The food was flavorful in a way that felt almost impossible.
For the first time in a long while, Nikolai tasted fresh fruits and vegetables. In the North, such foods were rarer than gold — even meat was more common than the crisp bite of lettuce or the sweetness of a carrot freshly harvested from the nobles' greenhouses.
Each bite seemed to tear away a fragment of his miserable past.
And for the first time in years, his belly began to swell with satisfaction.
He had almost forgotten what that simple — and divine — sensation felt like.
The hall vibrated with voices, laughter, and the clinking of glasses. It was the annual celebration for the newcomers — a privilege reserved exclusively for the Tamers.
No outsiders.
No children.
A sacred space for those who had crossed the abyss between death and glory.
Nikolai had never set foot there before.
"Nikolai!"
Irina's voice cut through the hum of the hall, bright and alive.
"You missed the Triad's speech. They said incredible things about this year."
Her excitement was contagious.
"We're the only group that managed to get both Whites and Browns together — and in greater numbers than ever before."
She smiled, almost reverently.
"Our names will be written in the Book of Truth."
The words echoed inside him like thunder.
The Book of Truth.
An eternal record.
Not merely a list of survivors.
Not merely warriors.
But history itself.
The Book of Truth was ancient and sacred, guarded as fiercely as the memory of the world. It was rarely updated — and when it was, it recorded deeds that defied normality.
Moments so rare they became legend.
Now, their names would be among those pages.
Two Browns.
One White.
Nearly two dozen Tamers.
A generation like that had never existed before.
It was a singular event — and the ink that would engrave their names would carry the weight of centuries.
The book itself was not accessible to common folk. Only those who lived within the Fortress of the Nobles were permitted to glimpse its fragments.
Even so, the mere act of having one's name written within it was an honor that transcended a lifetime.
To be remembered.
To become part of eternity.
Irina leaned closer, still glowing with youthful excitement.
"He also said we didn't just have Whites and Browns…"
Her eyes narrowed playfully.
"But even a stray bear."
She tilted her head toward Nikolai, mischief dancing in her gaze.
"I think they were talking about your Gray."
Irina sounded genuinely thrilled by the discovery.
It wasn't simple curiosity — there was reverence in her tone.
By now, whispers had already spread through the hall about the strange bear bound to Nikolai. An unusual coat was not unheard of, but this case was different.
The Gray stood out for more than color.
His face was unique.
His snout longer than expected.
His eyes carried an intensity unfamiliar to any of the four known species.
Even his proportions defied comparison.
Other rare bears recorded in history — ink-black, crimson, even golden — still bore recognizable traits of known lineages.
This one did not.
The Deviants — as atypical bears were called due to their unusual forms and palettes — were exceedingly rare.
Their rarity did not guarantee strength.
But it did suggest that something singular was at work.
Even if it was a gamble, their appearance was always celebrated as a sign of possibility.
After all…
Not every Deviant was stronger than a common bear.
But every truly exceptional Tamer in history had carried the mark of bonding with something that did not belong.
Whether through a great or small difference, that trait — diverging from mediocrity — was always present.
"Apparently, according to the records… they believe your bear comes from the depths of Vybor — said Irina in a lower tone, almost as if just uttering it were dangerous. — Probably from the high caste level."
Nikolai swallowed hard.
The high caste level.
Just hearing that name made his skin crawl.
The rulers — or simply, the untamable ones.
Those who dictated the laws in Vybor in absolute terms.
No one knew how the hierarchy worked down there, but everyone knew the legend:
whatever was spoken by them became law, passed on by the Druid, echoed by the mouth of the Gatekeeper.
And questioning it was impossible.
Irina, perhaps noticing the weight of it on him, tried to lighten the mood.
"But… there are also those who say something different must have happened for that "big baby" to show up.
Some whisper that he might have been the weakest of the litter… or worse things."
She trailed off, bit her lip, then concluded gently:
"If you hear that kind of talk, just… ignore it, okay?"
Nikolai lowered his eyes to the Gray in his lap.
The bear chewed voraciously, oblivious to any rumor or fate others might try to impose on him.
To others, he might be a weakness, a mistake, or even an exception…
but to Nikolai, he was already everything.
The annual event came to an end when the great gates opened.
