"Why didn't you tell me?"
The old woman spoke softly, but her red eyes burned like embers. Her wrinkled hands trembled slightly—not from weakness, but from the anger that was finally overflowing. She knew that expression well—strength without discipline, courage poisoned by greed. She had seen it before. And the ending… had never been good.
"I didn't lie."
the granddaughter replied firmly, though avoiding eye contact.
"I just didn't think it was relevant... I mean, I knew something was going on, but he was just one person. You think you know everything, but you're stuck in the past. They won, and there's nothing we can do about it. We need to be on the right side if anything happens. If they want him dead, so be it. What difference does it make?"
The old woman laughed—a dry, wounded laugh.
"Can you hear what you're saying?"
she spat the words like venom.
"How can you believe they want to kill him just because he was there? Don't you think the reason might be deeper? My daughter died there… your mother. And nothing was done. Even the most extreme means have their limits. Do you really not want to understand what's actually going on?"
Her body bent under the weight of age, but in that moment, fury restored her former posture. To her, this wasn't strategy. It was betrayal disguised as faith.
The granddaughter took a step forward. Her voice trembled, not from insecurity, but from a deep, almost inhuman fear.
"You don't understand... We won't gain anything by going against them. They've got the nobles and the entire bourgeois caste on their side. There's no way to win — there isn't even anything to win. Honestly, we don't even really know what happened. Grandma, there were no bodies of the enemies to prove what he said. I know something happened, but the evidence is too little and too weak. And as much as it hurts to know my mother paid with her life... there's nothing we can do."
For a moment, silence weighed heavy. The young woman's fear was so real that even the old woman, used to standing firm, felt a chill.
"Now is the time to take what's left and start over."
the young woman concluded, her voice steady but her gaze moist.
"It's our only chance to recover everything we lost. For this chance, I'd give up a thousand like him."
The old woman closed her eyes and took a deep breath. When she spoke again, her voice was a cutting whisper.
"This "chance" of yours…"
she murmured, tears caught in her throat.
"Is going to get us all killed."
While the old lady still chewed silently on the remnants of the argument, something struck her like a needle to the neck. A shiver, as if she were being watched. Her red eyes narrowed, and suddenly, she stood up, no longer staring at her granddaughter.
Without warning, she marched to the door. The wood groaned as it was violently flung open. Her piercing gaze swept the empty corridor.
But there—something rare stirred.
A rat darted across the stone floor, searching for a crack.
The old woman remained still, but her nostrils flared as if sniffing out something beyond the vermin.
On the other side, hidden in the shadows, Nikolai held his breath.
He recognized those voices. The grandmother and the granddaughter. The two most powerful creatures in the Fortress. Together. Arguing.
But something worse lingered: as he listened, a strange sensation began to seep through his veins. The heat of the conversation carried a hidden weight, a dark rhythm, and his blood ran cold as if they were speaking about him.
And then… silence.
A sepulchral silence.
"What the hell are you doing? Don't run from this conversation!"
Marina's voice exploded, slicing through the still air like a blade.
Instinct screamed louder than reason. Nikolai didn't think—he just moved. He dashed forward, taking advantage of the moment the elder was distracted by the granddaughter. His body slipped away from the still-open door, every muscle on alert.
His feet barely touched the ground, but his heart pounded like a war drum ready to signal an attack.
Each beat echoed in his head, deafening.
And before old Sobolev's eyes could catch him, he was already seeking refuge in the kitchen's shadows.
A quick lunge through a half-open door startled the two food thieves. Inside the kitchen, Viktor and Fedor jumped, halting what they were doing as they glared accusingly at Nikolai.
Before anyone could speak, a voice cut through the silence.
"Damn rats..."
Then, the dry sound of something being crushed. Flesh, bone, and end.
More silence.
Heavier than before.
Until the old woman spoke again, each word dripping like poison.
"Get out of my room. And think about what I said. There's still time for us to do something about it."
The granddaughter's reply came, filled with anger.
"I'm not changing my mind."
Shoes struck the stone floor. Firm steps, moving away. Each tap echoed down the hallway, past the kitchen door.
Inside, no one dared to breathe. Not Viktor, not Fedor, not Nikolai.
And only when the sound of footsteps faded into the distance did the boys seem to start breathing again.
"Holy shit, I thought we were done for..."
Fedor swallowed a chunk of bread almost whole, speaking with his mouth full.
"What took you so long to get in the kitchen? And what the hell was going on with those two?"
The trio was now huddled in their room, devouring bread like it was gold and drinking juice straight from the jugs. The sound of chewing hunger mixed with the heavy silence still hanging outside.
Nikolai, with a hardened expression, answered flatly:
"Honestly… I have no idea."
The bland reply made Viktor's vivid imagination crash. All the conspiracies he had formed in his head — the war, a betrayal, a dark revelation — vanished into dust before Nikolai's indifference.
But the truth was, he wasn't lying.
Nikolai genuinely couldn't piece it together. The two women hadn't mentioned names, nor motives — only broken, venomous phrases that now echoed in his mind like funeral bells.
Who were they afraid of? Ivan, the Trinity, or some hidden enemy?
What did Marina hide from her grandmother that left her so enraged?
Too many questions, no answers — at least, not with any certainty.
"…It's going to get us all killed…"
The words of old Sobolev pounded in his mind.
Was she talking about themselves?
Or about everyone?
A chill ran down his spine, cold as night frost.
Before he could get lost deeper in thoughts about it, a deep and singular voice growled inside him:
"SLEEP."
Nikolai looked to the side and saw Ashen sprawled on the floor of the room, his snout covered in crumbs, belly stretched to the limit, and gaze heavy. The bear was finally satisfied.
"Yeah… let's sleep."
murmured Nikolai, more to himself than to the others.
