Chained and wounded, two creatures began to reveal themselves.
They were massive. Absurdly massive. Colossi so immeasurably large that no chain ever forged by man, in sound mind, could possibly be placed on them — much less restrain them.
And yet, the metallic sound echoed: the constant clinking of shackles bound to their necks and wrists.
Of course, it wasn't the iron that kept them docile.
To those beasts, such things were nothing more than a tasteless ornament.
What held them submissive was something quite singular.
In front of them, also chained, stood two ordinary men. Thin, wounded — but with a steady gaze.
The bond was clear: a tattoo-like mark, visible on the necks of both men and beasts, sealed their fates.
One would not survive without the other.
That was the only rule.
Inviolable.
Irreplaceable.
Immortal.
The two men, despite the chains, did not bow. They were not giants, had no wall-like muscles or the posture of kings. But their eyes… their eyes burned with life. Life, and disdain. A cold and unhidden disdain, directed at all who surrounded them.
A man of the Empire, nearly two meters tall, adorned in resplendent armor of vivid gold that covered him from head to toe, stepped forward, placing himself before the dying men.
His voice carried the weight of a sentence that could no longer be questioned.
He unrolled a scroll of noble linen and began to read it with eagerness and precision — not a single word could be ignored or used as a loophole.
"By imperial order, you have been sentenced to death."
He paused, as if savoring each word before spitting out the list of sins.
"Theft. Concealment of a corpse. Misappropriation of land. Royal treason. Aggravated triple homicide. Rape of a vulnerable person. Usurpation of the laws of your Winged Ones."
Each accusation was a blow. Each word, a stone cast upon the silence of the snowy plain.
But despite it all, the two men did not bow their heads. The disdain in their eyes only seemed to intensify, as if death itself were nothing more than one more chain to be broken.
The man in metallic armor stepped forward a few more paces — a clear challenge to the scorn surrounding him.
His voice was sharp, but irritation seeped through: he spoke quickly, almost stumbling over the paragraphs, swallowing the dry saliva that gathered at the corners of his mouth.
He was visibly stressed — and rightly so.
The list was nearly endless: fraud, treason, homicide, desecrations…
The crimes cascaded, each word echoing like a hammer blow against the stone of honor.
The two men did not move. Shackled, covered in blood and filth, they remained standing. Indifferent. Eyes fixed, cold, almost scornful. The accuser's speech bounced off them like rain on a cliffside.
At last, the man stopped, taking a deep breath. His voice hardened:
"For these crimes committed, you and your Winged Ones have been judged. The Benefactors of the Mountains have decided that your fate can only be sealed in combat.
Very well… the fight has been arranged."
The metal giant raised the scroll of their crimes and tore it in half.
The dry crack of the parchment sounded like a verdict — the silent declaration that, on that day, their sins would be washed in blood.
"You have the right to choose your weapons.
But understand this: any mutiny, any rebellion, will be considered a breach of the pact made with the Benefactors of the Mountains.
And in that moment, you will not only be enemies of men… you will be my enemies.
The punishment will be absolute.
I will hunt you down with all my strength — total and unrestricted. and it won't be just you who will suffer the hammer of justice… but all who dare offer shelter or mercy.
I hope you understand the weight of these words. Do you understand?"
The silence dragged on. Not a word escaped the lips of the two condemned men. Just as it had been since the day they were captured — nothing. No plea for mercy, no begging, no screams. Only the silence of those who had already chosen their fate.
The giant's eyes flickered with irritation, but he contained his nervousness.
"Very well.
Release their chains and those of their Winged Ones. Let them choose their weapons."
The chains began to unlock. The metallic clinking filled the field like a funeral prelude. The creatures raised their heads, the weight of the links falling into the dirty snow, and the crowd held its breath.
The trial was over.
The sentence would now be written in blood.
The two men looked at each other. In their tired eyes, there was no sign of regret — but something far more dangerous: corrupt pride.
Shadowy, ambiguous smiles appeared on their marked faces — they had once been captains, leaders of men, but time had not shaped them into wisdom, only into unbridled ambition.
