—
The deep voice echoed through the vaulted hall, resonating against the ancient stone as though each wall still remembered the burden of centuries.
"The Medved Abyss was raised nearly three hundred years ago,"
the professor began, his tone heavy with reverence.
"Records are scarce and fragmented. We do not know precisely who ordered its construction, nor whose hands carried it out. Some say it was the King of the Ursai — the last sovereign of the northern bloodline. Others claim it was Queen Anastasia herself, the Survivor, who raised these walls with blood and tears."
A reverent silence followed. The memory of that cursed sovereign drifted through the room like a shadow.
Professor Anton, his back slightly hunched with age, spoke as though he were awakening something sacred within his listeners — or perhaps within himself. The topic was nothing new, yet it demanded respect. After all, the culture of a place spoke volumes of its past — and even more of its future. History, he often said, was the reflection of human decisions, both noble and disastrous.
"Of course," he added with a scornful smile, "I was never one to believe in fairy tales."
The words broke the tension, but not the weight of his voice.
"The fact remains," he continued, "that this castle we now inhabit was built upon the first recorded Berlóga — the home of our beloved beasts, and to this day, regarded as the Mother of our roots."
He paused, his gaze distant, as if each syllable carried the echo of an irrevocable truth.
"Ironically, in these troubled times, we return to the place where it all began."
The professor let the silence settle again. His eyes wandered across the young faces before him.
"Does anyone dare to say the reason for our return?"
The oval hall sank into stillness. No one spoke. The question hung in the air like a verdict, and everyone knew its meaning — total loss. A final move, an all-in where the winner took everything… and the loser lost it all. The people of the North had lost.
Clearing his throat, Anton turned his gaze to the front row.
"Miss Irina," he said, "perhaps you could enlighten us."
A blonde girl barely lifted her eyes. Her gaze — dark as the night — remained fixed on her notebook, her quill gliding across the page as if the world beyond it were mere noise. There was something defiant in her stillness, a quiet insolence that did not go unnoticed. Perhaps that was why he had chosen her for the question.
Without halting her writing, Irina raised her chin and met his eyes, cool and unflinching.
"The Great Alliance," she said firmly.
"That was the cause of our defeat, Professor Anton."
A murmur rippled through the hall. The old professor shifted uneasily, age betraying the rigidity of his posture. Irina's answer was not wrong — merely raw. He sighed, allowing a brief, weary smile to soften the moment.
"Very bold of you," he said at last, "to blame the consequence and not the cause. I admit I would not have thought of such a cunning response."
The class remained divided. To some, her words sounded premature, even provocative; to others, unsettlingly true. Yet the more one pondered them, the more their simplicity revealed itself — the blunt honesty of a chain of complex choices. In the end, reason was nothing but a means, and the end had already been decided.
The bell shattered the silence.
Baaaaaahhh.
Its metallic cry vibrated through the stone walls, shaking the hall from its trance. Desks scraped, voices rose; the spell of thought dissolved into the comfort of noise. Complexity, after all, is an invitation easily declined by the ignorant.
But one boy did not move. He remained motionless, lost in Irina's words — his posture composed, his expression distant, as though he inhabited a different world entirely.
He was, to his misfortune, beautiful. Not a beauty that elevated, but one that condemned. It marked him, branded him, set him apart.
His features were almost divine in symmetry, yet his eyes betrayed the curse that haunted him: one as pale as the frozen lakes of the North, the other as dark as a moonless abyss. The old tales whispered that such eyes were the gift — or punishment — of the Goddess Lada* herself.
That duality made him a living paradox: winter and flame, shadow and light entwined in the same fragile body. He burned quietly at the heart of the darkness — a presence impossible to ignore, even when he longed to vanish.
To those around him, his beauty was not an inspiration but a mirror that revealed their own mediocrity. And for many, that reflection was unbearable.
"You little shit… where's your Vale? I'm starving today, and one plate won't be enough to satisfy Oleg the Magnificent!"
The voice cut through his reverie. He recognized it immediately. As much as he hated to admit it, that provocation had long become part of his daily routine — an unavoidable burden he carried in silence.
Nikolai slowly lifted his face, his gaze cold and unmoving.
"Go fuck yourself, Oleg."
Oleg — the Rat, as he was called behind his back — had a thin face, eyebrows perpetually drawn into a scowl, and a kind of coarse beauty that only served to accentuate his mediocrity. His features disturbed rather than attracted, like a flaw disguised as a mark of uniqueness.
Where grace was lacking, brute strength abounded. And it was that very strength which made Oleg dangerous — a constant shadow that loomed over Nikolai like a cruel reminder of his own fragility.
Oleg needed no excuse, no cause. Nikolai himself was the reason — a living target, an irritating flame that refused to die out. To Oleg, extinguishing that light was not a desire but a ritual.
A twisted smile curved Oleg's lips as he descended the steps slowly, drawing the attention of the room. He positioned himself before the class, puffing his chest with theatrical pride.
"I, Oleg the Magnificent, challenge you, Nikolai — to the Gulag!"
A wave of laughter followed, a cruel echo that filled the hall. The students had seen this scene countless times — the strong crushing the weak, the cycle repeating itself like an ancient curse.
Oleg stood as proof that beauty held no power in that cold, brutal world. In the North, where children were born within walls of ice and stone, violence was heritage, and cruelty was tradition. Love, compassion, passion — all were weaknesses to be eradicated.
