The journey to the outpost wasn't long on any map, but in the endless northern winter, every distance became an eternity. With each step, bodies sank nearly thirty centimeters into dense snow, as if the ground itself were trying to swallow their strength. In some treacherous patches, hidden holes dragged the unwary down nearly a full meter, trapping travelers up to their waists. It was more than a path—it was a trial.
Most of the candidates had yet to complete the bond with their bears. Without that connection, they were little more than youths dragging their feet through a land that hated them. The animals, accustomed to warm caves and easy food, now faced the brutal shock of the open tundra. The result was unmistakable: nearly two-fifths of the group had to be carried at some point—either by their companions or by the instructors.
A tamer did not lose their title for failing this crossing—but their record would bear the mark forever.
In war, that distinction shaped destinies. The best were given command. The worst were thrown like fresh meat onto the front lines.
Black bear tamers could afford to be mediocre. Their future was almost guaranteed: a return to the Abyss, serving as guards or laborers behind stone walls.
Everyone else had to prove their worth.
After nearly two hours of marching, Nikolai glanced to the side. Ashen, panting, was forcing his short legs through the heavy snow, sinking almost to his chest. The effort taxed every muscle, and the bear let out a low growl—one of pure frustration.
Ashen was small, like the black bears. While Zoya's and Oleg's brown bears stood between ninety centimeters and a full meter tall—and Irina's was not far behind—most of the others barely reached seventy centimeters. Ashen, even after growing by nearly ten centimeters, was still—by far—the smallest of them all, even among the black bears.
"Are you okay, Ashen?"
Nikolai's voice came out soft, half-lost in the wind.
"Come here. I'll carry you."
The bear lifted his head, his gaze wavering between pride and exhaustion. For a moment, he hesitated—as if refusing to accept help. Then Nikolai opened his arms and smiled, despite the pain throbbing through his makeshift leg.
Ashen's size worked against him. Unlike the small blue bears or even the black ones, he seemed more fragile, his paws sinking too deeply into the snow with every step.
And yet, Nikolai noticed something others might have missed.
The bear never faltered. His body shook with effort, but his spine stayed straight—unyielding, as if refusing to bow.
Nikolai was the first to act. He bent down and offered support to his companion, matching his pace, sharing the weight of the march. Soon, other candidates followed his example—not out of pity, but because they realized that without that kind of partnership, their bears would never make it to the end.
Marina did not stop them. On the contrary, her gaze lingered on Nikolai with quiet surprise. He had taken very little time to grasp what many needed months to accept: that the bond between tamer and bear was not a one-way command. It demanded reciprocity. Mutual surrender. And here was a boy who already sensed it—without manuals, without instruction.
Marina closed her eyes for a brief moment.
The memory came like a gentle blow: the weight of arrogance that had nearly stolen what she loved most. Pride. Ego. The belief that she could command alone. All of it had nearly destroyed her.
Instinctively, her hand reached for the head of her titanic bear. The thick, icy fur yielded beneath her fingers, and the beast released a deep rumble—almost a sigh. Marina smiled faintly, unseen by anyone.
"This boy… he may already understand more than he realizes."
At the rear of the march, Alexei walked alongside the youths. Unlike everyone else, he had no bear—and that alone marked him as an oddity among them. His eyes, however, were not fixed on the horizon or the snow punishing the path. They roamed instead, thoughtful, collecting details the others overlooked.
He had seen Nikolai supporting his bear with care, almost as one would carry a brother. A silent act of companionship few would register. But Alexei noticed more than that.
He noticed the trail.
With every uneven step, the snow darkened. The sunken footprints carried not only the imprint of rough wood, but the red that seeped from the boy's wounded leg. The drops gathered quietly, like seeds of sacrifice the wind could not erase. And still, no one seemed to notice—perhaps swallowed by the tension of the march, perhaps because they simply did not care.
Alexei did.
The wound was worsening. The blood was deepening. And still the boy did not stop. With every meter claimed, it seemed his determination outweighed his own body.
At last, in the distance, the outpost towers rose—colossal shadows breaking the white monotony of the horizon. The fortress emerged like a lighthouse of stone and steel, signaling the nearing end of the ordeal.
