Olekyr walked somewhat exhausted, while a formation moved around him. It was no longer a line, but rather a wedge pushing through an almost endless enemy army. They had no flesh, instead forming from the snow swirling around, and this was the only thing that allowed them to see the enemy, not just swinging blindly. These formless creatures, like shadows torn from the depths of the blizzard, were warriors and beings from past eras, so ancient that even the most ancient chroniclers could not find mention of them in equally ancient texts. Only the Lord of the Sky, the one who eternally watches, could know of their origin.
"Elykoriie. Do you know what this is?" Olekyr asked irritably, fending off another attack on himself.
"They are souls. Souls dragged into the void by streams of power," He felt something akin to a tremor in her voice for the first time and looked up in surprise.
"And I take it they're against us going forward?" Olekyr stepped back when he noticed their progress had slowed somewhat and the formation had diminished.
"Of course. Because you can influence the world, unlike them. If you were to wander the void forever, they would never have appeared. But you dare to return. Return to where they can never go again."
"And how do you know that?"
"Because they are screaming about it."
"What?" Olekyr stopped, and even his puppets froze for a moment.
"What?"
"Screaming?"
"Of course, can't you hear? Their scream is tearing through the air; I can barely make out what you're saying."
"But I don't hear anything except the howling of the blizzard," Olekyr clenched his fists, and his puppets decisively rushed back into battle.
Elykoriia and Olekyr looked at each other in confusion. Several puppets, repaired by Yaroslava, passed by them to fill new gaps in the ranks and pull back the damaged ones. The souls, faceless and formless, continued to pour in endless streams.
"Couldn't you somehow calm them? If you can hear them."
"No chance. Their resentment is so strong they simply won't listen to me, and those who might listen aren't bothering us anyway."
Olekyr clicked his tongue somewhat irritably and turned away, while Elykoriia hurried after him, glancing cautiously back. The blizzard intensified, and the cold wind pierced to the bone, making every movement heavier.
He climbed onto a makeshift cart where Yaroslava was already sitting, intently fixing puppets. Her hands trembled from exhaustion, and her strained smile looked more frightening to him than the empty faces of the puppets scattered around. She herself was broken, like one of those puppets she was trying to revive, and this broken devotion cut him deeper than any blade. Her presence was a painful reminder: her feelings did not belong to her.
"Go away. Don't get in the way," his voice sounded cold and merciless, like a blade.
Yaroslava flinched as if struck. She hastily retreated, and a spark still glowed in her eyes, but now it was weak, subdued—like the light of a candle about to go out.
"You could have been gentler with her," Myrolana said quietly, sitting down next to him, back to back. Her gaze slid toward Yaroslava, filled with pity and compassion but without judgment.
"I know," Olekyr replied without taking his eyes off his work. His hands moved quickly, almost mechanically, but his voice held weariness and hidden shame.
"Then…"
"There's no time for that. Right now we need to get out of the void, and she, as you can see, doesn't want to let us go."
His fingers didn't stop for a moment. Every restored puppet was a way for him to escape his own thoughts. He fixed them with ruthless precision, as if trying to compensate for the chaos in the hearts of those nearby. When most had revived, he finally allowed himself a short pause. His body felt heavy, but his mind remained alert: the fight continued.
Myrolana slowly stood up. Her gaze was filled with tenderness and determination—not that fiery passion that once burned in her, but the calm strength of a person who had already accepted the truth and learned to live with it. She walked around Olekyr and sat on his lap. He froze for a moment, but before he could pull away, she kissed him gently and then softly but firmly pressed him to the floor, as if inviting him to the honesty he had long avoided.
"And what about you? How do you feel?" Olekyr asked quietly. His voice held unexpected concern mixed with weariness and fear of losing himself.
"Do you really worry about me?" Myrolana smiled barely perceptibly but firmly. "Don't bother. I'm no weaker than them. And you know it."
She watched him, his tired indifferent face. But it seemed to ignite even more excitement in her.
"Do you really think you can push me away with your attitude? Thought I wouldn't notice your pain?" her voice was quiet but held certainty. "You are in me. Your soul is already woven into mine."
She carefully ran her fingertips over his face, as if trying to feel whether he was still alive or had already become one of those soulless puppets he so meticulously fixed. Her touch was gentle yet inevitable—a quiet call to accept the truth he tried to deny. Olekyr clenched his teeth, trying to remain calm, but a storm of emotions raged in his eyes.
"Myrolana…" his voice broke.
