The heavy doors swung open. The cold of the outside world rushed into the hall, forcing the mages to wrap themselves tighter in their cloaks or whisper irritated heating spells. But despite this, everyone noticed and focused on the three shadows that had silently slipped into the hall.
Massive black fur cloaks, thickly dusted with snow, trailed behind them, covering their heads and bodies. Yet it was difficult to conceal the heavy black armor, densely inscribed with glowing silver runes. The three moved without a sound, their presence so faint that one could "lose" them by simply looking away. And yet, there was something so weighty in their movements that the attendees parted, clearing a path.
Two walked slightly ahead, watching and searching for threats, while the third carried a large bundle in her hands.
Yaroslava felt Myroslava squeeze her hand. Yaroslava's heart clenched just as her friend's did the moment she recognized who had arrived. While most mages looked on with awe, she, like Ladomira, already understood: these were Velymyra's Handmaidens—the most powerful tool in her arsenal after her own magic.
Ladomira gritted her teeth in disappointment. She was certain she would one day surpass Velymyra, but she knew: overcoming the barrier of her Handmaidens was nearly impossible.
The three stopped before Velymyra and knelt on one knee, paying homage.
"Wait…"
"Is that…"
"It's Velymyra's Handmaidens! Damn it… How could I forget her signature rune!"
"What? Where?"
"There, on the left shoulder."
The mages looked closer and indeed saw: on the shoulder, with a faint golden shimmer, stood out a rune that resembled a strange mixture of others, but its foundation was the rune of "Will."
"My will is their will," Velymyra's voice rang out.
The whispering ceased. All eyes turned to her as she finished weaving the runes in the magic circle.
"You wanted proof? Here it is. Place it in the center."
The Handmaiden obeyed without hesitation and placed the bundle in the center of the circle. Just in time—the fabric finally crumbled to ash, revealing a horrifying sight.
The boy lying inside seemed to be burning from within: his entire circulatory system glowed eerily with silver, showing through his skin like lace made of molten metal. Along with this vision, unbearable heat rushed into the hall. The temperature rose several degrees, the air grew heavy, and even experienced mages instinctively stepped back.
They had never seen anything like it in all their lives. But Ladomira was the most stunned—not from fear, but from the realization that she had failed to perceive the colossal volume of power flowing through the boy's body.
"This is Olekir. Our chance. Our source. Real. Alive. That which breathes. That which suffers. That which waits."
Within moments, she completed the second circle, and the heat subsided, but it was replaced by an equally shocking sight. The mages had seen many visualizations of power flows, but never on such a scale.
"And all of this can be ours. We only need to help him. Free him from this yoke. And for that, I need your help."
The mages looked at each other in confusion.
"What does that mean?"
"What are we to do?"
Questions were asked quietly, but they grew in number. They moved closer to feel the power touching their bodies, igniting excitement.
"It's simple," said Velymyra. "There is so much power hidden within him that I cannot control it alone."
The mages exchanged glances. They understood this was only half the truth, but no one wanted to lose the chance.
Myroslava no longer needed Yaroslava's restraint. She stood aside, observing. Something in Velymyra's words alarmed her, but at the same time reassured her. Her conviction needed no words. She knew from experience, from silence, from years of observation: Velymyra did not make idle promises. If she said she had a plan—it was already in motion.
A mage with his head held high stepped forward.
"I am ready. I have the most experience working with power."
Velymyra didn't even raise an eyebrow.
"I know that perfectly well. But can you withstand the force that will tear your body apart, reshaping it to its liking?"
The mage fell silent. His hands trembled almost imperceptibly.
From the other end of the hall, a hand rose, and a sorceress stepped forward.
"I am ready. I can endure any pain without issue."
Several mages looked at her with disgust, but no one objected—she was indeed known for her endurance.
"I am well aware of the peculiarities of your path," Velymyra replied coldly. "But you have never dealt with such an amount of energy. Are you sure you can channel it correctly?"
The sorceress fell silent. Her gaze darted to the boy, to the silver streams spreading through the hall. She swallowed and lowered her head.
A few more mages raised their hands, but Velymyra dismissed their offers with short, sharp words, without even explaining. The atmosphere grew heavier. The hope of obtaining even a fraction of this power was fading.
And then Ladomira raised her hand.
"Let me," she said, as if forcing herself. She began to approach.
"No."
"Why? I have the talent. I have the endurance to do it."
"Because you must control the magic circle. Only you have sufficient experience for that."
Ladomira froze. It sounded absurd. But Velymyra didn't even hold her gaze, as if she were no longer worthy of attention.
She was still standing, trying to process what she had heard, when a cold, emotionless voice cut through the hall:
"I will be the conduit."
All eyes turned to Yaroslava.
"Of course," said Velymyra, and her voice held no surprise. "I need you. To channel the power from his body into mine."
