VUUU... VUUU...
Medved's trumpet sounded, cutting through the frozen silence of the cloudy morning and echoing throughout the valley. The sound reverberated along the snow-covered slopes, shaking the frozen white even miles away.
That call was rare. In the past two years, the southern defenses had held — not with glorious victories, but with small gains, like reducing the number of bodies sent back. No one dared dream of the war's end, but even a pause would be a long-sought gift.
Now, the trumpet's sound brought not rest, but officers. A few, coming from the South, East, and West. Signs that something bigger was about to happen.
Nikolai lifted his face, still groggy from the night before. The usual aches throbbed under the cold, but his voice came out low, almost a whisper:
— So... the day has finally come.
Even with the scars hidden under his coat, his abnormal recovery was visible — a body that put itself back together night after night, as if mocking pain itself. To many, it was nearly a miracle. To him, just the routine of someone who had no choice.
But none of that mattered. Being a punching bag that stood up every day didn't make him a fighter. It only prolonged the miserable show.
Nikolai got up and put on his second set of clothes.
The first was soaking, trying to dissolve the blood — a slow and nearly useless process.
The one he was wearing now would be for use. The luxury of having a closet full of clothes was something someone like him could never afford.
He didn't waste time tidying the room, nor did he bother throwing away the sour soup from the night before.
But he made sure to put the rest of the bread Vadim had brought into his mouth all at once.
While chewing, his mouth full, he carried a single thought:
"If I'm going to die, I want to die with a full belly."
He left without looking back — the door left wide open, the cold wind entering like it owned the place. Still, after a few steps, he turned. The house was there, as dead as everything it had once sheltered in happiness.
— You're not going to leave the door open today, are you? — the raspy voice sounded behind him, thick with phlegm and exhaustion.
Nikolai recognized it without needing to turn.
— Miss Vadim... good morning. I think maybe it's better...
The words caught in his throat, too painful to be spoken. That's when something bit his leg. Not hard, but enough to snap him out of his daze. He looked down and found the small culprit: a black bear just over half a meter tall, annoyed and full of energy, but wearing a headband that made the scene almost comical.
— Olga! Stop that right now. — Vadim stepped forward, carrying a cloth bag. In the sling strapped to her chest, the curious face of a baby watched everything. — Sorry, Nikolai... she gets like this sometimes.
— Don't worry. — He gently ran his hand over the little one's head, who let out a whiny sound, almost a purr.
— If I don't see you again...
— Goodbye, Olga.
The bear grumbled but didn't resist the rough touch it seemed to need so much.
Nikolai then looked up at Vadim.
— She gets more beautiful every day, Mrs. Vadim... I'll be going.
Her gaze saddened, but her voice came out firm, like a silent vow:
— See you soon.
Nikolai smiled, surprised. But he didn't answer. Too many promises had already been buried under those walls for there to be room left for hope.
Nikolai didn't plan to stay to see the arrival of the summoned officers. His pace, slower than the others, could delay him — and that day he didn't have the luxury of wasting time. From the staircase, the sounds reached him: shouts, roars, heavy footsteps that made the stone tremble.
"Judging by the noise… three high-quality brown bears. No whites this time. Three kilometers. I probably still have fifteen minutes."
At only seventeen winters, he carried an almost sickly curiosity for numbers — an obsession that, over time, had become a skill. By sound alone, he could distinguish the species; and as he did, he also calculated weight, size, distance. From that, he could deduce not only the rank within the group but also their speed and the number of individuals.
If anyone had the slightest interest in observing Nikolai closely, they'd discover that he was never wrong — something extraordinary in someone considered so ordinary.
What to him was merely logic… to anyone else would sound like pure madness.
When Nikolai finally arrived at his destination, the room was empty — everyone, on that particular day, sought comfort with their families or gathered on the plain to watch the event. For Nikolai, however, only solitude remained.
The silence stretched like a rope about to snap, and anxiety seeped into every breath, heavy as lead.
He let himself fall onto the cold, monotonous chair, which received him without comfort. The hard wood pressed against his back, reminding him of how alone he was. His gaze wandered across the emptiness of the ceiling, lost in thoughts that dragged between memories and omens.
There, in that void, he looked less like a seventeen-winter-old boy and more like a condemned man awaiting the executioner's touch.
— I thought I'd be the first to arrive.
The sweet voice pulled him from his stupor. Nikolai blinked, slowly lowered his eyes, and only then noticed the girl beside him.
— Irina... I'm sorry, I didn't see you come in.
— No problem. — She tried to smile, but her voice faltered for a moment. — I take that as a success on my part.
Irina paused briefly while she looked closely at the beautiful boy in front of her.
— Aren't you nervous?
He watched her for a moment. Her face was still wet, nose red, breath shaky — signs that she had cried the night before, perhaps even just hours ago.
— Six winters. — he replied coldly.
Irina frowned. Nikolai noticed and added:
— The last time a woman died in Vybor. Women are more likely to become magical vessels for the blues and are well liked by the blacks — especially the more intelligent ones. They are rarely rejected. They... are far smarter than they let on.
The words, cold and rational, sounded like a twisted kind of comfort. But Irina couldn't help but feel the impact. Nikolai always knew everything, and yet, in just a few phrases, he revealed why she would likely survive… and why he didn't stand a chance.
More men died. The bears chose those who had value. What could be special about a boy with only one leg?
Irina found herself thinking, almost in shock:
"But he seems so calm..."
The room, once empty, was now quickly filling up. It was clear that most people there carried the same anxiety as Irina — some more, some less — but still, Nikolai remained isolated and distant, a pariah even among his own.