"Don't run from me anymore," she leaned even closer, her lips touching his ear. "You have to take responsibility. For what I've become."
Her kiss was short, playful, but held more than any words. Olekyr didn't pull away. Myrolana lowered herself onto him slowly, pressing her knees against the planks; her palms lay on his chest—firmly, as if checking if there was still resistance. She looked into his eyes without hurry, without words, only with that calm certainty that needed no explanation.
Her fingers slid over his collarbones. The touch was precise, without unnecessary caresses—she took what she wanted. Her lips touched his neck—briefly, like a mark that wouldn't erase. Olekyr squeezed her thighs: first tensely, then harder, as if seeking a point of support in this union. When their bodies joined, she exhaled quietly, almost soundlessly—only a barely audible "you" between breaths, a statement, not a declaration.
She moved measuredly, controlled; her face remained calm even at the peak—only her lips curved slightly in a smile, not for him but for herself. Olekyr didn't close his eyes—he watched how she held herself together, how she didn't lose herself in passion. When the rhythm quickened, he held her by the waist, his fingers digging into her skin—not from passion but from the need to feel reality.
When it was over, she didn't pull away. She remained sitting, heavy and warm, her forehead on his shoulder. The silence was thick, weary, like after a long road without end. She said nothing. Only ran her fingertips over his temple—once, slowly. Olekyr responded in kind: his palm lay on her back, lingered for a moment as if signing a silent agreement. They both knew: this was not the end.
Olekyr didn't notice how for the first time in many days he fell into a deep sleep, enveloped in the gentle warmth of the girl breathing quietly beside him. This moment of peace, like an oasis amidst a storm, allowed him to momentarily forget about the endless void and the weight of the battle still ahead. His thoughts slowly dissolved, and his heart, though weary, felt a quiet hope.
Of course, the battle beyond the cart did not stop but only intensified, becoming ever more furious and merciless. The cold wind pierced to the bone, and the snow swirling in the air seemed to come alive, heightening the sense of hopelessness. Yet despite Olekyr's fears and exhaustion, his puppets began to fight with new unprecedented efficiency, as if an invisible general had appeared over the battlefield directly commanding every fighter.
The formation moved slowly, relentlessly, as if every step was part of a long-established order. Olekyr didn't know when he would finally reach his goal but had no doubt he would reach it. Myrolana stayed close—silent, cold, occasionally disappearing to bring Yaroslava and Myroslav into line. All she managed to achieve was to make them support the puppet formation with charms, easing the pressure of the storm. The blizzard gradually weakened as if exhausted by their persistence, but it was only an illusion.
The moment they felt that soon—light would break through the dark clouds, the storm howled with new frantic strength. Tens of thousands of formless creatures stood before the formation—the last obstacle, the last boundary. Olekyr smiled thinly, coldly. His army stopped. The puppets struck their spears against their shields—a short sharp sound that swept through the void like a challenge.
The formless ones responded. An endless wave crashed from all sides; the formation wavered; progress halted. Olekyr strained all his will trying to push the formation at least a few steps further. His gaze repeatedly slid behind the enemy's backs—and then his smile widened.
From the rear, like a hammer striking hot iron, his puppets struck—those that had been waiting ahead. They crushed the formless ranks from behind tearing their formation like dry cloth. The blizzard feeling this injustice howled one last time—plaintively wrenchingly—and died out melting away just as it had appeared.
The journey to the boundary turned out to be calm—almost mundane. The void retreated; the snow settled evenly; the sky became transparent and indifferent. Olekyr fixed the puppets methodically without hurry. It was the only thing he could control.
The connection with Yaroslava and Myroslav was not restored. Yaroslava kept her distance—always at the edge of sight but busy and inaccessible. When he tried to speak she nodded pursed her lips and looked away. Her eyes were empty as if someone had turned off the light inside.
Myroslav remained nearby—touching his shoulder briefly with a familiar gesture. But these touches no longer held warmth. When he tried to cross the boundary the other didn't pull away but didn't respond either. Only waited for him to step back himself.
He tried—in the evenings quietly without pressure. He spoke about beginnings about how their care once kept him alive. Yaroslava listened silently. Myroslav answered politely but the words were dead. Myrolana watched from the side and comforted him when they were alone. She spoke tried to explain what they felt that someday everything could be restored.
But soon these thoughts were driven from Olekyr's head. They were approaching the boundary and he felt it: felt the anger and fury of the Lord of the North who awaited the duel promised by him.