The heavy silence after Pavel's death was broken by a voice that cut through the air like white-hot steel:
"Stop! Drop that body. It belongs to the Empire!"
The command didn't come from an ordinary soldier. It was a voice steeped in authority.
Ivan, who was making his way back to his people's tents without hurry, held Pavel's lifeless body in one arm while effortlessly dragging the white-and-gold colossus by the foot, as if the monstrous weight meant nothing to his strength. His face, though impassive, betrayed a shadow of sorrow. He was honoring his fallen friend, but in his cold demeanor there were no tears — only the discipline of a man who knew what it meant to carry a hero.
But the armored man's voice would not allow it.
The sound thundered again, spreading through the valley as if the mountains themselves echoed it:
"Leave this man… and the beast as well! This is an order from the Empire."
Everyone from the North lifted their heads at once. There was no doubt: that voice did not come from a mere officer.
"Magic…"
Nikolai murmured, furrowing his brow. He recognized the perfect tone, the uniform vibration that seemed to warp the space around them.
"Voice amplification."
Sofia, gasping, turned to him with wide eyes.
"Do you think he's… a pilot too?"
Nikolai slowly shook his head, eyes fixed on the figure approaching between the Empire's banners.
"Worse."
he said, voice low, as if spitting venom.
"He's an Inquisitor of the Empire."
The murmur spread among the Northern students like a collective shiver.
No one in the North could recognize the armored man speaking in such a firm voice — a voice shaped to command and subdue. Perhaps, if they had witnessed the trial of the now-dead Heinrich and Friedrich brothers, they would have known that this was the same metal giant who had condemned them to death in the name of the Empire.
Men like him were responsible for ensuring the condemned — and their beasts — obeyed what was imposed on them. The brothers had known how powerful was the one who read the final sentence, for it was someone like him who had captured them.
The "Blessed," as they were called by the Empire, could not be compared to mere winged ones and their pilots. They were considered demigods — even by those warriors and their mounts. They were summoned when corruption consumed the minds of the winged, serving as a living reminder that power may be granted… but can also be taken away.
However, to the North — who saw no blessing in their presence — there was a much more fitting name for such overwhelmingly powerful figures:
Inquisitors.
The man advanced, his white cloak fluttering like torn wings, while the light of magic shimmered around his throat.
His mere presence already formed an invisible battlefield:
order versus honor, faith versus freedom, the Empire versus the North.
Young Durova knew exactly what that meant. Not by instinct, but because she had studied. She clearly remembered a private lesson she had once had, dedicated to a single topic: the Inquisitors.
Her teacher's words still echoed in her mind:
"When an Inquisitor enters the battlefield, if possible… run."
It wasn't an exaggeration. It wasn't just about men accompanied by wyverns or colossal beasts. The danger was something else. Inquisitors never used their winged ones — they didn't need them. They were living weapons, forged differently.
"From the armor…"
Sofia murmured, eyes fixed on the figure approaching
"…he was blessed by the Dragon of Fire… or of Thunder."
The air grew heavy. These people were more than soldiers, more than generals. They were direct spokesmen of the Dragons, incarnations of the will of the most powerful entities upholding the Empire. Every gesture they made wasn't just an order: it was a divine sentence.
Sofia shivered.
"Damn… this is the craziest day of my life."
she growled, more to herself.
There's no way the border is always like this.
But it wasn't. And Nikolai knew it.
The border hadn't seen this much action in years. He had obsessively studied the records, hunted down every fragment of report that took years to repeat. And now, in less than a single day, he had already seen the impossible.
Still, a certainty burned in his mind.
He turned to Sofia, and his voice came out low, but certain:
"Don't worry, Ivan… is a Muromet."
The word hit like thunder.
"What do you mean?"
Maria's eyes widened.
