The heat emanating from the warmed stones no longer brought comfort. The room, once a refuge of warmth against the northern cold, had now turned into a stage for confrontation — a kind of interrogation room disguised as a sanctuary.
"Why the fuck didn't you say you were the only survivor of that massacre?
You… you really made it out of that alive?"
Viktor exploded, eyes wide, almost in disbelief.
Nikolai didn't respond right away. He was sitting, shoulders hunched, as if the weight of the past still bore down on his back. On the other side of the room, Viktor and Fedor watched him — the first standing, furious, the second sitting on the floor, restless, but clearly curious.
"Well…"
Nikolai drew a deep breath, trying to keep his voice steady.
"To your first question, I don't think that's the kind of thing you just say out of the blue, right?"
'Hi, nice to meet you, I'm the only survivor of the day our king was torn apart by the hand of the Empire.'
And besides… if you look closely, you'll see I didn't come out of it unscathed."
He slapped his own leg — a dry, hollow sound rang out from the steel. Viktor seemed to understand the reason for the prosthesis.
"Ah… shit. Right."
Sorry, man. I just… I had no idea anyone had survived.
I mean… I kind of knew, but it all seemed too crazy.
My family thought our kingdom was going to fall that day.
It was strange. Crazy — in all sorts of ways.
But tell me… did you see it?"
The question hung in the air like a blade.
Nikolai had already answered that one — or others very similar — countless times. Or at least tried to.
But being the son of a concubine, born in the shadows of the last sovereign Tsar of the North's castle, with no name or crest, had rendered him invisible to the bourgeoisie who replaced the old rule as fast as they possibly could.
His accounts were dismissed as delusion, trauma, lies — or simply as something unimportant.
After all, in the end, what happened that day was more of a blessing for the power usurpers than a tragedy in its own right.
In fact, Nikolai had one single certainty: what happened was the best thing that could've happened for some of the people in power today.
"I saw it and I wish I hadn't."
For a moment, the warmth of the stones seemed to vanish. The damp walls of the room creaked, as if the memory he summoned carried enough weight to distort the present. The day the massacre happened — the same day the highest leader of the Northern Lands died — was also the day Nikolai's existence was erased from the records.
After all, he was the last remnant of something everyone in the upper echelons had worked hard to hide. No scribe dared record his name in the Book of Truth. The Tsar's death was deemed sufficient for any other information to be treated as irrelevant, and so, left out of the book.
If Nikolai had access to the words written about that day, he wouldn't find many.
And even the little that remained made the victors' version of the truth clear, right from the title:
"End of the Era of the Tsars — Cruel and Infamous."
No lord reached out a hand. There was nothing to gain from helping the bastard son of a dead despot's concubine.
And yet, despite the cruelty forced upon his existence, he was still there. Stubborn like the black stones of the Medved Abyss, which refused to yield.
"The Tsar's objective was obscure back then.
My mother, even though she was one of the few he truly trusted, never knew the details of that day.
What we did know was that we would go beyond the border, to the first city to the south — the lost capital."
"You're talking about Kursk.
But… that's past the Strait. Why would he do that?"
"At the time, I didn't know the reason.
I didn't understand the signs either.
But now… I think he wanted a truce."
"A truce?
With the Empire?"
Viktor and Fedor looked stunned. The idea was absurd. After all, everyone knew the Tsars used fear of the Empire as a tool to maintain control and their rule. It would be strange to imagine that the Tsar himself would take a step that, in the end, would only weaken his already fragile power.
The truth was clear to everyone in that room: even if the Tsar hadn't died that day, he probably would've lost the throne. It was well understood that powerful conspiracies existed to overthrow the former tyrant.
"Strange, huh?"
murmured Nikolai, with a bitter smile.
"The truth is, the Tsar wasn't a bad person… Of course, it's hard for me to say that, I mean, I was privileged. But, from my side, I never heard him ridicule or belittle anyone, no matter their faith or class."
"Sometimes, I caught myself thinking I wanted to be like him."
"Ironic, isn't it? A worthless bastard, dreaming of being more than a nobody."
Nikolai seemed to weigh his own words. He stroked Ashen's coat, seeking comfort and affection.
"That day, we arrived in the city at dusk.
It was empty. No lights. No sign of life. We decided to set up camp nearby. The Tsar believed he had arrived too early. That was his first mistake."
Nikolai spoke like someone reviewing, step by step, a personal tragedy.
"The scouts took too long to return. Even so, for some reason, the Tsar kept his guard down, waiting… for something. That was his second mistake."
"And then?"
Viktor asked, his voice tense.
"When suspicion finally arose... it was already too late. They had arrived. A whole fleet of wyverns — led by that."
The memory was fragmented, but vivid. There were many blanks. And yet, over time and through reading, Nikolai had learned to piece things together.
"And… what was it like?"
Viktor asked, his eyes now shining. He knew the tales of Yozavar the Mad. And though they were treated as delusions, for a boy, anything forbidden or fantastical was fascinating.
"Exactly as Yozavar described. A mix of black and white… distorted, aberrant. It looked more like a nightmare than a living creature. But it was massive."