To be beautiful in such a land was no blessing. It was a flaw.
Nikolai rested his arms on the desk before him. For a moment, his composure revealed something fragile — a crack in the body of a god. Even then, the eyes of the girls around him watched with disdain, as if his imperfection were a blemish on perfection itself.
The sharp crack of wood striking the desk's foot echoed through the hall. Laughter followed, shrill and eager. Every taunt, every gesture, every act of cruelty was a reminder of what he was — or rather, what he was not.
Nikolai rose slowly, each movement deliberate, his face an unbroken mask. His right knee throbbed. The wooden leg creaked in the cold, its stiffness betraying the weight of his pain. But there was nothing else to do; that crude piece of timber was the only thing keeping him from collapse.
He stood in the most Homeric way he could — each step a quiet rebellion against humiliation. He walked firmly, though the wood beneath him offered no mercy, no sensation. With every movement, the risk of stumbling followed close behind, like a shadow that refused to leave his side.
Nikolai descended the steps before him. The creak of his wooden leg echoed through the hall, and with it came the muffled laughter of the boys. Each sound fed their mockery. Yet when he reached the final step without falling, a collective sigh of relief escaped the girls' lips — as loud as the bitter silence of the boys, disappointed to be denied the spectacle.
I'm getting used to this damned thing, he thought, feeling sweat slide down his forehead.
But no one saw. To every watching eye, he remained upright, cold, untouchable.
Still limping, he made his way to the door through which the professor had hurriedly vanished, unconcerned with what was happening behind him. Even staggering, Nikolai's figure commanded attention. It was the burden of being him — even in pain, he could never stop being watched.
"Let's get this over with."
He opened the door, signaling for Oleg to follow.
Oleg's smile widened — slow, poisonous, full of malice. He swaggered toward the exit, trailed by his gang of mediocrities. Each step summoned laughter, jeers, hungry eyes — the promise of another spectacle.
There was no difference between watching a beaten dog or a humiliated classmate. To them, it was all the same. The ritual repeated itself — day after day, like a curse that refused to die.
"Shall we watch the fight, Irina?" Zoya asked, leaning closer.
"What for?" Irina replied without emotion. "You and I already know how it's going to end."
The two girls watched as the room erupted into movement, a whirlwind of boys eager for violence. They were so different, and yet both were seen as the jewels of the class.
Zoya — red-haired and green-eyed — burned like fire. Irina, with her calm, distant beauty, was pure ice. Fire and ice, side by side. The contrast only made them more untouchable.
"Why do you think he puts up with it every day?" Zoya murmured. "After all, he can't even be considered a man anymore."
Irina didn't look away.
"He endures it to honor his family's name. Even in his condition, he still faces adversity. I don't think half the men here would do the same. To me, he's more of a man than the one who harasses him."
Zoya sighed, half amusement, half pity.
"Hmmm… you still like him, don't you?"
"Shut up, Zoya."
Irina's words were sharp, but her eyes betrayed a trace of pain.
"He could never provide for me. That's not how things work here. Just because I respect him doesn't mean I find him any less of an idiot than the rest of them."
She paused, her gaze softening.
"Besides," she added quietly, "I don't think he'll survive the Berlóga."
Zoya fell silent. She had never fully understood her friend — always rational, yet somehow full of emotion. Contradictory. Intense. As if Irina carried two opposing truths within the same heart.
Nikolai did not hurry.
He let the others go ahead, walking in slow, measured steps.
Outwardly, nothing betrayed him; his calm, almost lofty expression belonged to someone savoring each detail of the path.
But within, every step was silent torture.
The pain gnawed at him constantly, and the only way he had found to hide it was to walk as though he were the proudest of them all. It never helped — but it was better than walking bent, begging for compassion from people who deserved only his sword.
When he finally crossed the doors to the outer courtyard, Nikolai paused. To his right, the white vastness of the abyss opened like a frozen ocean. From the eastern wing of the castle, he could see the whole fortress — not merely his home, but his refuge.
The Medved Abyss rose implacably from the White Mountains, a scar of stone and snow. The fortress seemed ancient enough to have been born from the mountain itself, its walls carved by the earth's own bones. High cliffs clawed at the sky around it, and the unending cold wrapped it in an invisible armor.
At its heart stood the Fortress of the Nobles, granite towers piercing the clouds like spears of the gods. There rested the Great Trumpet, whose call could echo through the entire valley — herald of glory or omen of despair.
Ahead loomed the Abyss Wall, slick and cold, almost alive. So tall that no battering ram dared dream of breaching it, and so narrow that any army was forced into a single line — doomed before reaching the gate. Beneath it, a black river twisted through the rift, its icy waters whispering the secrets of ancient ambushes.
The valley encircling the fortress was crowned with curved hills, natural ramparts that carried the wind's mournful howls. By day, Medved looked like a tomb of stone — austere, cold, eternal. By night, under torchlight, it became a fragile refuge against the white eternity devouring it from all sides.
Even after seventeen winters of gazing upon that same horizon, Nikolai still lost his breath. Each time he looked upon the colossal fortress, he was reminded that he lived in a place built not merely to endure time, but to defy the very extinction of his people — the last stronghold of the Bear Tamers.
Goddess of beauty *