The Berlóga was not just a cave — it was a colossal hole on the western side of the wall.
The entire settlement of Medved had risen around it, as if the very life of those people orbited that dark place. It wasn't the only chasm ever discovered, but it had been the first. And since then, it had become sacred.
Old stories claimed that the first alliance between the men of the north and the beasts had been sealed there. Folklore, myth, memory — no one could tell where the truth began or the lie ended. What was known was that, from that forgotten day in time, all the people of the north submitted themselves to this brutal ritualistic process. And no one dared to question it.
— When we arrive, you will be received by the Gatekeeper and the Druid — Marina warned, her voice hard as stone. — You must remain silent and listen to every word. If anyone dares to disrespect this solemn moment... I'll cut their throat myself.
No one dared add a single word.
Neither the officer from the East nor the one from the West — both remained silent, as if even breathing was a risk.
Even Anton, who in theory should be the one proclaiming those words, stayed quiet. He didn't try to correct, didn't try to assert himself. He just lowered his head, a heavy gesture of acknowledgment.
Whether it was fear... or respect... no one could say. Perhaps it was both.
The first phase of the ritual seemed simple, but carried immense weight: the students would be exposed before the Gatekeeper, so he could choose who was worthy. A rite no outsider had ever witnessed, as it was forbidden. What happened inside the Berlóga stayed in the Berlóga.
Rumors, however, always slipped out. They said the last winter had been fertile, and the new litter of bears brought hope of reinforcement and numbers. But hopes were as fragile as thin ice.
Marina walked ahead, as if speaking more to herself than to the youths behind her:
— The only thing you need to do... is stay still. Don't worry. That bastard's far too powerful for any of you to even move, hahahaha...
The laughter sounded out of place, almost insane, as if coming from someone who had seen too many horrors to still tell fear and humor apart.
And every word she spoke made it clear what everyone already suspected: the Vybor was not just a trial.
It was a strange and sinister ritual.
What everyone knew — and no one dared to say aloud — was that many entered, but few came out.
Sometimes more, sometimes less... but always fewer.
The cruel math of the Berlóga never failed, and that certainty suffocated the young more than the darkness of the cave itself.
A colossal gate separated the edge of the lower city from the Berlóga.
It almost never opened.
When it did, the abyss beyond it would spit out winds so dense they seemed to swallow the very light.
Nikolai had already risked peeking in previous years, but all he ever saw was the same black, suffocating hole. A magical void that seemed to breathe. Every time the doors cracked open, a cold gust would escape, rising to the skies like the frozen breath of an army ready to emerge — just waiting for nightfall to take over the world.
This time, though, was different.
This time, he saw more — after all, he would remain there, even when the gate closed.
The hole before him had to be over twenty meters tall, with a proportional width. Even standing so close, its interior remained impenetrable, as if the darkness were solid. But the cold, gasping breath continued, stronger now, closer... and now carrying a putrid stench that spread through the air as the mass of youths advanced.
Then she appeared.
The Druid.
A direct descendant of the Triad and the chosen flame for this generation.
— They say she's held that position for almost ninety years... — whispered a boy behind Nikolai.
When Nikolai's eyes landed on her, doubt faltered.
Despite the ritualistic mask covering her face, her skin was smooth, without wrinkles, without any marks of time. Her body, naked and painted with ancient runes, defied the cold that froze the very bones of those present. None of them dared linger on her sculptural form. The nervousness was too great — the fear, even greater.
And then the sound came.
Thump.
Thump...
Thump…
Thump….
At first, it sounded like the distant beating of drums. But Nikolai knew.
That wasn't a drum.
He had heard something similar before — but this sound was heavier, deeper, reverberating through the stomach, echoing in the bones.
Footsteps.
"Must weigh about five tons…" he thought, swallowing hard.
And finally, it appeared.
A creature of terrible beauty, a paradox between the sublime and the monstrous. Every feature of its body seemed sculpted by divine hands, yet corrupted by something that should not exist in this world.
Everyone's eyes widened.
Silence fell.
The Gatekeeper had revealed itself.
A bear white as marble, of titanic proportions — nearly 12 feet tall at the shoulders alone — raised its head with majesty. Its eyes were icy slits, full of cruel indifference. It saw no people, no warriors. It saw only lesser beings, insignificant, not even worth satisfying its hunger.
Even Marina Sobolev, so bold and brave minutes earlier, knelt with her head lowered, crushed under the weight of that presence.
The others were about to follow the gesture, but the Druid's voice cut through the silence — sweet as a nymph's song, but with a tinge of madness that made the skin crawl:
— Those of age, step forward. Shoulder to shoulder.
The command echoed, and no one dared disobey.
One by one, the youths stepped forward until they formed a line just a few meters from the sacred beast.
The Gatekeeper remained still for long moments, its gaze fixed on the horizon as if the lives before it were no more than dust. Then, at last, it lowered its head — and its eyes devoured them one by one.
The Druid stepped back a pace, her voice ringing out like a sentence:
— This year we have 26 chosen for a litter of 20.
A chill ran down everyone's spine.
At least six would be devoured.
Of course, the rejection — the intrinsic fear of not being chosen.
And even in the presence of a full litter, there were no guarantees that all would be accepted.
The fact that there were twenty Bears did not mean twenty fates saved.
It only meant twenty judges.
For Nikolai, that was still more than he had seen in all the winters since he'd learned to count how many went in and how many came out.
And now, more than ever, the risk seemed more acceptable.
Even so, his stomach twisted.
"What was the criterion?"