"I… I thought only the Sobolevs and the leader of Svarog were…"
Her mind spun in circles, trying to piece it together. The Muromets. Living legends. Warriors so powerful they could defeat entire armies alone. Heroes of the North, symbols where myth and history were separated by the thinnest of threads.
Sofia had always prided herself on her studies, but her pursuit of knowledge had never gone deep enough to uncover all the secrets. She knew the most famous names, of course. She knew what was told in the songs, what spread from mouth to mouth among bards and scholars. But the details? Those were kept hidden — accessible only to nobles… and a few rare erudites.
Unfortunately, like Nikolai, who lived in the lower part of Medved, the information that reached her was little more than barely audible whispers. The truth was that, even though she was a year older than the boy with heterochromatic eyes, she knew as much as he did — or perhaps even less.
At the same time, a strange feeling stirred in her mind. After all, that boy, who should have been ignorant and inexperienced, seemed to know things she had never dared to dream. The way he spoke showed he didn't care whether they believed him or not — he spoke with conviction, as if he had access to forbidden knowledge, or had lived experiences no one like him should have.
Instinctively, young Durova looked at the boy's leg — or rather, the absence of it. Something began to form in her mind, but the questions that arose were infinitely greater than the answers she could put together.
However, there was one thing she did understand: if what he said was true…
"If what you're saying is right… then it's war"
Sofia whispered, almost without realizing.
Nikolai narrowed his eyes at her words. It was in that moment that Sofia noticed, for the first time, a genuine interest in the boy's expression.
He leaned forward, touching Ashen's coarse fur as if ignoring everything around him, and spoke in a low, firm voice:
"Ashen… pay attention to this battle."
The bear, who until then had seemed indifferent, raised his head. His eyes narrowed, and a deep light lit within them, as if he understood the weight of the command. Even the air around him seemed to grow denser, as though the beast sensed that something unusual was about to unfold.
Then, the inquisitor's voice cut across the field for the third time, magically amplified. It rang clear, without echo, as if the air itself carried his words:
"Leave this fighter. He belongs to the Empire now."
The pause was brief, almost like a smile.
"And as for the bear… we'll take him too."
A yellow, rotten smile twisted the man's lips beneath the helmet. He showed no sorrow for the fallen wyvern corpses — his eyes were fixed on the enormous white bear, like a collector before a rare piece.
"That wasn't part of the deal."
said Ivan without turning, his deep voice laced with boredom. He was still dragging Pavel's body and the dead Stribog as if they were burdens too light to deserve his attention.
The inquisitor frowned.
"Do you know who you're speaking to?"
he shouted, his magically amplified voice echoing across the field like thunder.
Ivan stopped. Calmly, he let go of the bear's leg, then Pavel's body, placing them gently on the ground with respect. Only then did he raise his head, and his eyes locked onto the man.
The inquisitor's smile widened — a dirty, excited grin.
"That's right. Now step aside."
But what came next was unexpected. Ivan's voice rang out heavy, but not directed at the man. It was as if it pierced his flesh, as if it reached beyond him:
"You're far too arrogant… especially for those who don't even dare leave the mountain to face me. How many of your subordinates will I have to kill before your true faces show themselves?"
The words were like a spear through the inquisitor's soul. The man trembled. His eyes widened, and drool trickled from the corner of his mouth, sliding out from beneath the helmet.
"W-what are you doing?"
his voice faltered, trembling, full of rage and fear all at once.
"How dare you? How dare you attempt contact with my master, you Northern vermin?!"
Finally, Ivan's eyes focused on him — and what the Inquisitor saw was not human. The weight of that gaze was crushing, as if he were staring not at a man, but an ancient beast.
Ivan took a deep breath. His voice was calm, but carried an ancient fury:
"You come to our home, invade my territory and corrupt our agreement. You are not prepared. YOU ARE NOT PREPARED!"