The power of the Winged Ones was a sweet poison. It raised the weak of mind to the level of gods. And those two had drunk it to the last drop. Now, even before final judgment, they were pleased. After all, they believed nothing could stop them.
Their enemies — the North — were too weak, or at least that was what they proclaimed in the silence of their thoughts.
Perhaps if they knew that even the Benefactors of the Mountains respected them, they would think otherwise.
But the Empire would never admit, not even to its own soldiers, that there are things between heaven and earth that even they should fear.
To the two condemned, the biting cold of those lands was not intimidating — it only robbed their beasts of the sky.
After all, what were mere bear tamers compared to creatures capable of slicing through clouds and destroying entire cities?
The smile on the condemned men's faces said it all: the executioner would fall just as easily as all the others who had tried before him.
The chains clinked heavily before being released from the traitors. The men stepped forward to their creatures. They were winged colossi — lean, wounded, yet still imposing. No iron prison in the world could truly tame them — only the bond. A double link, inviolable, unbreakable. One could not live without the other.
The men laid a hand upon the scales of their Winged Ones. The gesture wasn't tenderness — it was addiction. It had been months since they last touched them in freedom, and now, about to fall once more into the field of judgment, they felt them whole again.
Then, they chose. Armor corroded by time was donned with a king's pride. Longswords, curved blades, double-edged spears — weapons far too heavy for any common man, but which in their hands seemed like natural extensions of the hatred they carried.
It was forbidden to harm a Winged One outside the battlefield. Forbidden to execute a rider away from war. The world protected them even in punishment. The only possible sentence was combat. Dry wood thrown into the fire of the wicked, hope torn from the innocent.
And they laughed. Because in all their life of blood and betrayal, they had never lost to anyone… except their equals.
The Empire had condemned them, but it threw them against the North. And the North, they thought, was just another name to be scratched off the long list of the defeated.
In the classroom, the students stared at the projection as if they'd been punched in the gut. Some widened their eyes, others murmured among themselves, but all shared the same shock.
Hans, arms crossed, let the silence weigh for a few seconds before speaking:
"Heinrich and Friedrich… I believe some of you have heard these names before."
A murmur rippled through the desks. Even the most disinterested seemed to recognize them.
Hans fixed his gaze on Lena, as if expecting a response from her — or at least a more attentive reaction.
"These two were captured at the border with the people of the South. Traitors."
He spat the word as if it tasted bitter.
"They made a deal with those vermin, believing they would escape the consequences of their actions. Fortunately, one of the "Blessed" at the border intercepted them."
He paused, taking a deep breath before continuing.
"But, as you all know…
capital punishment is forbidden against riders and their Winged Ones. An archaic agreement, yet unbreakable. That's why only one form of justice remains: battle. And thanks to that detail, you'll have the chance to see how the North still fights against Winged Ones, even after decades."
A hand timidly raised at the back of the room, but the voice that followed was full of anxiety:
"Mr. Hans… who won?"
Hans gave a brief, enigmatic smile and shook his head.
"You folks from the capital… always in such a rush…"
he let out a light chuckle.
"This lesson isn't about who won. Nor about how a Winged One fights. You'll have other instructors for that."
The anticipation died, replaced by a silent frustration. Hans took the moment to shift the focus, walking through the room until standing right in front of the projected image.
"I want to see if you're paying attention."
he said, tapping his finger against the magical board.
"Can anyone tell me what two types of wyverns Heinrich and Friedrich are riding?"
A real challenge. The differences were not minor: details in the crest, the scale pattern, the shape of wings or limbs.
Even so, many students looked away, unsure. Identifying wyvern species in mere seconds of imagery wasn't simple. But for trained eyes, it was easy.
Hans remained still, letting the silence stretch. Each second seemed to double the pressure in the room.
Lena took a deep breath. She felt the weight of the crystal orb burning in her hand, draining her mana, but still narrowed her eyes. She knew that, if she didn't answer, probably no one else would dare. The image flickered, as if the mana screen breathed with the crystal, but each detail was sharp enough for those with trained vision.
"Heinrich…"
she murmured, voice steady despite the heart pounding in her chest.
"He's riding a poison wyvern."
