The atmosphere was as tense as a string about to snap. But Olekir paid no heed. He moved forward, driven by a wave of emotion that wouldn't let him stop. His heart beat as if each thump was a call to creation.
Elikoria released her material form; her body melted into the air like icy mist, and she returned into him to avoid vanishing completely. Her soul poured into him, spreading like a hot wave through his veins, and he felt this excitement amplifying his own thoughts and images. This wasn't just inspiration—it was a revelation carrying him forward.
The girls fell silent. Their voices quieted, and gradually they froze, watching him. Mixed emotions smoldered in their eyes: anxiety, fascination, envy. They felt that the new member of their world had drawn too close to Olekir too suddenly, and it changed everything. But now they couldn't interfere—they could only watch as he created.
In his mind, an image already existed, clear and unavoidable. He reached out his hands to the ice, and it responded. Slowly, carefully, he began carving a sphere. Every movement was precise, every breath part of the ritual. The ice obediently yielded to his will, and a transparent sphere was born from the cold mass.
It was almost perfect, shining with purity, but the slightest mistake caused it to crack. A thin fissure ran across the surface, and the sphere crumbled in his hands. Despair gripped him, but he didn't retreat. Again and again, he set to work, discarding failure and starting over.
Time lost meaning. Minutes stretched into eternity, and each attempt became part of a grand process. Elikoria whispered in his thoughts, her voice ringing like a bell in an icy temple. She guided him, corrected him, and every word was a spark that added confidence.
Finally, after long effort, a sphere stood before him. It was crystalline, transparent, and glittered with a light reminiscent of the core of Nav'yacha, once distorted and destroyed by him. But now this light was different: it carried no threat, but radiated harmony. It was a light born from his own soul and unity with Elikoria.
Olekir rose excitedly, stretching his body after the intense creation. His movements were unexpectedly lively, almost ceremonial, and the girls, frozen in anticipation, couldn't hide their surprise. They watched silently as he straightened up, as if shedding fatigue, and a new energy flashed in his eyes.
He began to speak—first quietly, then his voice grew more passionate. His words were full of enthusiasm: he spoke of the sensation of creation, the power that flowed through him, the images born in his mind. The girls listened silently, mesmerized, each in her own way.
His story gradually turned into rest. The atmosphere relaxed, the tension dissolved, and they allowed themselves to simply be near, to listen to him and feel the warmth of the moment. It was almost festive—as if after a great victory, when one can exhale and enjoy the silence.
But just as this moment became too cozy, Elikoria intervened. Her voice rang out sharply, not very tactfully, like a cold bell in a temple:
"Enough rest. This is only the beginning."
Elikoria appeared before them again, simply stepping out of his body like light breaking through a crack in the darkness. Her voice was even and cold, but with an air of inevitability:
"The next stage cannot be interrupted. It's more important than anything."
The girls froze. Her words made their hearts tremble, for the main point followed:
"I will let him see his own soul."
That thought was both terrifying and magnificent. To see the soul meant touching the most secret, what is hidden even from oneself. It could break anyone, but Olekir didn't hesitate. His eyes flashed with determination, and he nodded.
So the ritual began. Slowly, under Elikoria's control, he stood at the very center of the void. Silence reigned around, seeming alive, as if the emptiness itself awaited his step. And then he began to separate his soul from his body.
His essence appeared before him—and it was strikingly different from his current appearance. It was more "childlike," pure, untouched by the burden of experience. It was a reflection of his true beginning, of who he was before all trials. But he didn't ask questions. He only listened to her instructions and followed every word.
He began scraping small particles from his soul, crumbs of light that separated from his essence. Slowly, carefully, he molded them into something like a small sphere. It glowed with a soft light, like a heart just born, and every breath seemed an echo of its pulse.
When he wanted to enlarge it, Elikoria stopped him sharply:
"Not now. It's dangerous."
Her voice was firm, and he felt that even the slightest step beyond her instructions could ruin everything.
He returned to his body and was immediately seized by incredible fatigue. His strength left him, and he fell asleep as if after a battle that drained him to the last drop. The girls rushed to him, their hands embracing him tenderly, each in her own way, but all with the same care.
When he woke up, the icy core he had created lay on his chest. But something in it had changed. It was no longer just a cold piece of ice—he felt a presence in it, a connection he couldn't explain. It was impossible, but it was as if he existed in two places at once: in his own body and deep within this core.
At first, everything was familiar. His body worked as usual: he could move, breathe, feel warmth and cold. But as soon as he turned his attention to the core, transferred his consciousness there—the world changed sharply.
He found himself in another reality, as if locked in a transparent sphere. The core allowed him to sense the space around him—every movement, every shadow, every breath within a five-meter radius. It wasn't vision, but an echo of the world unfolding before him in a circle of icy sensation.
But beyond that circle lay absolute darkness. He tried to extend his will further, but encountered only emptiness. And then came the realization: he couldn't cast spells, couldn't move, couldn't even change position. The core turned him into an observer who saw more than ever but was deprived of any action.
This was new knowledge, but also a new trap. He felt split: his body remained alive and obedient, while his consciousness, imprisoned in the core, became helpless.
The girls rushed to him immediately. Their hands touched his shoulders, their voices showered him with concern and questions. Myrolana asked sharply but with hidden anxiety; Yaroslava passionately demanded explanations, her eyes burning with jealousy and fascination; Myroslava spoke tenderly, almost intimately, like a mother afraid of losing her son.
But he couldn't answer them anything except:
"Everything's fine."
His voice was quiet but confident. The girls sighed gloomily, each in her own way, accepting his words though finding no comfort in them.
