Night had fallen heavily over Vybor, and dinner was more than lively — it was boiling with anticipation. Finally, everyone would know what until now only the most experienced had whispered among themselves: war was coming. The enemy, still shrouded in rumors and fear, would soon be revealed in full.
Nikolai had never seen the hall so full. The long oak tables were packed with warriors, hunters, and spellcasters from all floors of Svarog. The air was dense — a mix of smoke, wine, and anxiety. Even the bears had been confined to the dormitories or the edges of the dining hall, simply because there was no space for everyone — neither bodies nor egos.
He took the opportunity to look around: familiar faces from other dinners, yes, but also many he had never seen before, hardened faces, marked by scars and the looks of those who knew something terrible was approaching. Svarog was large enough to house hundreds of warriors, and yet it was easy to live there for years without crossing paths with the same person twice.
Kuzma, as always, maintained his near-military rigidity. For him, every meal had a purpose — communal dinner wasn't just a time to rest, but to strategize. "To eat together is to train together," he would say. "Who shares bread, also shares the shield." Nikolai knew that Kuzma saw in that discipline a way to keep the group cohesive. Harmony was what separated a living patrol from a pile of frozen corpses in the ice.
And indeed, nearly all families and groups in Svarog followed their own rules of etiquette and punctuality, shaped by war and survival. Still, this rule always made them see the same faces and never those seen before or after.
A murmur spread through the hall. Conversations gradually ceased. That's when Daria spoke, her gaze shimmering under the golden torchlight.
"The veils will finally begin to lift."
There was a youthful excitement in her voice, mixed with something deeper — genuine curiosity, perhaps the last luxury in times of war. Among them all, Daria was the most enthusiastic. She was known for being stable, almost complacent, content to live in the safe mediocrity of someone who knew her limits. Even with a White Bear — a rare and respected creature — she had never sought glory. But age brought something that neither vigor nor strength could offer: a hunger for knowledge and curiosity.
And, as the sound of dishes quieted and eyes turned toward the large platform in the corner of the hall, Daria leaned forward, as if she were about to see the future unfold before her.
"Daria, why do you want to know so badly what's happening?"
Kuzma asked, leaning in slightly, trying to be heard amid the noise of conversations and clinking cups.
"We're not going anyway."
Kuzma was the complete opposite of his sister. A man of control. Of method. To him, knowing the enemy only mattered if the battle was imminent. The rest was noise. He always had two or three paths mapped out in his mind, as if he saw the battlefield in layers — every step, every reaction, every possible mistake already charted. But anything outside of his immediate reach — politics, rumors, or the "invisible" — was simply discarded. To Kuzma, knowing too much was dangerous. "Those who think too much hesitate. Those who hesitate die."
It was a cold, practical philosophy, and for many, a limited one. But it was also what had kept his group alive for more than twenty years. While other teams crumbled under doubt or curiosity, he survived — steady, unshakable, with the discipline of someone who preferred the certainty of steel to the speculation of sages.
Nikolai watched the two of them, finding it curious how siblings could be so alike in their gestures yet so different in spirit. Daria was a spark — curious, restless, alive. Kuzma was stone — solid, calculated, immutable. And somehow, they complemented each other.
"Honestly,"
Andrei interrupted, shifting on the tight bench,
"I just wish I had space to eat without bumping into three different shoulders."
Ekaterina chuckled softly and gave his arm a gentle push.
"Yes, love, but don't worry. As soon as they reveal what's going on, I think things will get better."
The couple had never cared much about politics, empires, or betrayals. To them, life was summed up by what they could touch: their missions, their allies, their table. Anything beyond that was Kuzma and Daria's responsibility. Perhaps it was precisely that simplicity that kept the group so stable — no fights, no distrust, only small, trivial arguments that died the moment they were born.
The buzz in the hall was broken when a deep voice rose above all others.
"Good evening, everyone."
Nikolai turned and only then noticed that Kolya was on the central platform. He had no idea when the leader had stepped up — it was as if the woman had simply appeared, projecting presence like a natural force.
"I apologize for the delay,"
Kolya continued.
