"Brothers and sisters..." Velimyra's voice was quiet, but every word rang clear, as if carried by the very walls. The stone they were made of seemed alive—it caught and returned sound, amplifying it like an echo deep in a cave. "You are those who left the softness of the capital. Those who do not have the luxury of towers. Those who live on the edge—not of glory, but of survival."
She slowly scanned the semicircle of mages. Her eyes slid over faces, lingering on each a moment longer than was comfortable. Some stood with hoods drawn, and shadows from the fabric hid expressions, but even through them, tension could be felt. Others—with a hungry glint in their eyes that betrayed those long weary of restraining their own power.
"I know how painful life here is for you," she continued, and a dull, almost maternal weariness entered her voice. "How hard it is to live with the feeling that there is no chance to step further. How hard it is to restrain yourself when power hovers in the air, shimmers in the enchanted stone, and duty does not allow you to absorb it."
"Does she think we don't know that?" someone muttered in the back rows. "Maybe she'll finally say why we're here?" another tossed out.
In the crowd, someone whispered almost inaudibly: "She's talking about us..."—and that whisper, though quiet, dissolved into the stone as if the walls had caught it.
"You are those who hold the barrier," said Velimyra, and there was no pomp in these words, only a firm statement. "Not for glory. Not for rewards. But because it is ordered."
"Ordered..." someone repeated with irony, and a few people snorted quietly.
She took a step forward. Her cloak, heavy and dark, slid across the stone floor, and several people unconsciously stepped back, clearing space for her.
"I know your hunger," her voice grew lower, almost a whisper, but that made it even more palpable. "It does not tear—it gnaws. It does not scream—it whispers. And I hear it. Every night."
One of the younger sorceresses placed a hand on her chest, feeling her core respond to these words with a slight but inevitable trembling. Others exchanged skeptical glances.
"I did not bring promises," Velimyra paused, and in that pause there was more than in any shout. "I brought a source. A real one. A living one. One that breathes. One that suffers. One that waits."
"Another one of her 'finds'?" someone said quietly, and a few smiled faintly.
She finished her speech and slowly turned to her daughter.
"Yaroslavo," her voice was calm, but there was a hidden demand in it, like an order that needed no repetition.
Myroslava, standing aside, felt Velimyra's words tighten her chest. She already understood where this was going, and it made her blood run cold. But the desire to save her son was stronger than fear. She did not look away, waiting to see what would happen next.
Yaroslavo stepped forward, her footsteps echoing in the hall, and she stopped beside her mother. She felt dozens of gazes piercing her, and each was a test.
"Olekyr is ill..." she began.
She was immediately interrupted by several voices:
"What does that have to do with it?" "How is that relevant?" "We've already discussed this!" "Him again..."
Yaroslavo did not answer any of them. She only raised her head, and her aura, heavy and commanding, rolled over the hall, silencing even those who had already opened their mouths to object. Velimyra felt pride but maintained a stoic expression, watching her daughter closely.
"His illness is a side effect of power overload," Yaroslavo said.
The words hung in the air, and something changed in the hall. Not noise—on the contrary, silence, but the kind in which you can hear someone exhaling slowly in a corner.
"Overload..." someone repeated almost soundlessly, and several heads turned slightly in his direction. "At that age?" came another voice, already more muffled. "If that's true..." a third trailed off, not finishing.
A quiet, nervous whispering rippled through the rows. Some looked away, others, on the contrary, stared at Yaroslavo as if trying to gauge whether she understood what she had said.
"You know what happens," someone from the front rows threw in, and added nothing more. There was no need. "I've seen it." "Me too." "After that, they don't come back."
Myroslava felt these fragments of phrases cut into her like a blade. She didn't understand all the subtext, but she felt—there was nothing good in these words.
"It's the end." "Or worse." "Worse," someone repeated quietly, and at that word her fingers went cold.
She saw how the expressions on several older mages changed for a moment—not fear, but something deeper, like a memory of something better left unrecalled.
Yaroslavo stood straight, but pressure built in her chest—not from doubt, but because every one of their gazes was like a test. She knew: they all understood what that word meant, and that was why they feared it more than any illness.
Velimyra did not take her eyes off the hall. She saw how someone's shoulders tightened, how someone shifted their foot almost imperceptibly, as if preparing to retreat. And she knew: this was enough to sow the necessary seed.
But a few skeptics suddenly felt a chill run down their spines. They slowly turned their gaze to Velimyra, and she answered them with only a faint smile—the kind that promised nothing good.
"The power in his body exceeds that of the Voivode of the Princely Guard," said Yaroslavo.
Her words tore through the silence like a ball of wool unraveling into a thousand threads.
