The forest held on until the very end. Its trunks stood like soldiers on a bastion, blackened and battered, but stubborn. The branches intertwined so densely that it seemed—these were not trees, but a wall trying to hold back the pressure of an invisible enemy. Every step deeper made the space tighter, as if they were walking through a barrier that did not want to let them go.
But the barrier weakened. At first, the branches still clung to their shoulders like hands trying to hold on. Then they grew sparse, broke, crumbled to the ground like wounded warriors who could no longer hold their weapons. Further on, only solitary trunks remained—leaning, cracked, like old sentinels who had long lost their strength but still stood at the edge.
The air between the trees was heavy, saturated with the smell of rot and old smoke. The wind sounded different here—it did not bring cold, but a dull echo, like distant drumbeats. It was the sound of a defense holding out to the last.
And then the barrier tore. The forest ended so abruptly that it was like a rip in the fabric of the world. Beyond it, there was nothing alive—only the Northern Waste, endless and silent, yet filled with power.
It seemed the forest itself had been the last shield holding back the Waste from invading the world, and now it had torn away so sharply, as if ripped from the ground: just a moment ago, branches clung to shoulders, trunks stood like the last sentinels, and now—only emptiness. The heroes, taking a step forward, found themselves at the edge where the shield ended, and ahead opened an arena where there was no more protection, only trial, and the barrier vanished, leaving them face to face with what it had restrained.
Before them, it unfolded—the Northern Waste.
It had no form, no boundaries. It was a white sea stretching to the horizon, yet at the same time seemed bottomless. Ice cracked in the depths, emitting a blue glow that pierced through the earth, as if the heart of the world beat beneath their feet. The surface was smooth yet warped—each step felt alternately light and unbearably heavy, as if the Waste itself decided whether to allow them to move forward.
The sky above them was alive. It changed colors every moment: black, white, scattered with green and red flashes, like an endless polar night. And each time the light shifted, the heroes felt their thoughts sway—from hope to despair, from resolve to fear.
The wind here was not just cold. It carried voices—not words, but sensations. Each gust was like a foreign breath on the back of the neck, a cry echoing nearby, yet no one was there. These were the echoes of those lost in the Waste, and now their souls swirled with the snow.
Myroslava stepped to the edge and stopped. Her shoulders trembled, her eyes scanned the endless expanse but found no support anywhere. She had never been known for bravery, and now the Waste revealed true horror to her. This was a place where nothing familiar existed, where even the air felt alien. Her heart beat so fast that each thump echoed in her head, and she felt—one more step, and fear might break her.
Yaroslava followed behind Olekir. She had always supported him, always believed in his strength, but now looked at his back with doubt. He had already stepped into the domain of the Waste, and every movement seemed a challenge to the very earth. In her eyes was fear—not just of the Waste, but of following him into a place where even death might seem merciful. She was not sure if this was a good idea, but it was too late to turn back.
Myrolana stood nearby, her face pale but calm. She too was afraid, but her fear was different—not panicked, but quiet, understanding. She knew the Waste was what it was, and that they could not change it. She had already accepted that their path would be long and hard, and that each day here would be a trial. Her eyes looked forward without hope, but without protest—she accepted the Waste as it was.
And Olekir… he was entirely different. His steps were quick, almost leaping, as if he could not contain himself. His eyes shone with excitement, and he breathed the thick air of the Waste as if it were a gift he had waited for all his life. This place was his dream, his goal, his challenge. He wanted to come here, to conquer the Waste, and now that it had opened before him, he felt not like a victim, but a victor.
They stepped into the Waste—and the world tore away. The forest remained behind, like a shield that had held out to the last, and now it was gone. Ahead unfolded infinity, and it had no boundaries, no form, no mercy. It was a white sea stretching to the horizon, yet at the same time seemed bottomless, as if each step fell into an abyss that could not be measured.
Every forward movement was a feat. The ground cracked underfoot, emitting a blue glow from the depths, and this glow beat against them, as if the heart of the world refused to accept outsiders. The surface was smooth yet warped, and each step felt alternately light and unbearably heavy, as if the Waste itself decided whether to allow them to move forward. The air was thick, heavy, and each breath made them choke on the excess of power that penetrated within. The cold crept into their bones, squeezed them, trying to break, dissolve, erase.