Was it brute strength, like Oleg — with his fists hard as iron and tempered like steel?
Agility, like Irina — trained to run even over thin ice?
Endurance, like those who seemed to bear the cold with a mere breath?
Or perhaps discipline and intelligence — the numbers and theories so many masters and scholars hammered into their heads?
He had never managed to find a pattern.
Sometimes even the strong ones fell.
Some said the Bears chose the brave, but even that seemed wrong.
Agility? Stamina? Academic performance?
The mystery was an invisible blade that cut them all, day after day.
But in the end, it mattered little.
There was no quitting.
There was no other path.
One would either become an example… or food.
Then something happened that Nikolai had never witnessed — not even in the reports and studies he had devoured over the years.
The Gatekeeper opened its mouth.
— Cazadummmmmm…
The voice was deep, ancient, as if the mountain itself had spoken.
The sound froze everyone's blood.
Nikolai felt his whole body freeze — not just him, but every muscle, every fiber, every strand of hair, as if even the wind had ceased.
And then, the sound came from the darkness of the cave.
Thump.
Thump…
Thump…
Many footsteps.
One after another, they emerged from the shadows.
First two. Then five. Then ten… until nineteen bears stepped out from the suffocating mist, each one bringing with it a piece of the abyss, as if the very cave bled monstrous life.
The tallest among them, a dark brown, stood nearly 4 feet at the shoulder.
They were only cubs, yes — but bear cubs.
Each heavy step made the ground tremble, as if they weighed more than they should.
A single blow from that brown one could still shatter the chest of a full-grown adult in his prime.
Nikolai recognized each of them.
"One white. Three browns. Ten blacks. Five silver-blues."
The white one was the most revered among all the nobility.
In the history of bear tamers, there were more records of heroes riding white bears than any other.
They represented the pinnacle of symbiosis: physical robustness joined with a magical — almost religious — intimacy with snow and cold.
No other bond compared. No other beast inspired as much pride and fear.
An adult white could easily reach seven feet at the shoulders and carried within it the heritage of being the Crest of the northern people.
Its magic was deep, forged in the silence of the glaciers — capable of manipulating snow in ways as lethal as they were beautiful.
They said the best could even rival the blues when it came to raw magic.
For the nobles, to walk beside a white was to receive the blessing of the God of eternal winter.
And yet… even perfection had its limits.
Not even a white, no matter how great, could ever match the presence of the Gatekeeper.
He was an exception, a colossal anomaly. An abyss in the shape of a beast.
The browns, in turn, were the embodiment of brutality.
They possessed not a single thread of offensive magic, no affinity with the mysteries of cold or snow — and still, they were revered.
Sometimes, even more than the whites — especially by those who saw in battle and sacrifice something more honorable than distant magic.
And there were reasons for their overwhelming strength and presence.
They grew. Grew until they became living walls, beasts that could rival the Gatekeeper in size.
When fully grown, they were unbreakable monsters, with muscles taut as steel and fury that knew no end.
Where they passed, no stone was left upon another.
They were the terror of enemies and the nightmare of deserters.
Some said that fighting a brown was like trying to stop an avalanche with your bare hands.
Useless. Inevitable. Despairing.
And the most terrifying part was that a warrior who shared a bond with a brown could channel its wild strength through a magical metamorphosis — allowing them to wreak havoc on the battlefield like a living calamity.
It was one of these that Marina was bonded to.
And because of that, no one doubted her raw power, even in her arrogance.
The silver-blues were a living paradox.
There was no creature more talented in the art of magic — not even the common whites could match the purity and intensity of their spells.
Cold, lightning, ethereal plasma… everything seemed to bend to their will, as if each bluish creature had been born with the secrets of the world etched into their blood.
But perfection came at a price.
And in their case, the price was flesh.
Weak bodies, fragile bones, mana reserves far too limited to sustain the power they carried.
A silver-blue could split a battlefield in two with a single ability — but would fall just as quickly, crushed by its own magic, which demanded everything before even a second spell could be cast.
That's why they were called Glass Berdiche: devastating, yet brittle — capable of changing the course of a war, but rarely surviving it.
Even so, there were those who desired them.
Because a warrior bonded to a silver-blue didn't just gain magical capacity — they gained the chance to transcend human limits, mastering powerful, complex spells that, when used correctly, could make them formidable mages and respected supports.
Those who carried one of these bears were marked by a forked fate:
they either blazed like a meteor, lighting up the whole world...
or disappeared far too soon, forever remembered as a flame extinguished too early.
And the last ones, the blacks… the burden.
No magic, no glory — only borrowed muscles to serve as shields of flesh.
The fate of laborers and nameless dead.
There wasn't much to say about them.
Though considered relevant, they were, without a shadow of a doubt, the weakest on the scale of options.
While they granted their tamer the ability to transfer part of their strength — turning them, for brief moments, into "super-humans" — they still fell short in every other aspect.
They offered nothing even close to the magic of a blue, the flexibility of a white, or even the brute strength a brown could provide — even when compared to the most mediocre of each breed.
Nikolai clenched his teeth, watching each step.
He knew that inventory by heart. He had counted and recounted it every winter.
But this time, something was off.
"Wait… one's missing."
The thought pierced through him like a shard of ice down his spine.
Twenty were expected.
Twenty should have been there.
And yet, no matter how many times he repeated the count, he only found nineteen.
A suffocating silence settled in the back of his mind.
What did this absence mean?
A mistake? Impossible. Not in this ritual.
Then... where was the twentieth?