They found him at dawn—two old warriors returning from night watch. The frost was bitter, so cold that one's breath shattered in the air, and the snow crunched underfoot like breaking glass. At first, they thought it was a dark pile of rags blown by the wind, but as they drew closer, they saw a body curled on the ground. Around it, the snow had melted, exposing black, damp earth from which steam rose. His skin was hot as forged iron, and thick white smoke billowed from his mouth. One of the warriors crossed himself; the other lifted him into his arms—and felt the heat pierce through his clothing, scorching his palms.
In the infirmary, he found no peace. The force that had poured into him flowed through his veins like molten metal, tearing tissues, making bones crack and re-knit. His muscles convulsed so violently that he tore the sheets, and his skin broke into sweat that evaporated before it could drip. Every breath was a swallow of fire, every heartbeat a hammer strike on red-hot metal.
Two beings clashed in his consciousness: a small child reaching for its mother, and a grown warrior, betrayed and filled with hatred. They fought for space in one body, and each of their cries tore his mind to shreds.
The days dragged on like molten lead. Servants whispered behind the door: some said he was cursed, others that a demon had taken residence within him. Someone, genuinely concerned, hauled buckets of ice and snow with frantic obsession, as if quantity could defeat the very nature of this fire. They fashioned a large wooden tub for him and placed it on one of the towers, where the wind was meant to cool his body. But the temperature did not drop. Ice hissed and melted the moment it touched his skin, and snow turned to steam even in the air.
Myroslava sat beside him, hardly blinking. Her hands trembled as she changed the bandages, and her eyes grew darker with each day. She watched her son's body change—how his shoulders broadened, how his skin took on a strange hue, how something unfamiliar emerged in his features. And she feared that when he awoke, he would no longer recognize her.
Boryviter came rarely. He stood by the tub, looked at his son, and there was no pity in his gaze—only cold assessment, as if examining a broken weapon. Then he left without a word.
When the sorceresses returned, it felt like a triumph. People peered from windows, filled with hope. Yaroslav was the first to climb the tower. Her steps were quick, almost a run. Seeing him, she rushed to the tub, met Myroslava's gaze—but the latter only sighed heavily.
Yaroslav leaned over him and began whispering spells. Her hands glowed with a dim silver light, but the heat did not retreat. Only for a moment did it weaken, and that moment was so brief it seemed a phantom.
So the days passed. New attempts, new spells, new herbs and symbols drawn on his skin—and new failures. Each evening Yaroslav returned empty-handed, and at night she climbed the tower again, as if afraid to miss the moment when he would finally open his eyes. But Olekir lay still, and the fire within him did not die.
They walked slowly, their footsteps echoing dully in the stone passages. Myroslava distractedly touched the walls with her palms—they were icy. Once, this cold had been familiar, soothing, but now it felt alien. She had nearly forgotten it, spending her days and nights atop the tower near her son, where the air was scorched by his heat.
Yaroslav walked beside her, and in her gaze lived a deep, unconcealed resolve. She did not look at the walls, did not glance back—her steps were direct, as if she were walking toward something inevitable.
Suddenly, from around the corner, Mstyslav ran out, nearly colliding with them. He spread his arms, blocking the path, and looked at them with strange stubbornness. Behind him, panting, hurried a young servant girl, trying to make him yield, but he ignored her as if he did not hear.
"Mstyslavchyk, step aside," Myroslava said gently, leaning slightly forward. "I don't want to," he muttered, not taking his eyes off her. "It's important, let us pass," she added, trying to keep softness in her voice, though a barely perceptible fear trembled beneath the words. "I said no,"—his tone held a strange pleasure, unnatural for a boy his age.
"Step aside," Yaroslav said sharply and loudly. Her voice, cold and hard, made everyone flinch. The servant shuddered; Myroslava looked at her stepdaughter in surprise. This was unlike her—there was no warmth in that tone, no usual restraint. "I won't go," Mstyslav insisted stubbornly, and something dark flashed in his eyes.
Then Yaroslav, without a second thought, raised her hand. Magic obeyed her will instantly—an invisible wave struck the boy in the chest, throwing him against the wall and knocking the air from his lungs. He bent over, gasping, and the servant girl screamed in panic.
Myroslava gasped, but deep in her heart, a quiet, almost sweet satisfaction flared—which she immediately buried deep inside, even from herself. Yaroslav, however, looked at the boy openly, not hiding her pleasure at his helplessness. And somewhere beneath that cold satisfaction smoldered a desire—simple and dangerous: that he would never rise again. She did not dare fulfill it, but not because she did not want to.