Viktor still tried to extract answers, but Nikolai shut down, refusing to speak about what he had heard. Not that night. Viktor lay down, suspicious, turning over the silence. Fedor was snoring within seconds.
Nikolai, in turn, fell into the same restless sleep as always. The nightmares awaited him, as they always did. But at least, that night, they wouldn't be interrupted by Ashen's hunger.
A loud knock on the wooden door made the three boys jump as if a thunderclap had exploded in the room.
"Shit, we've been found!"
Fedor shouted, tumbling clumsily from the top bunk and hitting his shoulder on the floor with a groan.
"Shut up, you idiot!"
Viktor snarled, already throwing on clothes in a hurry.
"We hid everything... this isn't about the kitchen. Something's going on."
Nikolai was already moving fast. With trained motions, he locked on the solid iron leg, the metallic snap echoing like a hammer on cold iron. The sound resonated through the room, heavy, and for a moment he felt even that detail could give them away. He stepped toward the door, hesitated for a second — the silence behind the wood felt too dangerous. Then he turned the handle and opened it.
The hallway was in chaos.
A loud knock on the wooden door made the three boys jump as if a thunderclap had exploded inside the room.
"Shit, we've been found!"
Fedor shouted, tumbling clumsily from the top bunk and hitting his shoulder on the floor with a groan.
"Shut up, you idiot!"
Viktor growled, already throwing on his clothes in a rush.
"We hid everything... this isn't about the kitchen. Something's happening."
Nikolai was already on the move. With trained motions, he fitted the solid iron leg, the metallic click echoing like a hammer on cold iron. The sound resonated through the room, heavy, and for a moment he felt even that detail could give them away. He approached the door, hesitated for a second — the silence behind the wood felt too dangerous. Then he turned the handle and opened it.
The hallway was in chaos.
Youth ran in the same direction, eyes wide, faces pale, hurried steps pounding against the stone like an uneven drum swarm — black, blue, white, and brown bears running in symphony with their owners. The air seemed to vibrate with the rush. The sun had barely broken the horizon, painting the sky in a faint gray, too early even for breakfast.
Something was wrong. Very wrong.
Nikolai stepped forward and grabbed the arm of a girl he knew as she ran past, breathless.
"Hey, Sofia! What's going on?"
She was breathing fast, hair stuck to her face with cold sweat. Still, she managed to say, brokenly:
"Ivan's back… and he didn't come back alone."
"People?"
Nikolai frowned, heart racing.
But the girl was already breaking free, running without looking back, swallowed by the human current followed by her black bear, who also seemed not to understand what was happening.
Behind him, Viktor and Fedor appeared, finally dressed, still breathing heavily from the rush.
"What the hell was that, Nikolai?"
Viktor asked, trying to adjust his shirt collar.
"Ivan's back."
He replied, flatly.
"But I think something's different. Let's go. We need to see this."
They didn't waste time. Followed by the bears — Ashen marching with a hungry look and the two blues sniffing the air anxiously — they moved through the same hallways they had crossed the night before during the kitchen raid. This time, though, the atmosphere was different: the air felt denser, heavier, as if the very stone of the Fortress breathed with them, in expectation or dread.
When they finally reached the dining hall, the scene froze them in place.
It wasn't just the crowd that drew attention, but the empty space at its center — a circle forming on its own, as if fear had invisible hands pushing everyone back. Children and youth recoiled, eyes wide, some stumbling, others covering their mouths to avoid screaming.
In the center, two ancient beasts.
The stone floor was scratched by claws that clicked with each slow step. The half-folded wings beat slowly, kicking up dust, displacing air and raising goosebumps all around. The golden beak reflected the faint morning light, curved and sharp. The eyes — a deep, wild gold — swept across the room like invisible spears. The creature's smell was a mix of burnt leather and dried blood.
A griffin.
"Holy shit… it's a fucking griffin!"
Fedor was the first to break the silence, his voice caught between awe and fear.
Nikolai blinked, incredulous. Griffins were creatures from the East, distant legends, used as mounts only in the tales of a people long ago crushed by the empire.
It made no sense for them to be here.
It made no sense for them to be this far north.
But the impossible stood right before them.
One of the beasts beat its wings once, scattering wind and dust, and the impact was enough to make several students take two more steps back. The golden beak gleamed like a fresh blade, and the eyes — eagle eyes, cold and ruthless — scanned the crowd with a presence that needed no words.
And it wasn't alone.
At the beast's side, two soldiers stood in protective stance. A tall man with broad shoulders carried an ornate spear with the ease of someone born with it in hand. Beside him, a woman with an icy gaze — every step measured, every movement calculated like a blade on the verge of slicing.
Her helmet revealed more than just rank. At the front, a sharp beak projected from the forehead to cover part of her nose, resembling a falcon's predatory profile. On the sides, stylized wings in metal rose and curved back, forming blades shaped like hardened feathers. The ensemble was intimidating, almost animalistic, as if it bore part of the essence of its mount.
There was no doubt.
Griffin Riders.
Among them, three figures cloaked in heavy mantles. They didn't reveal themselves, but the way they were guarded said more than any crest could: they were important. Too important to walk without such feared protectors.
And then, the three boys saw.
The uniforms: light-colored, immaculate fabrics, almost shimmering under the dim morning light filtered through the windows. And on the chest, embroidered in gold and black, the unmistakable symbol appeared.
The air seemed to grow colder.
The ground seemed to tremble.
A chill ran down Nikolai's spine, from the nape of his neck to his fingertips.
"The Empire..."
He murmured, voice faltering, as if spitting liquid ice.
All around, the entire dining hall — which had realized it almost the same instant as Nikolai — now sank into a suffocating silence: fear and fascination.