Even Oleg and his gang — always wrapped in their natural insolence — now showed a palpable tension, enough to make them simply ignore Nikolai. No taunts, no sideways glances.
If it were any other day... this would be a good day for Nikolai.
— Gentlemen, I apologize for the delay — announced Professor Anton, his voice firm but carrying a nervousness that was hard to hide. — I was showing the location to our guests, who will be joining us for the ritual. I want to introduce them briefly, as they will most likely be the officers you will answer to from today onward. Please, come in.
The hushed murmur fell silent immediately.
Anton followed the procedure with precision, like someone reciting a memorized liturgy, without stumbling over names or ranks. For everyone in the room, it was a shock: there's always a bigger fish, and they had just felt the weight of that truth.
The first to enter was a tall woman. Nothing in her body resembled the slender curves some had hoped for — there was rigidity in every gesture, coldness in every line of her face. Her short hair emphasized the hardness in her expression, and there was no trace of affection in her eyes.
— Marina Sobolev — announced Anton, with visible respect. — Deputy officer of the Southern Armored Commander himself and one of the few Muromets in our kingdom. Please welcome her with a round of applause.
The applause came, but lukewarm, almost uncomfortable.
In silence, Nikolai studied the woman's expression. Among the three guests, she was clearly the one who had seen war up close. Her record spoke for itself: serving among the Ursai armored forces meant being buried in battle, pushing steel against steel, stabbing and being stabbed. There was no way to survive there without dry blood on your hands.
Unlike the other two officers — young, still early in their careers, invited merely as padding for the event — Marina radiated a presence that crushed.
She was hard. Practical. The mere fact that she was there already made one thing clear: for her, war wasn't some distant concept — it was breath itself.
The fact that she was a Muromets came as no surprise. It was almost inevitable.
After all, the Muromets weren't just warriors — they were legions in the shape of a person.
Capable of changing the course of a war simply by stepping into it.
And that…
Was more terrifying than any enemy could ever anticipate.
A careful look was enough to notice:
Even in a "calm" moment like accompanying youths to a ritual, Marina never lowered her guard.
She didn't smile.
She didn't relax.
As if she were ready for the ground to open up at any moment — and when it did, to fall fighting to the end.
— Anton, I'll take these children's time — she said, her voice as sharp as a blade.
It wasn't a request, and yet Anton, almost instinctively, replied with formality:
— Of course, Miss Sobolev. Be my guest.
Marina stepped into the center of the hall and raised her voice as if everyone there were deaf. Each syllable was a sharp blow, each word, a crushing weight. She left no room for misunderstandings, no double meanings, no false hope. The families had already given these youths courage; what she would give them now… was reality.
— Today, many of you will die.
And your bodies will be devoured by our allies — so they may grow stronger and more robust.
She let silence fall for a moment, only to crush the anxious minds before her even further.
— I don't want to create illusions. This place where you're sitting is not an auditorium. It's a wake, held in advance.
Her gaze swept across every face, sharp as a blade.
— But know this: if you survive, if you pass the trial ahead of you, you will no longer be just youths in the shadow of the wall. You will be citizens. You will be worthy of respect among your equals.
Marina's breath echoed between the cold walls — steady, unbreakable.
— The North does not wait.
The dead are piling up.
And this… this will be only the first of many trials yet to come.
Much harder trials.
Much crueler.
But I promise you — we will be with you through each and every one of them.
Marina's cry echoed through the hall like thunder, dragging everyone into the response.
— We will prevail!
— We will prevail! — they repeated in unison, as it had always been since times beyond memory. Even Nikolai, who so often remained silent, felt his lips move on their own, as if that were the only prayer still left to the people of the abyss.
Then, Anton asked everyone to rise for the officers' inspection.
No weapons, no devices, nothing that could stain the honor of the northern people in the most intimate moment of the tradition.
The officers passed row by row with cold, mechanical, emotionless gazes — just following protocol. But Marina Sobolev did not.
She stopped before each youth, placed the weight of her gaze into their eyes, and offered them words of honor. Some heard promises of courage. Others, vows of strength. The room seemed to breathe deeper, inflated by the rare recognition of a veteran.
But when it came time for Nikolai, the other officers walked straight past him.
Sometimes, it was easy to tell who wouldn't live to see the end of the night.
Nikolai felt his mouth go dry. The creak of the wood against his ankle seemed to scream his weakness to everyone. Hatred pulsed in his throat.
And then, Marina Sobolev — who had finally reached him — broke the silence.
She leaned in slowly to his ear, and her words were as cold as the steel of a blade pressed against the neck:
— May the lamb be plentiful for the wolf.
May your death never be remembered.
And when the time comes… die like a man.
A chill ran down his spine.
Nikolai's chest burned with hatred, contempt, and rage — not because of the cruelty of the words, but because, deep down, he knew they were spoken with the cold certainty of someone who believed she was simply stating the inevitable.
As everyone began descending, after the speech and the ceremony, toward Vybor, a strange sound started to spread.
A dry, uneven creaking, like bones being crushed, teeth chewing stones.
No one knew where it came from.
But Nikolai knew.
It was his own jaw.
His teeth were clenched under the absurd pressure of the hatred he was swallowing. Each crack echoed like thunder in his head. The metallic taste of blood began to spread in his mouth, but he didn't stop.
His eyes burned, red — not from tears, but from pure hatred that seemed to throb in his veins.
Every muscle in his frail body trembled as if ready to rip the air around him apart.
And, without realizing it, he had become something no one there dared to name.
All who looked at him in that moment did not see the cripple, the limping boy, the eternal punching bag.
They saw an animal.
They saw a primal fury.
They saw fear.
And deep in his chest, Nikolai made his promise. Silent. Deadly.
— I will not die.