"Some of you already know what I'm about to say, but it's important that everyone hears it together. There's news."
The hall fell silent. Even the crackling of the torchwood seemed to cease.
"As you may know,"
she began, her voice firm but laden with exhaustion,
"we had problems with the group sent to the Empire."
A pause.
"In fact… we discovered that they were redirected to a new continent. A previously unknown territory. Because of that, we completely lost contact."
The silence that followed was absolute — and then, it burst into murmurs. A new continent. Lost contact. These words didn't belong in the daily vocabulary of Svarog's warriors.
Kolya raised her hand, demanding attention once more.
"A new team will be sent to this new place. This time, the best squads will go."
The dining hall simmered. Losing the best meant emptying the upper floors — it meant the most experienced would no longer be there to contain the chaos of Vybor's lower levels. Those who remained would have to defend the first and second floors with what they had.
Kolya waited for the murmurs to fade before continuing.
"I know what you're thinking. Missions will change. Rosters will be reshuffled. For now, the priority is adaptation and survival."
She paused, her eyes scanning the hall until they locked onto Kuzma's.
"But adaptation requires security. That's why I asked one of the groups to remain in Svarog."
She then turned to the side, signaling with her hand.
"Moranas, please come up here."
Chairs creaked. The air seemed to shift. Everyone knew who the Moranas were — and the name alone was enough to turn curiosity into apprehension.
Some women began to climb onto the platform. The eldest looked just over thirty — old enough to carry authority, yet still young enough to inspire danger. All were imposing, with strong and proportionate bodies, shaped by training and magic. Each step made the wooden floor echo in unison, and even the most disciplined averted their eyes for a moment.
Even Nikolai. For a second, he caught himself watching the outlines of those warriors — firm bodies, confident movements, a mix of grace and brutality that made him feel something he rarely did: desire and discomfort. But that moment of distraction vanished the instant his eyes met a familiar face.
"Zoya…"
he murmured, almost breathless.
"What is she doing up there?"
Beside him, Andrei let out a mischievous laugh.
"Ah, kid, so you recognize some of the divas up there, huh?"
The comment had barely left his mouth before Ekaterina landed a sharp slap on the back of his neck.
"Idiot,"
she whispered, not even looking at him.
Kuzma, observing everything with the same analytical gaze as always, crossed his arms.
"Nikolai,"
he said calmly,
"do you see the banner there, on the left?"
Nikolai looked. On the large panel of elite group flags and crests, one stood out: a crowned woman's face, drawn in gold and red lines, with the number two embroidered beside it.
"The Moranas' group,"
Kuzma explained.
"As you've probably noticed, it's made up entirely of women. One of the strongest groups in Svarog. All of them have Brown Bears."
Ekaterina leaned discreetly toward Nikolai's ear, speaking softly:
"And they all know how to use the magic you used today."
He turned to her, surprised.
"But… didn't you say it was rare?"
She nodded.
"And it is. That just shows how insanely skilled they are. If your friend is among the Moranas…"
she paused briefly,
"…then this Zoya must be an exceptional tamer. One of the best of her time."
Nikolai turned his eyes back to the platform. Zoya, the redhead, kept her head held high, but her eyes revealed nervousness. When their eyes met, she immediately looked away, lowering her gaze as if it had been a mistake.
Andrei didn't miss the chance. He gave Nikolai a light punch on the shoulder, laughing.
"Looks like someone's got a crush on our little rookie…"
Another crack! echoed as a piece of bread flew through the air and hit him in the head. Ekaterina, however, said nothing this time — Kolya had resumed speaking.
"The Moranas have agreed to stay,"
she announced, her voice echoing through the hall.
"They will protect the first floor and contain any problems that arise."
A respectful murmur passed among those present. Kolya raised her voice:
"I believe this will be enough. But I want everyone alert. The first and second floors may become overwhelmed in the coming days. Understood?"
A firm collective shout responded:
"Yes, ma'am!"
Kolya nodded with a half-satisfied smile.
"Very well. The departure group will leave the fortress at dawn. Those who weren't selected when we last spoke — you're dismissed. Those who are going — stay. We still have matters to discuss."
