They walked. Without beginning, without end, without direction. The void had no boundaries, no form, no pity. It was everywhere—under their feet, above their heads, in their chests. It did not change, but it changed them.
Their steps lost rhythm. Their breathing became ragged. Their bodies—silent. They did not speak, because words crumbled before they were born. They did not think, because thoughts drowned in a white sea. They did not remember, because memory had no anchor.
The void acted slowly. It did not attack—it eroded. It did not break—it erased. Each of them felt something within them disappearing: name, voice, fear, hope. They became transparent, like the ice beneath their feet. And yet they walked.
And amid this march was he. Olekir. His steps did not change. His eyes did not dim. His presence was like a shadow that does not dissolve. They did not look at him—they simply followed. Not because he called. Not because he spoke. But because he walked.
The void did not accept them, but neither did it expel them. It simply was. And they were in it—like particles, like breaths, like traces that vanish the moment they appear. They did not know whether they were moving forward or circling. But Olekir walked, and they followed him.
They walked side by side, but not together. Each was alone in their silence, in their white sea. Myrolana did not look at Myroslava, Myroslava did not call Yaroslav, Yaroslav did not touch the others. Their names still echoed in memory, but no longer belonged to them. The void erased differences, made them identical, like prints on ice, and each step erased another facet of their individuality.
And yet they were bound. Not by word, not by glance, not by touch. They were held by Olekir. He walked ahead, and his steps were the rhythm that gathered them together. They did not know why they followed him, but they knew that without him their march would scatter like snow in the wind, and the void would swallow them completely.
Myrolana fell, and he lifted her, without asking if she wanted to rise. Myroslava got lost in the silence, and he found her, even when she no longer believed she existed. Yaroslav stopped, and he forced her to move on, even when every step felt like a verdict. They did not thank him, did not look at him, did not call his name. But every step of theirs was his step, every breath of theirs was his breath, and this dependence was stronger than any feeling.
They were not friends. They were not brothers or sisters. They were not even people walking together. They were a march held together around him. He was their center, their direction, their anchor. And the void could not break this anchor, because it was stronger than silence, stronger than death, stronger than infinity itself.
Sometimes they felt they hated him—for making them walk when they wanted to vanish. Sometimes they felt they loved him—for not letting them vanish. But these feelings were as powerless as words that crumbled in the void. They did not matter. Only one thing mattered: he walked, and their shadows followed him.
Their relationship was not a choice, but a law. They could not turn away from him, because the void would swallow them immediately. They could not stop, because his steps pulled them forward. They could not forget him, because he was their only memory, the only image that did not fade in the white sea.
And they walked. Not together, but as one. Not with love, not with faith, not with hope. But with a bond that had no explanation. It was like an invisible thread that held them in motion, even when they no longer had themselves. And this thread was stronger than any fear, because it was Olekir himself.
Their long journey changed them. The void did not only erase memory and break will—it rewrote characters, blurred old bonds, formed new ones. What was once fear became endurance. What was weakness became silence. What was friendship became rhythm. They no longer held on to each other—they held on to the march.
Their relationships were no longer emotional—they became structural. They did not support—they balanced. Every step was not a gesture, but a form. Every breath was not salvation, but discipline. They did not seek warmth—they learned to maintain equilibrium.
The burden they carried was greater than any battle. But it was this burden that allowed them to develop control—not only over the body, but over what flowed through it. The strength that once burst forth chaotically now flowed evenly. It was no longer a flash—it became a current. Not an explosion—but pressure. Not a cry—but silence that held form.
Their steps became more precise. Their breaths—deeper. Their bodies—not stronger, but purer. They did not build muscle—they shed excess. They did not become heavier—they became more precise.
But the one who changed the most was Olekir. Once he was a boy walking among them—quiet, attentive, silent. Now he had become an adult, but not in the way adults usually grow. His body did not gain bulk, did not become heavy or cumbersome. On the contrary—it refined itself, like a blade that needs no hilt to be deadly.
His figure was slender, almost fragile. High cheekbones, deep eyes, precise movements. There was something feminine about him, something delicate, something that seemed vulnerable. But this vulnerability was a deception. The void did not just temper him—it recomposed him. Changed his skeleton, rebuilt his connections, cleansed his body of excess.
