Scene 2 : The Conflict within me

As Avikarh and Ruslan made their way toward the city, the forest canopy filtered the sunlight into dappled patterns on the path ahead. Ruslan led confidently, choosing trails less frequented by magical beasts, his familiarity with the terrain evident.

"Our fortified city, Pskov, is home to peace-loving yet resilient people," Ruslan began, his voice filled with pride. "We live with honor and glory, upholding traditions where our young men serve in the Strelsy and the Rosgvard, our national police and military force."

He continued, detailing the longstanding rivalry with the neighboring city of Novgorod, a tension that had recently escalated. "Novgorod sent a military convoy to conquer Pskov," he explained. "Given the equal standing of both cities, the Imperial State Council chose not to interfere."

Avikarh, absorbing the influx of information, raised a hand to pause the narration. "Hold on a minute, let me process all of this," he said, a hint of amusement in his voice. "And by the way, how does a small boy of 12 years know so much?"

Ruslan, slightly offended, responded calmly, "Big bro, let me clarify—I'm 16 years old. People often mistake me for younger because of my height, but I always correct them. Also, I read a lot of books; my dad owns a bookstore."

He smirked with pride, and Avikarh couldn't help but smile, acknowledging the boy's intelligence and resourcefulness.

“From what I’ve gathered,” Avikarh began, shading his eyes as he studied the distant ramparts, “your city was ambushed by Novgorod’s convoy, and many cityfolk were taken prisoner. Is that the full picture?”

Ruslan’s shoulders slumped, pride-chilled by the memory. He drew in a shuddering breath. “That’s only half the tale,” he admitted, voice thick. “Most of our strongest – the Strelsy and Rosgvard veterans – answered the call of duty at the border. What remained behind were farmers, shopkeepers, retired soldiers… none fit to stand against a trained militia.”

He paused, jaw tightening. “Our pleas for aid fell on deaf ears in the capital. Pskov sits too far from the First Secretary’s seat. And now, with tensions flaring by the border, reinforcements may never come.”

A hush fell between them as Avikarh let those words sink in. Then he leaned forward, concern furrowing his brow. “So our mission is twofold: free the captives and hold back Novgorod’s forces. But there has to be more—why target Pskov so ruthlessly?”

Ruslan’s gaze dropped. He closed his eyes and swallowed, as if steeling himself to share a darker secret. “The real strike wasn’t just against our people,” he whispered. “Mayor Alexander Nevsky—Novgorod’s 10th ruler—ordered his troops to seize Pskov’s Sacred Regalia. Without it, our city loses its charter, its rights… even its very name. Whoever has it… can control the entire fate of the city. I don’t know the specifics but that’s what has been told to us by elders.”

Avikarh’s heart quickened, yet he maintained a composed focus on the regalia’s possible hiding place. “So where is it, in some secret dungeon ?”

Ruslan’s features were suffused with a sorrow he could hardly comprehend. “It was hidden by our 2nd Mayor during the Great invasion of the Tatars, that’s what I heard. … It was the most devastating invasion in our history,…. a bloody massacre on the border areas, mostly on our side. Our city was also hit, but we were able to defend our lands.”

Avikarh’s heart ached as he learned of the long-past invasion. He bowed his head and offered a silent prayer to his dragon-god father, beseeching that the departed souls find peace. “ So if it was lost during the invasion why are they still trying to invade you city. I am guessing that the Regalia’s location was only known to the 2nd Mayor of your city.”

Ruslan nodded, lips pressed thin. “So did everyone—until Alexander recovered his own. You see, our founder and Novgorod’s founder received twin regalia from the first Emperor. When one was found, the other’s bond led Alexander’s men straight here.”

He clenched his fists, knuckles whitening. “Our present and 10th Mayor Mr. Dovmont, my father, and the retired guards tried to resist the convoy. They failed…and were taken hostage. The Veche, our city council has been dissolved and stripped of power. Alexander gave us an ultimatum: bring him the regalia, or he’ll execute them all.”

Silence settled over the path, the weight of Ruslan’s words heavy in the dusking air. Avikarh’s jaw set, the last light of day glinting off the faint frost still clinging to his cloak.

“We can’t let that stand,” he said, voice quiet but steel-hard. “We’ll find the regalia before Novgorod’s men can. Then we free your people—no matter how deep the enemy’s grip.”

Ruslan looked up, hope flickering in his eyes through unshed tears. “There’s only one man who might know its hiding place—Mr. Dovmont. But we’ll have to move carefully. Alexander’s second-in-command, Warlord Gabriel Volkov, has eyes on every road into the city.”

Avikarh gave a quiet nod, masking the storm beneath his calm exterior. A silent promise echoed in his mind—he would have to be prepared for anything this world threw at him. This land was not his own, and the air itself whispered of strange rules and unseen gods. A fleeting fear gnawed at the edges of his thoughts: What if I can never return? What if I’m stranded here forever, a ghost from another world?

But then his gaze fell on Ruslan—resolute, wounded, yet still standing—and the weight on his heart grew lighter. No, he told himself, this world may be foreign, but it is not without hope. He had already formed a bond here, however fragile. Ruslan might just be the key—not only to understanding this new realm but to anchoring himself within it.