"That's impossible!" someone from the front rows exclaimed. "He's a child, not even twenty winters old!" "True!" another picked up. "It's a lie! He couldn't withstand such power—he'd be torn to shreds!" "She's fooling us!"
Myroslava, hearing these words, grew even paler. Each denial hit her like a blow, but she did not look away from Yaroslavo.
Meanwhile, several mages turned to their elders, began asking questions:
"Who is this voivode?" "Is he really that strong?" "You really don't know?!" came with indignation.
Those who were asked awkwardly lowered their heads.
"This is why I always say that mages should know the world, not sit in towers all the time!" an elder said with emphasis.
He mocked their ignorance a little, then added:
"Do you know our Voivode Boryviter?"
Some nodded excitedly... They had seen Boryviter in battle more than once—how he stopped an assault with a single motion, how his body moved with the precision of a predator, how the earth trembled under his steps. And they envied Velimyra, who was his wife. Imagined what might happen if they were in her place—not out of desire, but out of hunger for power, for proximity to one who embodied it.
"And yet," a seasoned mage said dryly, "he is worth nothing even compared to a Princely Guardsman."
The hall fell silent. Gazes turned to him—disbelieving, offended, wary.
"That can't be true..." someone muttered, but was immediately interrupted by another: "Only the best are selected for the Princely Guard. Those who have proven their strength through years of faithful service on the barrier. Boryviter is already expecting an invitation. Maybe this winter, maybe next—he will go."
"Ah, I heard about that," someone from the back rows spoke up. "From Slavko."
"The one in the patrol squad?" one of the sorceresses asked, leaning forward.
"No, the one from the raid team. I was amusing myself with him yesterday, and he let it slip."
"Don't keep us in suspense," several voices said impatiently from different sides. "What did he say?"
"That Boryviter will go completely alone. Leave everything to his son."
"Oh, now it's clear why Velimyra is so tense," someone said with a mocking tone.
The name Velimyra, spoken aloud, seemed to have its own power. She immediately turned her head, and her gaze—heavy as a stone pressing on the chest—made everyone fall silent.
Silence fell sharply, as if someone had cut a string. In it was everything: fear, guesses, and something more—a premonition that what had been said so far was only a prelude.
The hall had been buzzing dully a moment ago, but now even the crackling of torches seemed too loud. Someone nervously fidgeted with the edge of a sleeve, someone tapped fingers on a bench, trying to hide impatience.
And into this silence, from the right wing, came a level voice saturated with icy mockery:
"Velimyra... I came out of respect for you. But I heard only fairy tales and promises."
She slowly turned her gaze to Yaroslavo.
"It's not a fairy tale!" she retorted sharply, and for the first time that evening, open defiance appeared in her voice. Inside, she felt her heart beating faster, but not from fear—from anger that her words were being doubted again.
"Really?" Ladomyra raised an eyebrow slightly. "Because it sounds exactly like it. Sometimes, when you lack experience, it's better to consult those who have seen more than to just believe your own guesses."
Yaroslavo faltered for a moment, swallowed air, trying to find words: "I... I know what I saw..."
"And I know what I verified," Ladomyra interrupted, and there was no anger in her voice, only cold confidence. "I spoke with healers. They confirmed: the boy just has a rare course of fever. And maybe a slight overload from constantly being under your supervision."
"That's not true," Myroslava said quietly but firmly. Her voice trembled, but not from fear—from offense that her son's illness was being reduced to rumors.
Ladomyra didn't even glance in her direction. A slight movement of her fingers—and a sharp, heavy gust of wind swept through the hall, striking Myroslava and making her stagger.
Yaroslavo rushed forward. Her hands flew up, and a transparent barrier flared between Myroslava and Ladomyra. The air struck it with such a crash that the floor shook underfoot. The barrier trembled, and Yaroslavo had to lean on Myroslava's shoulder to hold it.
Velimyra watched this without any movement, stoically, almost indifferently. But deep in her gaze, a brief satisfaction flashed—her daughter was acting as she should.
Ladomyra stepped back half a step, addressing all the mages now: "Did you really believe the boy could have that much power? It's simply impossible. We all know very well what happens to those who have too much power they can't control."
"She's right..." came from the left. "Yes, it's dangerous..." someone from the back rows added. "What if she's lying to cover something else?" another threw in.
Velimyra was silent, then said quietly, but so that all heard: "You don't trust me?"
Ladomyra paused, then with a faint smile replied: "Of course, I trust... but would it be too much to see proof?"
Velimyra looked away from her and scanned the hall: "Anyone else?"
"We believe," one of the mages said, "but proof wouldn't hurt." "Yes, better to be sure," another added. "If the truth is on your side—what is there to fear?" a third threw in.
"You want proof?" Velimyra said evenly. "You will have it."