Alexei released an almost inaudible breath, the words forming only in thought:
"We're almost there."
And for the first time in a very long while, he noticed something strange within himself.
He was rooting for that boy.
Finally, after nearly four hours of marching, the fortress appeared—the Great Outpost, as it was called—standing at the confluence of rivers already nearly subdued by winter. The waters, once alive, were trapped beneath thick plates of ice that stretched like cracked mirrors, reflecting the pale light of a weak, distant sun. Where the current still broke through its frozen prison, steam rose in thin veils, as if the castle itself breathed through the snow.
The broad, sturdy walls lay beneath a white mantle, every stone hidden under frost that glistened like crystals at dawn. The towers, raised like stone sentinels, bore long icicles—frozen spears hanging from the eaves. The large, reinforced wooden gate groaned in protest against the cold, while stubborn flakes piled onto its iron hinges.
Flags bearing the sigil of the White Bear hung motionless, stiffened by ice, their colors faded by moisture and the biting wind. The inner courtyard, nearly deserted, showed only the fresh footprints of guards who, wrapped in heavy furs, moved with their breath escaping in white clouds. The metallic clink of their weapons was muted by the snow blanketing every corner, and the bears beside them resembled living statues, vigilant against the horizon.
Winter had transformed the Great Outpost into something else—not merely a fortress, but a solitary bastion against the white immensity that surrounded it. Majestic and cold, the castle stood as a reminder of the strength required to survive the season's cruelty.
When, at last, the gates opened to receive the new wave of travelers, Marina stepped forward with more joy than she had ever felt upon entering Medved. She had always lived on the battlefield—and to her, tranquility felt stranger than the blood of slit throats spat into her eyes.
"Everyone, stop!"
When she turned toward the candidates, she was surprised by what she saw. Unlike other years, none of the small souls before her seemed ready to give up. All of them stared fixedly at the source of their resolve. And how could they retreat, when ahead of them stood a boy—missing one of his legs, bleeding, defying the biting cold—pressing forward, cutting through the wind with sheer endurance?
The strength of the weakest had become the spark that set everyone else's courage ablaze.
Yet, in that brief moment, Marina noticed Nikolai. He had stopped. His vacant, distant gaze and pallid face made it clear that his body had crossed its limits countless times already.
"Boy… congratulations."
Her voice came out hoarse. Marina was never good with words, but she refused to let what she had witnessed go unacknowledged. Even so, the boy did not seem to hear her.
Alexei stepped closer, studying him carefully.
"He fainted…"
The words fell like a weight upon them all. The silence that followed felt colder than the wind itself. Even Marina, hardened by blood and war, felt something shift at the sight: Nikolai had fainted standing up, resisting until the very last moment. He had not given up. On the contrary, he had gone far beyond what any ordinary human body could endure.
Alexei understood better than anyone the trial that child had faced. He had seen the trail Nikolai left across the entire march—bloodstains, uneven steps, but never retreat.
That boy would only stop when dead.
And an inevitable question burned in his mind:
Where did such rage—such fury—come from, that he would rather die than accept defeat?
_____________________________________________________________________________
A rough tongue struck Nikolai's face, slowly dragging him out of the stupor. His eyes opened heavily, revealing a wide, spacious room. Above him, an empty bunk bed; beside him, another bed, also unoccupied. The only one keeping him company was Ashen, staring at him with his usual worried gaze.
"I… I really need to stop passing out, hahahaha…"
He murmured the words, forcing an awkward smile.
The expression seemed to ease the beast's concern, and Ashen stepped closer, snorting softly.
Nikolai remembered crossing the gate, but from that point on, his memory dissolved into a blur of pain. The emptiness between the arrival and the present moment felt suffocating.
"In the end… I'm really weak."
The whisper barely escaped his lips.
Before he could sink deeper into his own melancholy, a sudden noise shattered the silence—the door bursting open. Two boys entered, laughing. They were shirtless, their bodies still damp, as if they had just come from a cold bath—or simply didn't care about the freezing weather outside.
"Look who's awake."
The words came out dripping with mockery.
Nikolai blinked, confused, until he noticed something strange. He wasn't cold. The realization spread through his body—and the two boys noticed it at the same time.