A quiet murmur rose in the hall—no one had even imagined Velymyra considering such an option.
"I can proudly call you my daughter," she continued. "But you do not have enough experience to channel that much power."
"If that's so, then why…"
"Don't ask foolish questions. You share the same blood. And you will be able to withstand his power more easily than anyone else."
Yaroslava swallowed. She couldn't describe the emotions raging within her, but, gathering her courage, she looked up at her mother.
"What must I do?"
"You need to merge with him. Close physical contact… perhaps more."
"But he…"
"I know. And that is precisely why I need you. If it were otherwise—even Ladomira could have done it."
Ladomira felt the words hit harder than any spell.
Velymyra cast a brief glance at the assembled mages.
"You," she pointed to a group on the left, "to the north wall. Runes of protection. You," to another group, "by the stairs. Runes of power. The third group—to the altar. Runes of connection."
The mages quickly dispersed, and the first lines of light began to flash in the air. "Ladomira," her voice grew even firmer, "you will merge them into a single circle." Ladomira nodded and moved between the groups, adjusting movements so the runic lines blended into a continuous pattern.
Only then did Velymyra take Yaroslava by the hand. Her grip was cold but unyielding. She led her daughter to the center of the hall, where the runes of the magic circle glowed with silver.
"Here," she said, and her voice held neither warmth nor doubt.
Yaroslava felt dozens of eyes upon her. Velymyra nodded, and the girl began to remove her clothing. Every movement seemed too loud in this silence: the rustle of fabric, the breaths of those present, the crackle of candles. When the last layer fell to the floor, the cold of the stone burned her feet, and the air felt heavier.
"You must be open to the flow," Velymyra uttered, and her words were more a verdict than an explanation.
She led Yaroslava to Olekir. The boy lay motionless, but his body glowed from within, silver veins pulsing as if molten mercury flowed through him.
"Merge," commanded Velymyra.
Yaroslava knelt beside him, touched his face, then leaned in, joining their lips. Her body tensed with internal resistance, but deep in her consciousness, something else flared—dark, intoxicating, dangerous.
Power rushed into her, and with it—pain. Burning, like molten iron pouring into her veins. She recoiled, breaking the kiss, and screamed. The cry echoed through the hall, making even experienced mages shudder.
But she did not retreat. Tears streamed down her cheeks, and, gathering her strength, she pressed against her brother again. The flow grew even stronger, breaking through internal barriers until the boundary between their bodies began to blur.
Velymyra placed her hands on her daughter's shoulders. Along with the power, pain rushed into her—searing, unbearable. She barely kept her balance, but experience took over.
She directed the flow into the circle. The runic lines came alive, flashed with silver, and from their boundaries, droplets of light began to rise. They soared, merged in the air, taking on a form that trembled as if alive.
The silver stream erupting from the bodies of Olekir and Yaroslava grew denser, heavier. It rose upward like a river flowing against the current, gathering above the magic circle into a pulsating sphere.
At first, it was just light—cold, pure—but with each moment, it darkened in its depths, taking on a deep, almost black hue in which silver sparks still smoldered.
The sphere began to unfold like a flower, and from its heart emerged shadows intertwined with light. They formed outlines—first vague, then increasingly distinct.
Before the eyes of those present stood a silhouette. Majestic. Dangerous. And at the same time so beautiful it was hard to look away.
It was taller than any human, with wings that seemed woven from a starry night sky. Its face was half-hidden by radiance, but in every movement, there was a threat—not loud, but calm, confident, like a predator aware of its strength.
Warmth emanated from it, but it was not the cozy warmth of a hearth; it was a heat that could burn everything around it. And yet, in this heat, there was something that drew one in, like light attracts night moths.
The mages stood breathless. Some felt reverence, some fear, some an almost morbid desire to touch this being.
Velymyra, trembling from the strain, held the flow so the form could complete itself. The silver droplets still erupting from the circle merged with the silhouette, making it clearer and more tangible.
And then it opened its eyes. Two burning silver wells, in which the entire hall was reflected.
Ladomira shuddered and took a step back but did not release control of the magic circle. Her fingers trembled, her eyes fixed on the pulsating center. Velymyra watched silently, with cold interest, as if assessing not the event but its consequences.
The figure that had just emerged from the flow suddenly shattered into thousands of fragments of light—like an explosion of silence. They swirled, merging into a crystal of silver, which this time did not disintegrate. It hung frozen in the air, complete, whole.
But with its formation, something changed: the power that still lived in those present rushed toward it. Not by will, not by call—as compulsion, as verdict. The bodies of the mages shuddered, and one by one they fell to the stone floor, weakened, drained.
Ladomira held on the longest—her connection to the circle kept her from falling. But when she saw a thin trickle of black blood flow from Velymyra's mouth, something in her snapped. She sank to her knees, and then—into complete darkness.