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VUUU... VUUU...
Medved's great trumpet cried out, shattering the frozen silence of morning and echoing across the valley. Its sound rolled over the snow-covered slopes, shaking the white stillness even miles away.
That call was rare.
For two years, the southern defenses had held — not through glory, but through survival. A few fewer bodies sent back each week. No one dared dream of victory, but even a brief pause would have felt like grace.
Now, the trumpet's voice carried no peace. It brought officers — grim figures from the South, East, and West. Signs that something larger was coming.
Nikolai lifted his head, still groggy from the night before. The familiar aches pulsed beneath the cold. His breath came out in a thin whisper:
"So... the day has finally come."
Even with his scars hidden beneath his coat, his strange recovery was obvious — a body that seemed to rebuild itself each night, mocking pain's persistence. To others, it looked like a miracle. To him, it was only the dull routine of someone who had no other choice.
But none of that mattered.
Being the man who always stood back up didn't make him a fighter. It only prolonged the show.
He dressed quietly.
His first set of clothes lay soaking in a pail, the blood slowly dissolving — or pretending to.
The second, threadbare but dry, would have to serve for the day. The luxury of a wardrobe was for people who could afford second chances.
He didn't bother tidying the room, nor did he throw out the sour soup from last night. But he made sure to eat the last of the bread Vadin had brought, stuffing it all into his mouth at once.
While chewing, he thought —
If I'm going to die, I want to die with a full belly.
He left without looking back. The door swung wide open, the wind rushing in as though claiming what remained. But after a few steps, he paused and turned.
The house stood there, lifeless — a tomb for memories that once breathed laughter.
"You're not leaving the door open again, are you?"
The rasping voice came from behind, thick with phlegm and fatigue.
Nikolai recognized it instantly.
"Miss Vadin... good morning. I think maybe it's better—"
The words died in his throat.
Then something bit his leg. Not hard, but enough to snap him back.
He looked down to find the culprit — a black bear cub, barely half a meter tall, eyes bright, movements restless, a small headband making her look absurdly endearing.
"Olga! Stop that right now."
Vadin hurried forward, a cloth bag on her shoulder and a sling at her chest, where the curious eyes of a baby peeked out.
"Sorry, Nikolai... she gets like this sometimes."
"Don't worry."
He knelt and ran a hand over the cub's head. She gave a low, rumbling sound — half growl, half purr.
"If I don't see you again... goodbye, Olga."
The bear grumbled but didn't resist the touch, leaning briefly into his hand.
Nikolai looked up.
"She gets more beautiful every day, Mrs. Vadin... I'll be going."
Her gaze darkened, but her voice stayed firm — a quiet vow in the morning air.
"See you soon."
Nikolai smiled faintly — surprised, almost moved — but said nothing.
Too many promises had already been buried under those walls for hope to mean anything anymore.
Nikolai had no intention of staying to watch the officers' arrival. His pace, slower than the others', would only delay him — and that day, he couldn't afford delay.
From the staircase, the sounds reached him: shouts, guttural roars, the pounding of heavy paws that made the stone tremble.
Judging by the noise… three high-quality brown bears. No whites this time. Three kilometers out. That gives me fifteen minutes, maybe less.
At only seventeen winters, he harbored a strange obsession with numbers — an almost sickly fascination that had, over time, become a skill. By sound alone, he could distinguish species, gauge weight and size, and calculate distance. From that, he could infer rank, speed, even the number of individuals.
Anyone who had ever cared enough to observe him closely would have realized something remarkable — he was never wrong.
What to Nikolai was simple logic would, to anyone else, seem like madness.
When he reached his destination, the room was empty. Everyone else had gone — some seeking comfort with family, others gathering on the plain to witness the event.
For Nikolai, there was only solitude.
The silence stretched like a rope about to snap. Anxiety seeped into every breath, heavy as lead.
He let himself collapse into a cold, wooden chair that offered no comfort. The hard surface pressed against his back, a reminder of his own weight — and of how utterly alone he was.
His gaze drifted upward, tracing the cracks on the ceiling, lost between memory and foreboding.
In that moment, he looked less like a boy of seventeen winters and more like a condemned man awaiting the executioner's hand.
"I thought I'd be the first to arrive."
The voice was soft, melodic — a ripple through the stillness.
Nikolai blinked, lowering his eyes. Only then did he notice the girl seated beside him.
"Irina... I'm sorry. I didn't see you come in."
"No problem."
She tried to smile, though her voice wavered.
"I'll take that as a compliment."
For a heartbeat, neither spoke. Irina studied him — the boy of mismatched eyes, his expression carved from frost.
"Aren't you nervous?" she asked quietly.
He looked at her, noticing what she tried to hide — the damp lashes, the reddened nose, the tremor in her breath. She had cried recently. Maybe last night. Maybe this morning.
"Six winters," he said flatly.
She frowned, puzzled.
He continued, his tone almost detached.
"The last time a woman died in Vybor. Women are more likely to become magical vessels for the blues. The blacks favor them too — especially the clever ones. They're rarely rejected."
His voice softened, though not with comfort.
"They're smarter than they let anyone believe."
The words hung between them — clinical, logical, merciless. And yet, Irina felt the weight behind them.
Nikolai had just explained why she would likely live… and why he would not.
More men had died. The bears always chose those who had value.
What could possibly be special about a boy with only one leg?
Irina found herself thinking, almost in shock:
But he seems so calm...
The room, once empty, now filled quickly. Everyone carried the same tension — some hiding it better than others — yet Nikolai remained apart, as if untouched by the air of dread that gripped the hall.