Olekir stood up, and his gaze burned with determination. He stretched out his hands and began creating a doll's body—in his own likeness. First came the bones, cold and strong, joining into a frame. Then he layered organs and muscles onto them, weaving them from icy fibers like a weaver creating the fabric of life. Every movement was precise, every breath part of the ritual.
In the center of the chest, he left a place for the core. When it took its place, shining with cold light, the doll stood before him—a creation in his own image, but with an icy heart.
He transferred his consciousness into the core and felt the body. It was his, obedient, ready to move. He wanted to take the first step—but the ice couldn't withstand it. The body cracked, bones broke, muscles crumbled, and he had to stop.
Despair gripped him. He tore himself from the core and returned to his own body, sighing heavily. The girls immediately surrounded him, their voices showering him with questions. He raised his eyes and quietly explained the problem, that the body couldn't withstand movement.
Just then Myrolana, who had been silent until now, approached the doll. Her movements were cold and decisive. She grabbed the doll by the arm and with one sharp motion tore it off.
"What are you doing?!" Yaroslava exclaimed, her eyes burning with indignation.
Myrolana calmly replied:
"I wanted to assess the body. It's too rigid. Can a stone move like a human?"
That simple sentence turned Olekir's understanding upside down. He froze, then, swept by a wave of gratitude and inspiration, ran to Myrolana and kissed her passionately.
Without wasting time, he rushed to the doll. His hands moved quickly and passionately: he disassembled it into fragments, recreated the broken parts, and endowed each with the properties of a real body using runes. Every bone, every muscle gained new flexibility, new strength, a new nature.
The doll was no longer a stone statue. It became a living likeness, capable of moving as a human moves.
Olekir assembled the doll's body again, placing the core in place of the heart. Transferring his consciousness into the icy sphere, he felt the new body respond to his presence. But as soon as he tried to touch it, everything changed.
Every mechanism, every fragment began begging for his attention. The bones demanded balance, the muscles demanded tension, the shell demanded control. He hadn't even taken a step before he sprawled on the ground so clumsily and without any grace that the girls couldn't hold back—laughter burst from their chests simultaneously.
Olekir blushed, his embarrassment so strong he wanted to sink through the floor. The doll, which was supposed to be his victory, had become a source of mockery.
Yaroslava, who managed to stifle her laughter sooner than the others, came closer. Her eyes shone with curiosity, and she quietly asked:
"What happened?"
Olekir sighed heavily and replied:
"It's like a square where everyone is shouting and demanding my attention. I can't focus on what's important. I need to move, keep my back straight, breathe… but all at once."
Yaroslava tilted her head in surprise:
"Why does it need to breathe?"
That simple question made him think. This time he was more measured. Grabbing her hand, he felt he couldn't do it alone. And together they began disassembling the doll, throwing out everything unnecessary, everything that was superfluous. Step by step, they cleansed it of excess, leaving only what truly mattered.
Olekir and Yaroslava worked side by side, their hands moving quickly and harmoniously. They were taking the doll apart piece by piece, carefully examining each fragment. What had recently seemed complex and cumbersome now appeared before them as excess.
"This is unnecessary," Yaroslava said softly, and he nodded in agreement.
They discarded organs that made no sense for an icy body, removed superfluous muscles, and simplified the structure down to its foundation. They kept only what was truly needed for movement. The doll gradually lost its human likeness but gained functionality.
When they finished reassembling the doll, leaving only the essentials, what stood before them was no longer a person. Its face and head were more symbolic, stripped of details, though Olekir left a thin line responsible for voice.
The body became lean, free of unnecessary organs, and thanks to this, he was able to strengthen the protection of the core. He made the muscles more flexible and concentrated so they wouldn't require constant attention but would work as a unified system. The doll was no longer a copy of a human—it had become a tool, refined and functional, born of his will and understanding.
When the work was complete, Olekir felt a wave of gratitude and relief. He turned to Yaroslava, who had helped him discard the excess all along, and kissed her passionately, thanking her for her support and for seeing the truth where he himself had been lost.
The doll's first steps were met with silence. It moved slowly, awkwardly, but it moved nonetheless. Myroslava silently assessed it, her gaze cold and attentive, as if weighing every movement, every detail. Yaroslava, however, was too captivated by the functionality—her eyes shone with excitement; she saw in this proof of Olekir's strength and noticed nothing else.
But the main thing did not escape Myroslava's notice. She did not hesitate to say what others tried to dismiss: "It's hideous. Repulsive. This isn't what you were striving for, Olekir."
Her words were sharp, but there was truth in them. The doll did look unnatural: its lean body and symbolic face evoked a sense of alienation. It was a creature that could move but could not become an image of strength or beauty.
Yet, this very frankness gave him a solution. Olekir lifted his head, and a new thought flashed in his eyes. "If the body is repulsive… it can be concealed."
He imagined armor that would completely cover the doll, transforming it from a hideous creature into a warrior. The armor could become not just a cover but also a symbol—a shell that grants dignity and strength.
He acted quickly, almost without pause. Within moments, the doll was no longer bare—its body was clad in full, opaque ice armor that gleamed with a cold light. He gave it a spear and a shield, and the creature stood before them as a warrior born of ice and will.
Together they admired the creation, feeling pride and relief. But at that very moment, Elikoria, using their connection, suddenly possessed the doll. Her movement was unexpected: the armor creaked, the shield shuddered, the spear tilted. The doll stirred, and all three girls jumped back, frightened.
In the silence, a voice rang out, cold and commanding, yet clear:
"First."