"Hah! I think he noticed,"
The taller one laughed.
"What's going on?"
Nikolai asked, hesitantly.
"Put your hand on the wall. You'll understand."
He obeyed. The solid surface answered with unexpected warmth.
"Warm…"
"Exactly,"
The more talkative one replied, flashing a grin.
"This fort was built over the southern river. The surface freezes, but deep down, warm water still flows. That's what keeps everything here bearable."
He extended a hand, laughing at himself.
"Nice to meet you. My name's Viktor. And this guy here is Fedor. We'll be sharing the room with you."
The other boy raised an eyebrow, his mouth twisting with disdain.
"Since when do bears choose cripples?"
"Shut your mouth, Fedor!"
Viktor snapped instantly.
"He made the crossing without giving up. That's more than I can say for some people I know."
"Why, you—"
Fedor lunged forward, and in seconds the two were shoving each other, trading punches and insults like old brothers.
Nikolai blinked, stunned, until he noticed two blue bears watching from the shadows, distant. There was something sad in the way they averted their eyes, almost ashamed of the scene unfolding between the boys.
"Sorry…"
Nikolai murmured, unsure of who he was even addressing.
"I don't remember what happened after the gate."
The fight only ended when Viktor managed to trap Fedor in a headlock and rapped his knuckles sharply against his head. The other boy grumbled and gave up with a snort.
"Relax, comrade…"
Viktor said between breaths, fixing his disheveled hair.
"Your group's probably resting. Marina sent everyone to explore the fort while Professor Alexei brought you in."
He took a deep breath, released Fedor—still grumbling—and offered Nikolai a sincere half-smile.
"Welcome. If you're hungry, I suggest taking a quick bath. Marina can't stand seeing dirty people in the dining hall."
A cry echoed in his mind, raw and voracious:
"HUNGRY."
"You really need to learn how to say something else…"
Nikolai grumbled, running a hand over Ashen's face.
When he tried to stand, he noticed something strange. His leg… was gone.
"Oh… almost forgot."
Viktor approached Nikolai, carrying something metallic that had been resting on his bed moments before.
"Here."
What he placed in Nikolai's hands was not a crude wooden improvisation, but a flawlessly forged prosthesis made of polished steel. Fine lines ran along its surface like artificial veins, giving it not only function, but beauty.
"Honestly, I have no idea what that crazy woman sees in you,"
Viktor said with a crooked smile,
"but thank the gods."
Nikolai stared at the prosthesis, unbelieving.
"But… how? Why?"
"No idea, kid."
Viktor shrugged.
"Everyone's crazy in their own way."
He and Fedor began getting ready, leaving Nikolai and Ashen alone to prepare. Still stunned, the young man fitted the new prosthesis—of a quality he had never even dreamed of—and headed to the bathhouse.
In the hallway, he exchanged curious glances with other trainees, but none showed disgust or pity. It was as if his disability were invisible here—or simply irrelevant.
The bathhouse was vast, lit by warm vapors rising from the floor. At its center stood a massive pool, so deep it seemed bottomless. Nikolai approached, fascinated, when the surface of the water broke.
A colossal brown bear emerged, shaking water from its fur. And right behind it… Marina Sobolev.
She appeared unclothed, as if nudity were merely another aspect of her wild nature. Her muscular body, marked by scars, looked more like a sculpture shaped by time and war than living flesh. Her clear, steely eyes locked onto Nikolai.
"Finally awake, boy…"
Her voice was firm, allowing no hesitation.
"Hey. Look me in the eyes when I talk to you."
Nikolai tried to obey, but a flush burned across his face. His heart slipped out of rhythm.
Marina walked toward the exit while wrapping herself in a towel, unhurried, carrying the confidence of someone who owed nothing to anyone.
Before disappearing down the hallway, she cast one last glance over her shoulder.
"I hope my gift served you well… See you at dinner, champion."
She left without waiting for a reply—or a thank-you.
Nikolai, trembling and unsure how to react, lowered himself into the dark water of the bath, descending the steps to the bottom.
Bubbles rose around his body, muffling his disbelieving sigh.
"What the hell is going on here…?"