply drew breath. Two warriors exchanged angry glances. One of the younger ones flushed as if caught in a lie.
"You probably think yourselves wolves. But I hear the barking of dogs scaring themselves with echoes. You warm yourselves in your own tales like old fur coats and think it's armor."
Several guards gripped their spears so hard their knuckles whitened. One took a step forward, but his neighbor jerked him back by the shoulder.
"Press harder," Olekyr said, taking a half-step forward. "Maybe then you'll feel for a moment what it's like to touch real power."
A dull, heavy sigh rolled through the ranks. Some lowered their eyes, others clenched their jaws to keep from cursing. Ratobor leaned forward slightly, fury and offense in his gaze. Boryvitr stood nearby, and in his eyes was the same—cold agreement with every word and readiness to tear apart at the slightest provocation.
The words fell into the hall like a stone into water, and ripples spread across faces. Some frowned, some looked away, and some—for the first time—looked at him without mockery.
Yaroslava stood beside him, not removing her hand from his shoulder. Myroslava—a little behind, but her gaze was fixed forward, toward the warriors. They were both like knots holding a rope for him: let go, and he would plunge into the abyss, dragging everything important with him.
He took another half-step, and the heavy air between him and the warriors shuddered. Not to attack—but to make them understand: he saw them, felt their strength, but did not yield.
A dull thud echoed, and the heavy hall doors swung open smoothly, without a creak, as if submitting to a will that could not be challenged.
On the threshold stood Velymyra. Her long, light hair, heavy and thick, shimmered in the torchlight not with warm gold like Yaroslava's, but with cold silver, holding a shadow of winter within. Her face—a beauty that did not fade with years, a beauty where maturity had sharpened her features, making them dangerously attractive. Her eyes—deep as a night sea—swept across the hall, and in that gaze was more power than any shout.
Behind her entered three sorcerers—each with their own aura, but their faces were open, bearing the confidence of those accustomed to commanding the elements.
Velymyra's gaze touched the warriors—and the pressure they had tried to crush Olekyr with began to melt. It didn't break, but retreated, displaced by a force that spread like a quiet, inexorable wave. The fire in the pit flared brighter, shadows retreated from the walls, and the air grew clearer, as if a heavy blanket had been lifted.
She quickly assessed everything: Ratobor's tense shoulders, Boryvitr's cold stare, Yaroslava standing beside Olekyr, and the boy himself—calm but ready to surge forward.
Her steps were slow, but each echoed in the chests of those in her path. She stopped before the semicircle of warriors, and her voice, quiet but sharp, cut through the silence:
"Under my protection."
The words fell like a seal, and no one dared to break them.