His memories remained fragmented, drifting like frost on a windblown mirror. Yet he clung to what little he still knew of his homeland: its laws of magic, its ways of battle, the divine fire within him passed down by the Dragon God. And this world, too, pulsed with mana. The signs were clear. The arcane still lived here.

It would not be easy. The path ahead would demand more than strength—it would demand will. But he had not come alone. The other six… they were out there, waiting, perhaps even lost like him. He had to find them, awaken them, remind them of who they were. Together, they were more than survivors. They were the Dragon Sons.

The road ahead might be cruel, but he would not falter.

He was Avikarh, son of Garjhimagni—and he would not break.

Scene 3 : The Magic within me

Both of them walked steadily toward the fortress city, the horizon still a stretch away. The journey led them through dense forest paths and over uneven terrain, where magical beasts occasionally crossed their way—some curious and harmless, others swiftly dispatched, and a few so dangerous they were best left undisturbed. Yet Avikarh’s focus was less on combat and more on the mysteries that pulsed within this world.

His mind churned with questions. Everything around him—the trees whispering with Zhivava, the beasts born of magic, even the boy beside him—was a puzzle waiting to be solved. And now, he had the perfect companion to start unraveling the threads.

Avikarh (curious): “Hey Ruslan… can you tell me more about the magic system your country uses? Just in general.”

Ruslan (grinning): “Finally! I was waiting for you to ask, Big Bro. You're about to get the best crash course ever.”

The boy’s eyes sparkled with excitement as he launched into his explanation, arms gesturing wide as if painting the unseen.

“So, the spiritual energy here—what we call Zhivava—flows through all living beings and nature itself. About three in every ten people are magic users, or as we call them: Volkhvari.

“Now, the Volkhvari are grouped into what we call the Six Paths of Zhivava. First, you’ve got the Sborniki—the Gatherers. They draw Zhivava from their surroundings but only in alignment with their elemental affinity. Most elemental mages fall into this category. They need a meditative lifestyle to really master their flow.

“Then come the Vnutriki, the Inborn Flames. These are people who generate Zhivava within themselves, often through ancient bloodlines or sheer spiritual will. They’re powerful… but without self-control, their emotions can make their magic spiral.

“Next up—Otrazhenni, the Reflected. These are awakened by something from outside—natural phenomena, mystical relics, sacred beasts. They usually end up with really rare, unique kinds of magic that no one else can replicate.

“Then we get to the rare ones. Poddelniki—the Forged—who use artificial methods to activate or boost their Zhivava. Think runic tattoos, implants, alchemy, you name it. It’s dangerous and taboo, but it works… sometimes too well.

“And the Prinoseniye, the Blessed. Their Zhivava is touched by world-breaking magic—divine, ancient, cataclysmic stuff. Some say their births are written into prophecy. They’re rare, but legends are built around them.

“Finally… the Nevedomiye. The Unknowable. These ones are more myth than truth. Their power is… wrong. Or maybe just beyond. Magic that defies reason, time, and even this world’s laws. If you meet one, you’ll know. Trust me.”

Avikarh (thoughtful, impressed): “That’s… a lot. You’re more knowledgeable than you let on.”

Ruslan (grinning): “Books are my secret weapon.”

Avikarh walked in silence for a while, letting Ruslan’s words soak in. He thought back to his homeworld. Yes—there too existed a magical essence called Prana, the spiritual current that powered their reality. His memories were still fragmented, flickering like old embers, but one thing burned bright—he and the other six possessed Dragon Style magic. It was rare. Powerful. Perhaps even feared.

He finally asked the question forming in his mind.

Avikarh: “So… which type do you think I fall into?”

Ruslan (serious now): “It’s complicated. You use elemental powers like a Sborniki, but your magic flows from within, like a Vnutriki. Still… the way your presence affects everything, how even the forest’s stronger beasts avoid us...”

He looked at Avikarh with wide, reverent eyes.

“Honestly? You don’t fit. I’d say you're one of the Nevedomiye.”

Avikarh (with a half-smile): “That’s high praise. I’m not sure I deserve it.”

Ruslan: “You do. I can feel it. You’re not just powerful—you’re different.”

They continued through the foliage, silence briefly settling between them. Avikarh glanced at Ruslan with quiet admiration. For all the boy had endured, he still smiled with conviction.

Avikarh: “You survived out here, alone. That’s more impressive than anything I’ve done.”

Ruslan (smiling, but a touch wistful): “I had a great master. He taught me well.”

The weight of that sentence lingered. Avikarh nodded slowly, his thoughts turning inward again. This world’s magic system, its people, its strange familiarity—it echoed fragments of home. Perhaps that meant the path forward wasn’t so alien after all. The only way was through.

His gaze turned to the horizon, where the forest began to thin. Shafts of golden light pierced through the canopy.

Ruslan: “Ah—there it is! Just beyond those briars... the edge of the forest. Can you see it? That’s Pskov’s outer gate.”

Avikarh followed his pointing finger, eyes narrowing at the distant fortress city. The air shifted. Magic pulsed faintly from beyond the trees, ancient and waiting.

He steeled himself.

Every step beyond this forest would test their growing bond—and challenge the strength of a warrior lost between worlds.