The sky above them was alive. It changed colors every moment: black, white, scattered with green and red flashes, and each change was a blow that tested their will. Time stretched, seconds shattered, and even the shortest movement felt like climbing a mountain with no summit. The wind carried echoes of those already lost here, and each gust was like a foreign cry echoing nearby, yet no one was there.
They walked as one. Not people, not separate souls—only one force fighting against the Waste. And the Waste watched them, silent and majestic, seeking to crush, dissolve, erase. But each step was a challenge, each breath a victory, and each moment proof that they still held on.
Their gait became a rhythm, their breathing a hymn, their silence a challenge. The Waste raised storms to knock them off course, tore the earth to make them stop, cast the shadow of the heavens to shake their faith. But they walked, and each step was like a blow against the gates of eternity.
Thus a legend was born: of those who did not break before the cold, who did not get lost in the voices of the wind, who did not submit to infinity. The Waste sought to erase them, but it was in its very heart that they began to write a new history—a history of conquest, a history of struggle, a history of will that knows no bounds.
And each step echoed in the depths of the Waste, like blows against the gates of a world that did not want to be conquered. But they walked, and their gait became a song born here, among storms and silence, among cold and glow. A song the earth would remember, a song the wind would repeat, a song the sky would carry.
And this song was not about victory or defeat—it was about the movement itself, the challenge itself, the will itself that did not submit. The Waste sought to swallow them, but each step was testimony that even in boundlessness, resistance could be born. And this resistance became a legend that grew with their stride, a legend that could no longer be erased.
So they walked—a single force against infinity, a single will against silence, a single song against oblivion. And the Waste listened to them, and the Waste responded, but they did not stop. Each moment of their journey was a new line in the chronicle, written not with ink but with steps, not with words but with breaths, not with memory but with existence itself.
They fell into the snow not as victors, but as those forced to stop. The first halt in the Waste was not rest, but surrender to their own bodies. Each of them felt that their legs no longer obeyed, that the cold had penetrated so deep that pain could no longer be distinguished from existence itself. They huddled together, buried themselves in ice and snow, as if trying to hide from the very Waste that pressed on them from all sides.
Breath came out heavy, ragged, as if each inhale had to be torn from someone else's chest. The air was thick, it did not let them breathe, and each gulp felt like poison that made them choke on the excess of power. The wind tore at their faces, blew snow into their eyes, and even in this huddle they felt defenseless, like children before the elements.
They looked back into the distance, and through the haze the blurred silhouette of the forest was still visible. There, among the black trunks, shadows flitted—swift, ghostly, like memories. They moved between the trees, but none dared step into the Waste. It seemed even the spirits of the past feared this space, and their cries remained beyond the boundary, not crossing into the infinity. It was a reminder: even those no longer alive did not dare come here.
And then understanding washed over them. They had barely moved from the start. The forest was still close, yet the path already seemed endless. If each step demanded such a price, how much more would they have to pay? Realizing this was heavier than the cold, heavier than the fatigue. This was not a journey of a day or a week—it was a struggle that would last without end.
Their bodies trembled, their hands disobeyed, their eyes were empty and tired. They sat silently, hunched, pressing against each other so as not to scatter under the pressure of the Waste. In each glowed fear: that strength would not be enough, that the Waste would win, that they would become like those shadows flitting through the forest.
But amid this silence was one spark. Olekir. His shoulders still held straight, his eyes shone, and even in this cold he smiled. For him, this was not suffering, but the fulfillment of a dream. He breathed the heavy air of the Waste as if it were wine, and looked forward, to where there was nothing but boundlessness. His joy cut through the silence like flame in darkness, and this spark did not fade even when the others had nearly gone out.
The Waste watched them. It saw their fatigue, their fear, their desire to hide. It felt their weakness and pressed harder to break them. But they sat, huddled together, and even in this powerlessness there was something majestic: they still held on. Their presence was a challenge, even if they could not move further.
And then they understood: this was only the beginning. They had not yet moved far from the forest, had not traveled even a tiny part of the path. Ahead would be the same—cold, silence, infinity. And each halt would be the same: exhaustion, fear, despair. But they were already here, and the Waste had already accepted them.
And Olekir laughed. His laugh was quiet, but genuine. He looked forward and saw not infinity, but a dream. For him, each step was a victory, each halt proof that they were moving forward. He did not see fear, he saw the path. And this joy was his strength, a strength that could lift them up again.