The first one — the one Nikolai had entered through — opened with a deep metallic creak;
the second, at the opposite end, revealed the path from which family members and guests arrived.
A stern-looking man, wrapped in a heavy cloak, brought a strange horn to his lips.
The sound that echoed wasn't joyful nor sorrowful — it was solemn,
like an ancient call burdened with centuries of tradition.
At that sound, everyone stood.
The crowd moved in silence, flowing outward in slow, orderly steps,
as if each were following a sacred ritual.
Twenty minutes later, the hall that once pulsed with voices and celebration had become an almost empty space.
Only the seventeen chosen ones remained.
Each of them was surrounded by family — embraced, wept over, whispered to with farewells.
Even Irina quickly left Nikolai's side to be with her family.
The sound was a strange mosaic: joyful sobs, stifled crying, promises spoken or simply heard,
and prayers murmured like amulets against the cruel fate that awaited them.
Nikolai, however, was alone.
Standing at a distance, he watched the scene like an intruder in a painting to which he didn't belong.
Families gathered in intimate circles — small havens of human warmth.
And he… was just a solitary shadow in the vast hall.
The contrast was almost dystopian: dozens of warm reunions,
and in the midst of them, a single young man surrendered to silence —
with no arms to hold him, no voices to promise him protection.
Even so, the solitude did not feel foreign to him.
On the contrary: it filled him.
It was like an old companion — cold, silent, but constant.
Always lurking. Always present.
Nikolai knew how to survive it.
In time, he had learned to treat it as part of himself,
like the shadow that had followed him for many years.
Sometimes, it hurt like a blade buried in his chest;
other times, it was just a bearable weight — almost indifferent —
that blended with the very air he breathed.
There were no laments in his heart at that moment.
Only the acceptance that, even if no one else walked by his side, he would still go on.
Because solitude, as cruel as it was, was no longer an enemy —
it was the only certainty he knew.
After another twenty minutes, the horn sounded for the second time.
The sound echoed deeper, as if it were a final cut —
a silent order for the families to leave.
One by one, they withdrew, dragging their feet,
as if with each step the ground grew heavier.
Five minutes later, the hall was empty once again.
Only the seventeen chosen ones remained — the future Tamers.
The cloaked man finally lowered the horn.
When his voice rose, it shattered the silence like thunder —
deep, imposing, full of authority, yet devoid of embellishment.
A command that didn't ask — it ordered.
"Sleep. Tomorrow, you will leave for the outpost.
The journey will be long and hostile — so rest."
The man's voice reverberated as if carried by the very stone of the hall.
Without another word, he turned and left the room — but not before sealing the outer gate with a single gesture.
The sound of the lock echoed deeply, as if an invisible wall had been raised, reminding everyone that there was no way out.
Only one door remained open.
Nikolai knew what it meant: it was time to return to the rooms.
Time to rest.
The Gray didn't give him time to hesitate.
"SLEEP."
The word exploded in his mind with the force of muffled thunder, breaking the daze that had gripped him since the ceremony.
"Yes… you're right. I'm tired too."
He replied softly, almost as if speaking to himself.
He could have joined the others, waited for conversation among the chosen,
but he chose not to prolong the night.
Without looking back, he left them to their own words and walked alone toward the gate.
He crossed it and turned right.
The identical walls of the corridor stretched out like a stone maze,
but his memory was still sharp.
"Fifteen doors to the right… we're here."
The door creaked as it opened, revealing his simple but silent room.
The world outside seemed distant, as if the very night itself had been locked away with the gates.
He ignored the voices echoing from the corridor and the other rooms —
muffled laughter, conversations about the Triad's speech,
Zoya's excitement as she dreamed of the thermal baths.
None of it mattered.
What weighed on Nikolai was exhaustion —
the kind that made him feel as though he had carried the entire world on his shoulders.
As he lay down, the Gray didn't hesitate.
He jumped onto him and curled up on his belly —
his weight dense, yet comforting.
"Well… I guess this is going to become a routine."
He murmured, closing his eyes.
The animal's warmth filled a void he had carried for far too long.
For the first time in years, Nikolai didn't feel the chill of solitude.
He was no longer alone.
And that night, before sleep claimed him, one certainty lingered:
Tomorrow wouldn't just be the start of something new…
It would be the beginning of something greater —
something that perhaps not even the Book of Truth could contain.