Following Velimyra, Olekir was carried by her Twins. Yaroslava and Myroslava were almost running behind, trying to keep up. The entrance to the Under-Vault was hidden behind an inconspicuous door in the inner courtyard—so ordinary that it vanished from sight in the darkness. The stairs descended deep, spiraling into the stone. The air grew heavier, colder, saturated with the scent of old stone, dust, and something sharp, almost metallic.
"We are really going in here..." Myroslava whispered anxiously and looked at Yaroslava, who was walking beside her, her eyes wandering between Velimyra and Olekir without any understanding of what was about to happen.
The hall of the Under-Vault opened before them, unexpectedly vast. Massive columns supported a high vault, illuminated by only a single dimmed sphere of light. The walls and floor pulsed faintly with runes that converged toward the center like a whirlpool.
Velimyra entered sharply, like a gust of icy wind, to the very center. The Twins silently laid Olekir at her feet. The boy slept peacefully on the cold stone, his skin glowing faintly. Even now, unconscious, he seemed like a bear that could wake up and throw itself at an enemy.
"Huh?.."
"Velimyra? What the hell brought her here?"
"Who is this boy?"
"Olekir, the warlord's son."
"That sick one?"
"The very same."
"But Yaroslava was rushing to him like a madwoman. Did she fail or something?"
"Quiet, you fool..."
Those present began to flock to the center out of curiosity. The doors of the cells opened and closed one after another. Exhausted warriors were hastily ushered out of them, still half-asleep and irritated, followed by sorceresses and sorcerers who had quickly thrown robes over their naked bodies. Some hissed with displeasure at their ruined rest. Others were already nervously counting the remnants of their power.
"Today, our fortress faces a scourge sent upon us by the Lord of the Sky, one we so desperately wanted to avoid." My son," Velimyra grimaced slightly, as if the phrase itself were foreign to her, "is currently fighting for his mind. My dear daughter tried to help him. But her strength proved insufficient."
A quiet, almost frightened rustle passed through the hall. Yaroslava gritted her teeth. She felt those gazes. Heavy. Prickly. Yaroslava was one of the most promising sorceresses in the fortress. At her age, she had enough power to equal three mediocre sorcerers, and in control, she was second only to her own mother. A talent destined to rot within these walls. And if even she couldn't handle it... The gazes turned back to Olekir.
"Is it true?"
"No, that can't be..."
"But what if..."
One of the older sorcerers felt discomfort for a long time, staring at Olekir, and then slowly filled his eyes with power. His face instantly turned pale.
"Impossible..."
"What is it?"
"Just look."
After these words, more and more sorcerers began to look more closely. And the longer they looked, the quieter they became. The power in the boy's body was not just great. It flowed like a full-bodied river of flame, hidden beneath a human shell. Some unconsciously took a step closer, filling their bodies with magic. As if preparing for battle. But they retreated almost immediately. Velimyra waited until complete silence reigned in the hall, and then she spoke—calmly, but her voice, amplified by power, echoed off the walls with a heavy reverberation.
"I hope you don't need to be told how dangerous this is," Velimyra continued. "But at the same time... it is an opportunity."
Several sorcerers exchanged nervous glances. One swallowed quietly.
"No..." someone whispered. "She wouldn't..."
"She's insane..."
"But if it's really possible..."
"Shut up!"
Most looked at Velimyra in confusion, not understanding what she was getting at. But a few of the sharpest had already turned pale. Because they understood. They looked at Olekir longer. More greedily. Like people who had been dying of hunger their whole lives—and suddenly saw a set table before them.
"I see some have already guessed," Velimyra said quietly. "The solution to all our problems is right in front of us."
The hall became completely silent. Even breathing stopped. And then Yaroslava took a sharp step forward.
"Mother! What are you saying?! I!.. I won't allow this!"
Her voice cracked. The power around the girl shuddered along with her. A few sorcerers moved away from her, but Velimyra met her gaze with dignity, like a mentor.
"Yaroslava. Enough. You must understand perfectly well that this is the only option to extract the parasite from him and save his life."
"And if it doesn't work?! It could kill him! There must be another way!"
"Another?" Velimyra finally turned her head toward her. "Which one exactly?"
"We could..."
"Yaroslava. I know what you want to say. I thought about it too, but Boryvitr will never allow a ritual of sufficient power to be performed to try and save him."
Velimyra's condescending, almost patronizing tone cut deeper than a scream. Yaroslava took a step back. And only now did she notice the gazes around her. Hungry. Irritated. Angry. Most were already ready to agree to anything.
"Maybe we could..."
"No. We can't." A new voice sounded near the entrance. Calm. Soft. And therefore even more dangerous. "Because, as your mother says, Boryvitr won't allow it, and an attempt to hide it will only increase his displeasure when he finds out about everything."