The projection zoomed in on the creature. The dark scales had greenish veins pulsing like rivers of toxin under the skin. The neck glands throbbed grotesquely, filled with living venom. With every exhale, a greenish smoke escaped the nostrils, winding through the air like invisible hands searching for prey.
The room fell completely silent. Only the crackle of the crystal burning mana could be heard.
"And Friedrich…"
Lena continued, her voice nearly a whisper, but her eyes never wavered.
"His is a stone wyvern."
In the illusion, the beast appeared heavy — a colossus covered in scales that looked like blocks of basalt fitted together. Its wings didn't beat lightly; they were rigid plates, like articulated walls, made to endure brutal impacts.
It lacked the speed of a true wyvern, but its very presence gave the impression of facing a living fortress.
Its legs and arms, however, revealed its class: two, maybe three times thicker than those of the poison wyvern. Only a creature that used them intensively would have limbs like that.
That was when Lena realized.
Hans raised his eyebrows, a hint of amusement in his eyes.
"Correct."
he murmured, an ironic smile forming.
"Poison and Stone. A duo that sounds fearsome in books… but in practice, it's little more than poorly disguised bad luck.
The poison one is treacherous, yes, it poisons everything it touches. But the effect is slow, and the cure has spread even to the most remote villages.
And the stone one…"
he shrugged with disdain.
"Well, you know. A wyvern that doesn't fly is just an overpriced burden to carry."
Some students chuckled nervously, but Hans's irony cut like ice.
He turned his gaze back to Lena. His tone shifted, heavy now, as if marking the scene in everyone's memory:
"Good observation, Miss Lena."
The room fell into silence. The roar of wyverns, echoing from the projection, passed through the walls and sank deep into the bones of every student. It was almost possible to feel the venomous breath burning the skin and the impact of stone wings shaking the ground.
And, for a moment, everyone forgot they were inside a classroom.
"Of course, even the worst of wyverns is still, in the end, a beast of uncontrollable power and magic. Thinking of them as "worse than the other" is like comparing a lion to a tiger: both would kill you — the only difference is one would take longer to do it."
Hans wasn't being sarcastic or arrogant.
The Winged Ones truly were what they were born to be: beings of total and uncontrollable power.
The Empire would never have become what it is without them — and the reason was clear, even to those who hated them.
In the magical projection, the two creatures now appeared armed and ready to kill. The riders, settled atop their mounts, looked like small extensions of the beasts they commanded.
The stone wyvern, nearly five meters tall and about thirteen meters long, advanced with heavy steps, raising clouds of dust and hardened snow with each movement.
Beside it, the brother rode a poison wyvern — smaller in size, but with greenish breath escaping through its nostrils like a warning of imminent death, it seemed just as — or even more — dangerous than the stone one.
On the other side of the plain, two Northern colossi awaited them. The first, a human giant, whose height reached nearly the belly of the stone wyvern, stood like a wall of flesh and muscle. Next to him, the white bear with golden veins advanced, carrying on its back the man in aged golden armor. The battle marks on his body didn't lessen his imposing presence — on the contrary, they made him a living monument of war.
The contrast was absurd. The poison wyvern, standing four meters tall, should have seemed overwhelming… but in front of the bear, the feeling was one of balance. Stribog, massive and solid like a moving mountain, appeared far heavier, more brutal, more lethal.
The tension hanging over the plain pierced even the mana crystal. And then, the voice of the man atop the bear echoed, deep and defiant, breaking the silence like steel against steel:
"Very well, boys… how do you want to die? One-on-one… or two-on-two?"
In the classroom, the students shuddered. The crystal transmitted not only the sound, but the weight of the words.
"Bold…"
someone whispered, but it was everyone's thought.
In the capital, Northern men had always been portrayed as stubborn savages, like indestructible cockroaches: they lacked the Empire's strength, its discipline, its refinement. But like a plague, they insisted on surviving, crawling through the rubble, refusing to die even when faced with the inevitable.
And there, in front of that projected scene, everyone in the room saw only a confirmation of that stereotype — the reckless madness of a people who dared challenge winged gods with nothing but flesh, iron, and courage.