"Let's go," Yaroslav snapped, firmly taking Myroslava by the elbow. She led her forward without looking back at the boy, who was still struggling for air, or at the pale, frightened servant. The corridor led them to the heavy doors of Yaroslav's mother's chambers, and both walked on, each holding her own—so different, yet equally dark—feeling.
The heavy doors opened, and Myroslava and Yaroslav stepped inside. The room smelled of dried herbs and wax, and the fire in the fireplace cast trembling shadows on the walls. Velymyra sat by the window but turned immediately upon hearing their footsteps.
"Yaroslav, are you satisfied?" Her voice was even, but steel lay beneath it. "Now your brother will lie in the infirmary for nearly half a year."
Yaroslav stopped, not looking away. Her reply came quietly, but each word was like a stone: "Not enough. He deserves more."
Myroslava shuddered at these words and involuntarily glanced at Velymyra. The latter also looked at her—and in that brief exchange of glances was a question to which neither had an answer. Velymyra sighed heavily, pushed her chair back, and sat at the table. Her posture changed, and with it her voice—all emotion vanished, leaving only cold hardness.
"Why have you come?"
"Olekir…" Myroslava began, stepping forward. "He is burning, Velymyra. The heat does not subside for a moment. The healers are powerless, and Yaroslav… she does all she can, but it is not enough. I beg you—help him."
"Boryviter and I have already discussed this," Velymyra interrupted, a barely perceptible mockery in her voice. "I have no time to treat a simple fever."
"This is no fever!" Myroslava's voice broke. "He recalls titles and lands we do not know. Sometimes he repeats the same thing… barely audible… 'Why?'—and he cries. Tears vanish the moment they touch his cheeks."
Velymyra tilted her head but remained silent.
"There are moments," Myroslava continued more quietly, "when he suddenly becomes clear. He calls us by name… responds when we call him. But the moment he sees us—sorrow overwhelms him with renewed force."
"So what?" Velymyra said coldly.
"It's not just an illness," Yaroslav interjected. "Power flows through his flesh like hot metal."
Velymyra raised her head, her gaze sharpening:
"What did you say?" Velymyra's voice became sharp as a blade.
"Power flows through his flesh," Yaroslav repeated, not looking away. "It is inexhaustible, and I cannot subdue it."
Myroslava watched from the side, bewildered. Yaroslav had never mentioned this in her presence, and it pinched her chest—not only from anxiety for her son, but from the bitterness that her stepdaughter had hidden the truth.
"There is that much of it?" Velymyra leaned forward, interest mixed with disbelief in her voice.
"There is many times more than in Father… or even in the voivode of the prince's retinue," Yaroslav replied quietly but confidently.
"Is it enough for…" Velymyra did not finish, but her gaze fixed on her daughter so intently that words became unnecessary.
Yaroslav blushed, averted her eyes, and nodded almost imperceptibly.
Velymyra slowly leaned back in her chair, raised her eyes to the ceiling, and froze. Silence stretched, and only the crackling of firewood in the fireplace could be heard. She weighed something in her thoughts, sifted through possibilities, and each seemed to have its price.
Finally, she rose abruptly; the chair scraped against the stone floor. Her face became impenetrable again, but her movement held irritation—whether at the situation or her own thoughts.
"Let's go," she said curtly and moved toward the door.
Myroslava and Yaroslav exchanged glances—the first held surprise and anxiety, the second tense expectation. Without a word, they hurried after Velymyra, sensing that her next steps could change everything.
The corridors grew narrower and darker. The stone underfoot was damp, and cold droplets occasionally fell from the ceiling. Lanterns hung on the walls burned dimly, casting long, distorted shadows. Myroslava walked slightly behind, trying not to fall behind, while Yaroslav stayed closer to Velymyra, whose steps were quick and assured.
Finally, they emerged into a large hall, low but wide, with stone columns supporting the vault. Sorcerers had gathered here—mostly women, but also a few men whose bodies looked delicate, almost fragile, as if they had never held anything heavier than a quill.
All eyes turned immediately to Velymyra and her unusual company. Those gazes held both interest and wariness.
From side chambers emerged several warriors—exhausted, empty-eyed, barely standing. Behind them, unhurried, appeared sorceresses and sorcerers whose faces glowed with satisfaction. They played with magic that shimmered in their palms, as if testing how well their power had restored.
A wave of sound, muffled and powerful, rolled through the stone walls, making the lantern flames shudder. Conversations ceased instantly. Every gaze was now fixed on her.
Velymyra stood in the center of the hall, her raised hand frozen in the air. The muffled wave of sound rolled through the stone walls, making the lantern flames shudder. All talk stopped. Dozens of eyes—wary, interested, cold—pierced her and the two women standing beside her.
The moment stretched like a taut string. And in that silence, it was clear: Velymyra's next words would change everything.