Ladomyra entered the hall. She was in her best dress, but it was put on so hastily that it only emphasized more strongly what she had been interrupted from. Several clasps remained unfastened, and her dark hair fell over her shoulders somewhat messily. A few sorcerers involuntarily looked away. Others, on the contrary, watched her too intently.
"Because I was just discussing the boy's condition with him when I heard that Velimyra was up to something. And I had to hurry so that you, my dears, wouldn't do anything stupid."
She smiled gently at those present. Almost tenderly. But when her gaze slid to Velimyra, all the warmth vanished without a trace. Like spring snow under a knife. Velimyra clicked her tongue in displeasure.
"Ladomyra, finally left my husband's bed and decided to speak up?"
The tension in the hall instantly became almost palpable. Someone snorted quietly. Someone pretended not to hear. Ladomyra merely tilted her head slightly.
"Rather, to bring a foolish girl to her senses. But I think you are no less foolish than she is. Because you, better than anyone, should know how dangerous your proposal is."
She fell silent, and her eyes swept the hall. To her surprise, she saw no fear, only the fire of desire burning in their eyes. And for the first time in a long time, she did not find support. The sorcerers simply looked away. Velimyra smiled gently.
"Oh, I know better than anyone how dangerous it is. But this risk cannot overcome the desire that everyone in this hall feels. Even you, who are trying so desperately to hide it. Look me in the eyes, not at your feet."
Velimyra was not lying. She knew perfectly well. Having traveled the path from the weakest sorceress, who had to beg and please men just to keep up with the others because meditation alone gave miserable crumbs of power, and the fear of becoming an ordinary person breathed right down her neck, she had risen to the top. She became the most powerful sorceress of the fort. And even that changed nothing. She was still in a cage. Just a golden one, pleasing only the warlord.
Yaroslava's appearance only made everything worse. Because, looking at her own daughter, Velimyra saw herself. The same talent. The same fire. The same doom. And every thought that Yaroslava would have to walk the same path—lying under warriors, smiling at men she despised, enduring touches for the sake of a few drops of power—filled Velimyra with an almost animal rage. And she was ready to burn the world to prevent it. Even if it meant risking the life of the person most dear to her daughter.
"Look around, Ladomyra," Velimyra said quietly, and there was no more condescension in her voice. Only fatigue. Old, deep, bone-rotting fatigue. "Look at them carefully."
Ladomyra regretted looking more closely. Because now she saw it clearly—not fear and not curiosity. Hunger. One of the younger sorceresses, whom she might have called a student, was looking at Olekir silently. A thin, exhausted sorcerer with sunken eyes and the gray face of a person who had long ago drained himself with meditations at every free moment, was trembling with delight. Nearby, a sorceress was nervously clutching her own shoulders, her nails turning white. Another sorcerer didn't even hide it—his chest heaved heavily, his eyes burning with greed. They no longer saw Olekir as a human.
"They have already made their choice."
"This isn't a choice. This is desperation."
"And what exactly does that change?"
The question hung in the air. The silence grew heavier. Even the runes under their feet seemed to begin pulsing slower, deeper. Myroslava looked around nervously. The air became thick. Sticky. Almost suffocating. And then someone laughed. Briefly. Nervously.
"And what else is left for us?" a sorcerer near a distant column rasped. "Meditate to death and keep eating crumbs of power from the warriors?"
"Shut your trap," another hissed, but without real malice.
"No, let him speak," Velimyra said suddenly.
The sorcerer flinched when dozens of gazes turned to him, but it was already too late.
"We are rotting here," he muttered quietly, not looking anyone in the eyes. "All of us. How much power do we get in this wasteland while the towers collect lakes? Crumbs. Miserable crumbs."
"And you are ready to kill a child for the sake of power?" Ladomyra threw out sharply.
"A child?.." the sorcerer looked nervously at Olekir, and a strange mixture of fear and fascination flashed in his eyes. "This is not a child, this is a threat we must stop."
His words made several people nod silently. Yaroslava turned to them sharply. As if she only now realized she was standing among strangers.
"You've gone mad..."
Her voice was a whisper, but Myroslava could not remain silent.
"What do you want to do with my son!"
These words, this desperation brought a fraction of reason back to the sorcerers, but it quickly faded, and they brushed it off. Every movement they made was filled with power. Yaroslava sprang from her place to protect Myroslava. Several simple spells shattered against the barrier she raised. It cracked but held, earning Velimyra's recognition. Ladomyra felt real fear for the first time, because none of them even hesitated. She retreated to Myroslava, casting another barrier.
"Yaroslava..." he began quietly. "You are talented. Very. You have yet to know power in its full measure."
The old sorcerer spoke, raising a trembling hand on which a ball of light slowly rolled—so dim that it wouldn't have sufficiently illuminated even a closet.
"I gave this fortress seventy-five years. Seventy-five years of dedicated service, but do you see this?" He brought the light closer. "This is all I am capable of now. I think no one here would call me a slacker, but even so, this is all I am capable of now. And this is how most of us will end."