Nikolai paused. His mind tried to remember, to measure, to make sense of it — but failed. The creature was so large that even his memory refused to accept its true size.
"Absurdly big. And strong. It was a massacre."
"But… how did you survive? The reports, if I'm not mistaken, said the only survivor was found beneath the Tsar's bear. As if it had died to protect him."
Nikolai looked at Viktor, unsettled. It was strange to hear accounts of something you'd lived through. The heroic versions never felt quite right.
"As beautiful and brave as it sounds… the truth is something else. I wasn't found under the Tsar's bear."
"I was found inside it."
Viktor and Fedor went pale. Now that was new.
"What do you mean?"
Fedor whispered.
"Someone cut open the creature's belly and put me inside. Or maybe… I climbed in myself. I don't know."
Nikolai looked at the floor.
"After I saw that creature, my mind turned into a mess of nightmares and scrambled memories."
"Now do you understand why no one believed me?"
He paused. Then pointed to his own leg, which ended just below the knee.
"In the end, this is the only proof I have of that day.
But you're from the Romanov family, right?"
Fedor asked, with the innocence of someone unaware of the weight of the words he'd just let slip.
Smack! Viktor's slap came fast and firm.
"Idiot! Of course not! The Romanov bloodline ended with Anastasia. She died without leaving any heirs."
"They say some commoners took the surname afterward, out of… I don't know, respect or fanaticism."
"Isn't that right, Nikolai?"
Nikolai kept his eyes on the two of them, but his gaze wavered between genuine interest and an old, well-hidden pain. Viktor was repeating what all of the North wanted to believe: that the royal bloodline had died out. Easier that way. More comfortable.
The truth, however, was a thorn lodged deep in Nikolai's soul — a thorn that neither time nor denial could pull out.
In the end, it was all just obscure truths buried beneath well-told lies.
"Yes…"
Nikolai answered while still lingering there, wrapped in old and forgotten thoughts. Viktor and Fedor's voices cracked in a strange rhythm, almost melodic.
"Alright, damn it! I got it, okay?! I got it!"
Fedor exploded, rubbing his head, which was still burning from the slap Viktor had given him.
Viktor still seemed fascinated by everything he had just heard.
Sure, in the end, it was all just a story — and the real question was whether or not to believe it.
No one had believed it, that's true. Fedor, for instance, wore the typical expression of disbelief and suspicion on his face. But something about Viktor was different.
He seemed to believe. Or, at least, feared that some part of it might be true. There were things beyond his power, beyond his knowledge — and that scared him more than he had ever thought possible.
"Anyway… I liked Marya's lesson today. At least she's interactive."
said Nikolai, trying to change the subject.
"Hey, don't change the topic!"
Viktor pointed a finger at him, accusing.
"I'm not changing it. I'm just… tired."
He was already standing, stretching his shoulders.
"I'm going to take a bath and sleep. In the end, everything that happened doesn't really matter. After all, the account of a madman and a child has never changed the history of the Northern people — and a bastard isn't going to change that now."
He laughed, pointing at himself.
"HUNGER."
The voice exploded in his mind like a drum struck in anger just as he joked about his situation.
"But we just ate..."
Nikolai muttered out loud, scratching his forehead.
"Where am I supposed to find more food now?"
"Hey, are you guys still hungry?"
Viktor asked, a sly smile forming on his face.
"Great, because we are too! And guess what? I know a way to get food."
Nikolai, who had already taken the first steps toward the door, stopped instantly. The sound of stone scraping under his feet was muffled by the subtle growl coming from inside him — or worse, from Ashen.
That was more than good news. It was hope. He looked over his shoulder, eyes narrowed.
"How?"
"Ah… that's a secret."
Viktor raised his index finger mysteriously, his smile growing.
But the moment of suspense lasted exactly two seconds.
"Leonid taught us how to break into the kitchen!"
Fedor blurted out enthusiastically, completely unaware of the atmosphere Viktor was trying to create.
"YOU IDIOT!"
Viktor turned to him, outraged.
"I was going to do a whole dramatic performance! A reveal! A "ta-daa"! And you cut me off with that dry sentence?!"
"My bad…"
Fedor shrugged, but laughter was already escaping through his nose.
Nikolai, meanwhile, narrowed his eyes, frowning with a half-blurred memory.
"Wait a second… Leonid? That bear-faced brute?"
"That's the one!"
said Viktor, already recovering from the blow to his theatrics.
"The big guy with half a brain cell."
"Did he end up getting a room after all?"
Nikolai asked, still trying to remember if Leonid was real or just a collective fear-induced delusion.
Viktor laughed out loud, nearly falling backwards onto the mattress.
"HAHAHA! He did… for exactly five days."
he said, wiping an imaginary tear from the corner of his eye.
"Picked a fight with the wrong guy. Now he's lying down — and sedated — in the infirmary, in a room all to himself. Broken nose, shattered ego, and maybe one less rib."
added Fedor with a mischievous smile.
"He was actually going to stay a few more days with us"
said Viktor, still with traces of laughter
"but now… he's probably relearning the alphabet, starting with the letter Oww!"