The roar, charged with what seemed to be the same magic an inquisitor would use, burst through the Northern Strait like thunder ripping through the firmament. But something was different: it was more intense, denser, as if the very sky threatened to collapse upon them all. The echo reverberated through the frozen mountains, vibrating in their bones. Men and animals instinctively clamped their hands over their ears in a futile attempt to protect their eardrums. But the pain didn't come from the sound alone — it came from the weight of the words, a raw power that crushed the soul.
Nikolai staggered, feeling his legs weaken. His bear howled in agony, desperate. And it wasn't just him: across the field, soldiers collapsed unconscious, eyes rolled back, blood dripping from their ears. What vibrated there was not a man's hatred. It was a beast's fury.
Ivan drew his short blade. The weapon rose halfway and, in that instant, the world changed. The ground before him trembled and, like claws erupting from the earth's guts, four-meter-tall ice columns burst forth in succession. Translucent spikes surged without hesitation, slicing through the ground with dry cracks, targeting the Inquisitor with the force of an ancestral storm.
The Northern warriors stepped back, gaping. Many had never witnessed ancient magic, and the sight left them petrified. Nikolai's expression, however, was different — not fascinated, but confused, as if something in his memory struggled to understand.
The Inquisitor, previously lost in his own arrogance, awakened. With a swift, brutal gesture, he summoned a shield of fire that rose before him like a living wall. The flames formed a two-meter barrier, covering his body entirely. When ice and fire collided, an explosion of light and sound shattered the air. The impact sent waves of heat and shards of ice in every direction, shaking the natural mountains of the strait. Even the Empire's most hardened warriors fell back, stunned.
It was at that moment that Nikolai saw Anna. She was advancing mounted on a colossal brown bear, followed by others. The Empire, realizing the imminent counterattack, took formation. Nikolai's heart pounded. This was escalating far too quickly. But before Anna and the armored troops could advance, Ivan's voice cut through the confusion:
"Stay out of this fight!"
Raising his sword fully, he slashed the air. The ice responded. In a second, a massive wall rose between the two armies, separating them as if nature itself had decided to intervene. Nikolai and the students, watching from afar, found themselves before a coliseum of ice, a sealed battlefield where only two giants had the right to fight.
Ivan faced his enemy with a cold stare, almost devoid of humanity.
"You came to the North to disrespect my people. Your body will become the foundation for this strait."
The words cut deeper than the blade. The Inquisitor, wreathed in flames, trembled. A strange heat filled his chest, but it wasn't rage. It wasn't hatred. It was something more primal. A weight he didn't dare name. Fear.
At that moment, a female voice echoed behind Nikolai.
"You, children… come with me."
It was the same young woman who, hours earlier, had kept them away from the camp. Now, however, the hardness from before was gone. Her youth weighed on her; the tremor in her voice gave her away, and even the way she held her fist to her chest seemed more like a gesture to hide fear than to command authority.
"The Frontline General… Anna…"
she murmured, her voice faltering as if each word were a stone in her throat.
She lowered her head, eyes avoiding theirs, as if speaking was torture.
"You need to come with me. We're going back to the Fort."
"But… what about Director Ivan?"
protested one of the students, his voice high with unwillingness.
"He's staying."
she replied, trembling, trying to wear firmness where only uncertainty remained.
"We need to warn the Sobolevs immediately."
The group allowed themselves to be led, though each step was slow, reluctant. Behind them, the world seemed to split in two. Explosions thundered as if giants were clashing with the skies and mountains; bursts of fire lit the horizon in intermittent flashes, casting twisted shadows that danced across the frozen slopes. Each blast made them quicken their pace — instinct stronger than will.
Before vanishing completely behind the mountains, Nikolai looked back one last time. His eyes reflected the landscape of fire and ice — a spectacle that seemed greater than any man could hope to control. Deep in his chest, he knew: this wasn't just a fight. It wasn't just Ivan against the Inquisitor.
It was as if invisible chess pieces were being moved, setting the board for something far greater.
Something that was already beginning to approach.