Even Oleg and his gang, usually loud and insolent, now showed a strange restraint. No taunts. No smirks. Not even a glance toward him.
If it had been any other day… it would have been a good one for Nikolai.
"Gentlemen, I apologize for the delay," announced Professor Anton. His voice was steady, though the faint tremor beneath it betrayed his nerves. "I was showing the location to our guests, who will be joining us for the ritual. Allow me to introduce them briefly — they will most likely be your commanding officers from today onward. Please, come in."
The low murmurs ceased at once.
Anton spoke with mechanical precision, each name and title delivered like a line from a memorized liturgy.
And for everyone present, the truth hit hard — there was always someone greater, someone heavier, someone who reminded you how small you really were.
The first to enter was a tall woman.
Nothing in her figure resembled the delicate grace some of the boys had imagined. Every movement was rigid, every line of her face severe. Her cropped hair only sharpened that impression, and her eyes — sharp, pale, and unblinking — held no trace of warmth.
"Marina Sobolev," Anton announced, his tone formal, almost reverent. "Deputy officer to the Southern Armored Commander himself — and one of the few Muromets in our kingdom. Please welcome her."
The applause came, thin and hesitant.
In silence, Nikolai studied her. Among the three guests, she was the only one who had truly seen war. Her record was well known: service among the Ursai armored forces — a front where soldiers met death steel to steel, bone to blade.
No one survived there without blood crusted beneath their nails.
The other two officers — young, still untouched by the rot of experience — looked almost ornamental beside her. Marina carried the weight of battle like a mantle, her very presence flattening the air around her.
She was not beautiful.
She was formidable.
War wasn't a concept to her; it was breath itself.
The fact that she was a Muromets surprised no one. It was almost expected.
They were more than warriors — they were legions condensed into flesh.
Capable of altering the course of a war simply by stepping onto the field.
And that…
Was more terrifying than any enemy.
Even now, in a moment of supposed calm, Marina did not lower her guard. She did not smile. She did not soften. It was as if she lived ready for the earth to split open — and when it did, she would fall fighting.
"Anton, I'll take these children's time," she said.
Her voice cut through the air like iron drawn from its sheath.
It wasn't a request.
"Of course, Miss Sobolev," Anton replied instinctively, stiff with formality. "Be my guest."
Marina stepped into the center of the hall. Her eyes swept the crowd, dissecting them. When she spoke again, her tone carried the weight of command, each syllable landing like a strike.
There was no poetry, no encouragement — only truth.
"Today, many of you will die."
The words hit like hammers.
"Your bodies will be devoured by our allies — so that they may grow stronger."
Silence followed — deliberate, crushing.
"Do not cling to illusions. This is not an auditorium. It is a wake — held in advance."
Her gaze sliced across the rows of faces, sharp as a blade.
"But know this: if you survive — if you pass the trial ahead of you — you will no longer be mere youths in the shadow of the wall. You will be citizens. You will be worthy of respect among your equals."
Marina's voice filled the chamber, steady and unbreakable, her breath echoing against the frozen stone.
"The North does not wait. The dead are piling up. And this... this will be only the first of many trials yet to come — harder ones, crueler ones.
But I promise you this: we will stand beside you through each and every one."
Her cry thundered through the hall.
"We will prevail!"
The room erupted in unison.
"We will prevail!"
The chant rolled through the air, ancient and instinctive — the one prayer still left to the people of the abyss. Even Nikolai, who so often kept silent, felt his lips move with the rest. It was reflex, not faith.
Then Anton's voice returned, breaking the rhythm.
"Please rise for the officers' inspection."
No weapons. No devices. Nothing that could stain the honor of the North during its most sacred tradition.
The officers advanced, row by row — their eyes cold, mechanical, indifferent. Protocol incarnate.
All except Marina Sobolev.
She stopped before each youth, letting her gaze linger — the weight of a soldier's truth pressing into their bones. Some she blessed with courage. Others, with strength. Each word was a mark of rare grace from one who had survived the storm.
The room seemed to breathe fuller, heavier, lifted by the presence of someone who had earned the right to command.
Then she reached him.
The others walked straight past Nikolai.
Sometimes, it was easy to see who would not live to see the end of the night.
The wooden brace creaked against his ankle — too loud in the silence. His mouth went dry. Hatred surged, bitter and familiar, pulsing at the back of his throat.
And then, Marina stopped.
She leaned close — so close he could feel the frost of her breath against his ear — and spoke with the calm cruelty of absolute conviction.
"May the lamb be plentiful for the wolf.
May your death never be remembered.
And when the time comes... die like a man."
A shiver cut through him.
Hatred flooded his chest — burning, twisting, uncontainable. Not because her words were cruel, but because he knew they were honest. Spoken not from malice, but from the certainty of someone who had seen too much to believe in mercy.
The ceremony ended. The crowd began its descent toward Vybor.
Then came the sound — faint at first, dry and uneven, like bones being crushed.
It spread slowly.
No one knew where it came from.
But Nikolai knew.
It was his own jaw.
His teeth were clenched so tightly that his skull ached. The crack of enamel echoed like thunder in his head. A metallic taste filled his mouth — blood — but he didn't stop.
His vision burned red, not from tears but from hatred — hatred so pure it seemed to vibrate through his veins. Every muscle trembled, coiled, alive with something primal.
And in that moment, he ceased to be what they saw.
He was no longer the cripple.
No longer the limping boy.
No longer the beaten dog.
What stood there was an animal.
A fury.
A shadow that made others flinch.
And deep inside, he made his promise — silent, deadly, unyielding.
I will not die.