Nikolai couldn't help a half-smile. But something inside him — or maybe inside the creature that haunted his thoughts — was beginning to stir.
"HUNGRYYY…"
Ashen's voice echoed like a starving growl in the depths of his mind, deep and impatient.
"I see…"
Nikolai forced a smile.
"But did he actually teach you how to break in?"
"Well, it's not that hard since they leave the door open at night. But there's one detail.
The kitchen…"
Viktor paused for dramatic effect.
"Is right next to Marya's room."
Silence.
"What do you mean, that's just a small problem?!"
Nikolai burst out, stopping abruptly near the bedroom door.
"If she catches us out of the dorm stealing food, we could be sent to the front lines! It's not worth the risk for a piece of old, dry, stale bread!"
"HUUUUNGRYYYYY!"
This time Ashen's voice didn't come as a thought — it came as a muffled roar inside his mind, reverberating through Nikolai's ribs like a war drum.
Ashen scratched him with a front claw, light enough not to hurt — but enough to make him look down.
And then, he used his most feared power: the Begging Stare.
His blue eye — blind and milky — and the other, black and glossy, glowed with an almost supernatural hunger. It was as if a bear cub and a starving beggar had forged a demonic pact just to perfect the art of begging for food. And Ashen... was the final result of that cruel spell.
Nikolai groaned, exasperated.
"You're not helping, you know that?"
he muttered, covering his face with one hand.
Ashen responded with a guttural grumble, followed by a mental thump: paw on the floor, the impatience of a domesticated beast, like a giant dog who knew exactly where the treats were hidden… but wanted to test how long the stubborn owner could hold out.
In the end, the truth was undeniable:
that night, boldness outweighed responsibility.
"Fine..."
Nikolai sighed, pulling on his coat like someone donning an improvised suit of armor.
"But if I die, I sincerely hope I'm the last. Because if I'm the first… I'll come back from hell just to drag you both down by the legs before the executioner gets you."
"Now that's the spirit!"
Viktor cheered, raising his fist like a hero from a dumb tale.
"That's the attitude of a true hungry man!"
Fedor celebrated, clapping like he was about to open a secret tavern.
"The perfect night for a pantry raid!"
And so, the three of them set off.
Sliding through the dark dormitory halls like amateur thieves, restrained yet thrilled, hearts racing, footsteps light as shadows. The torches were already almost out. The floor creaked treacherously. And around every corner lurked the risk of a lost soul.
Outside, the Fortress breathed slowly.
Like a sleeping monster.
Inside Nikolai, the tension was palpable, but at least one worry had been left behind: the bears had stayed in the room.
It was easier to move without having to worry about deep growls echoing down the halls. The two blues understood the order to stay immediately. Ashen was trickier, nearly scratching at the door to come along — but in the end, he stayed.
With that resolved, the three finally reached the mess hall, having crossed the dormitory corridors unseen.
"Damn… this place is terrifying at night, I can't get used to it"
muttered Viktor, a visible shiver running through his shoulders.
The hall, so loud and full of life during the day, now felt like a tomb of stone and wood. The echo of every step seemed to scream back at them. A soft, constant wind entered through some poorly closed window, creating a sinister whistle, as if the castle were breathing through a stuffed nose.
"Well…"
Nikolai broke the silence, trying to sound calmer than he was.
"If that brute wasn't lying, we just have to move quickly past the officers' wing and we'll be at the kitchen."
The path so far had been surprisingly easy. The guards were more concerned with external threats than with hungry students breaking the rules. But the officers' wing was a different story.
There were no scouts there. They didn't need them. The professors were the strongest people in the place — dangerous even in their sleep.
"Now follow me… and don't make a sound."
Viktor whispered, taking the lead. His tone betrayed experience. He knew the way. He'd done this before.
Fedor followed close behind, eyes wide but trusting his friend. Nikolai, skeptical, brought up the rear.
Suddenly, a low growl of frustration escaped from Viktor. The sound made Nikolai quicken his pace, moving closer.
When he arrived, he saw the problem.
The door was slightly ajar. And inside, a flickering light danced, casting distorted shadows through the cracks in the wood. Something was burning in there.
"She's still awake…"
Nikolai murmured, heart pounding faster.
"Should we go back?"
But Viktor didn't answer. Instead, he moved forward without hesitation, slipping through the opening like a shadow. Before Nikolai could protest, he was already on the other side.
Viktor looked back, gesturing for the others to follow.
Fedor slid through the lit crack, his shadow gliding quickly across the stone floor. For a moment, it seemed like whoever was inside might see him… but no. He passed through unnoticed.
Viktor was already several steps ahead. With the infuriating calm of someone who seemed born for this, he reached out and opened the side door — which creaked as softly as a death sigh.
With a quick gesture, he vanished into the kitchen — swallowed by darkness, as if the castle itself had devoured his presence.
Fedor, casting a quick glance at Nikolai, mimicked his friend and disappeared too.
"Well… I guess it's my turn now…"
Nikolai was just about to cross when suddenly, a voice echoed from inside the lit room.
It wasn't low.
It wasn't calm.
It was a voice that rose in fury, growing with every word until it filled the corridor like a muffled thunderclap.
And it was angry.