The sound of chairs, the scuff of boots, and murmured orders echoed through the hall. But Nikolai heard none of it. His eyes were still fixed on Zoya. And the look she avoided seemed to say more than any word.
Nikolai was curious about what would happen, but Kuzma soon made it clear.
"Let's go, everyone,"
said Kuzma, standing and adjusting his coat.
"If we're not going, there's no point in hearing what'll be said."
"What? What do you mean?"
Daria's eyes widened.
"Wait, I want to know!"
"Daria, please,"
he replied, firm, without raising his voice.
Nikolai was curious too. He wanted to hear what Kolya would say, wanted to understand what this new continent meant, the hundred teams, the Moranas… everything. But he knew that, in the end, it didn't matter. The truth was, Ashen, his bear, was probably getting impatient in their room. And if he kept him waiting any longer, he'd probably come back to find the place destroyed.
"Let's move,"
said Kuzma, leading the group.
"In thirty minutes, we come back down for dinner."
The order was clear enough. One by one, they began to get up, pushing chairs and picking up half-full mugs. The voices in the hall blended with the sound of boots striking the stone floor. Even Zoya — still under Nikolai's lingering gaze — disappeared into the stairwell, accompanied by the other Moranas.
He barely had time to follow the group when a strong hand grabbed his arm.
"Vladimir,"
he said, surprised.
The man was a colossus. Gray hair, tied in long braids, and a coat lined with furs revealed not just experience — but authority. His eyes, sharp as blades embedded in ice, locked onto Nikolai's.
"So, kid…"
he said in a hoarse voice, somewhere between challenge and camaraderie.
"You really want to stay out of the action?"
Nikolai swallowed hard, unsure of how to respond. Vladimir tilted his head, studying him like someone examining a new weapon.
"If you want to go, I've got room for rookies,"
he said in a whisper laced with temptation.
Before Nikolai could open his mouth, a voice cut through the air:
"Hey, Vladimir!"
Kuzma stepped forward, irritated.
"Let go of our rookie."
Even knowing he hardly stood a chance against Vladimir, he didn't hesitate. Kuzma's natural authority came less from strength and more from presence — the kind of man who doesn't back down, not even in the face of giants.
Vladimir laughed, the sound echoing far too loud, drawing a few curious glances.
"What's up, old man?"
he taunted.
"How about a trade? Your boy… for this."
He tossed something to the ground. The metallic clink of gold coins rang out, heavy — like a golden thunderclap. Even Nikolai felt the impact. It was a fortune — enough to retire Kuzma's entire group and guarantee a comfortable life far from the mountains.
But Kuzma didn't even blink. His face remained unchanged: firm, unshaken.
"Vladimir,"
he said calmly, though his tone carried steel,
"not everything can be bought. And that, you know as well as I do. So if you'd kindly release the boy, I'd appreciate it."
For a moment, silence settled. Then Vladimir let out a short, genuine laugh, like someone remembering better times.
"Still the same grumpy old man…"
he muttered, letting go of Nikolai's arm. Before walking away, he leaned in slightly and said in a low voice:
"If you change your mind, look for me when we get back."
Nikolai stood there, not quite sure what had just happened. He watched Vladimir walk off, his stride heavy and confident, the sound of his metal boots echoing like a drumbeat. The man went to rejoin a group of equally intimidating figures — his companions, all laughing loudly, occupying the largest and most isolated table in the dining hall.
"Don't worry, kid,"
Kuzma said, breaking the silence.
"I knew his parents… I mean,"
he corrected himself, lowering his voice slightly,
"I used to know them."
A brief flicker of sadness crossed the old man's face, but he quickly masked it.
"Vladimir respects me the way he would a father. And deep down, he's still a good man. Just… lost his way."
Nikolai nodded.
"Right… thank you."
Without another word, he headed toward the dormitories. He could still feel Vladimir's hand on his arm — firm, heavy, almost paternal, yet with something predatory hidden beneath. Before turning the corner, he looked back. There was Vladimir, now seated with his group, laughing loudly, the sound mingling with the clinking of mugs and the dance of torch flames around them. The kind of man who carried the past on his shoulders and danger in his eyes.