He became an almost perfect machine of battle—not in armor, but in balance. His strength did not shout, it flowed under his skin like a quiet river. His presence did not press, it altered space. And those who followed him did not always understand why they could not break away—but they knew they could not.
Olekir was not a warrior in the classical sense. He was a form of battle that required no display. His body—like a tool with no excess. His gaze—like an axis that held the march. His silence—like a law that needed no words.
They stopped amid the white space as if they had chosen this moment themselves. The snow accepted their bodies softly, and the cold settled on them evenly, not penetrating inside but enveloping them like a light blanket. They arranged themselves freely, each in their place, but all nearby, in a peace that required no explanation.
Their breathing was even, deep, and the air entered easily, like pure water. The wind slid over their faces, leaving no trace, and the snow fell quietly, like a game that did not disturb but added rhythm to the silence. Their bodies did not hide—they lay open, relaxed, as if the void no longer had power over them.
They sat in the snow, and the void was no longer an enemy. It became the backdrop of their silence, the space in which every movement mattered. They no longer needed words to understand one another—their bodies, their glances, their touches spoke deeper than any language.
Their movements revealed habit. Yaroslav embraced Olekir as if she knew he would not push her away—her hands found his shoulders confidently, her lips touched his without hesitation. This was not a new gesture, it was a continuation of what had happened before, and the void silently accepted their closeness.
Myrolana sat nearby, as always, trying to hide her gaze, but it was too obvious. Her silence was familiar, her presence expected. And when Olekir reached out to pull her closer, she was not surprised. Their lips met as if they already knew this language, and Yaroslav remained nearby, not objecting, because this too was part of their new rhythm.
Myroslava watched them with quiet satisfaction. Her gaze was tender, almost maternal, but in the depths of that gaze lived another force—deeper, forbidden, one that had no right to words. She had seen their closeness before, had observed their intimacy, and each time her silence grew heavier, deeper, but she did not look away.
Their silence was full. In it echoed breaths, movements, hearts. They no longer needed language, because the void had taught them another way of understanding. Every touch was an expression, every glance an answer, every pause an agreement. And this language was already familiar, practiced, like a ritual repeated again and again.
Olekir and the girls rested, nestling in the soft snow that no longer froze their bodies. Their faces glowed with calm, and their breaths were even, as if after a long journey. But it was in this silence that he felt the difference.
The power that always flowed around them like a river now barely moved. It had not disappeared, but its flow was strange—not straight, not directed, but spread out, like a frozen sea. It was a feeling that the space around them obeyed no direction.
Olekir slowly freed himself from Yaroslav's embrace and stood up. His movements were cautious, because he felt: the space around had changed. He applied his magic, and the power retreated, dissolved, leaving beneath his feet flawless blue ice—smooth as a mirror, hiding the depths.
He concentrated again and expelled the power from this space, but the next moment it surged back. It returned from all sides, like water filling a void. It was incredible: usually the power flowed in one direction, and that was what allowed him to navigate the void. But here, in this place, it had no direction. It was everywhere at once, without beginning or end.
He froze, staring at the blue ice beneath his feet. His heart beat faster, because he understood: they were sitting in a place where power did not flow, but converged. This was the center of the void, its heart. And it was here that it revealed its true nature.
The air around grew thicker, almost tangible on the skin. It did not just envelop them—it pressed from all sides, like an invisible ocean. Every breath was a gulp of this power, every movement a part of its rhythm. The snow underfoot seemed tender but concealed a solid foundation that glowed blue. The ice was flawless, like crystal, and in its depths was a silence that did not belong to humans.
Olekir smiled. He had waited, longed, and walked so long for this moment. Laughter escaped his lungs, carrying a spark of joy but also a hint of madness born from excessive tension. But the next moment he stopped.
He looked at his companions, making sure he had not disturbed their sleep. Their faces were calm, their breathing even, and he felt relief—they did not know that he now stood on the threshold of fulfilling his plan.
Olekir lowered his eyes again to the blue ice beneath his feet. It shone like flawless crystal, and in its depths he saw the reflection of his own journey—all the steps that had led here. This was the heart of the void, and he knew: his plan had begun to work.
Olekir smiled again, but this time his smile was quiet, restrained. He did not want to disturb their sleep. Because ahead lay something greater, and he knew: when they awoke, the world around them would already be different.