Scene 2 : Drop on the Guardian's Gate

They crept through the dying light to the back of Pskov. The sealed gate loomed before them, chained and warded. Half a dozen Novgorod soldiers clustered around, chanting as they hammered at the arcane locks.

Hidden in the underbrush, Avikarh pressed Ostap’s bound form against the wall. Ruslan crouched beside him, whispering, “How do we slip by them?”

Avikarh scanned the guards. “We’ll need a distraction,” he said softly, voice steady. “Something to pull their focus from the gate.” His calm eyes flicked from guard to guard, searching for weakness.

Before he could decide, a sudden tremor of authority rippled the air. Avikarh stiffened.

“Who’s that?” he hissed.

Ruslan’s face went pale. “General Gabriel.”

The soldiers’ chanting faltered as a figure emerged at the gate’s threshold: a tall man in a black-and-crimson coat etched with silver runes. His high collar framed a scarred face, and a crimson-lined cape snapped behind him. Silver-tipped gauntlets and boots gleamed like sharpened blades. Each step he took carried the certainty of countless victories.

Gabriel’s gaze swept the masked sentries, then settled on the underbrush. Avikarh felt no fear—only a quiet resolve.

“He wasn’t supposed to be here,” Ruslan whispered.

Avikarh studied the sealed door. “They’ve tried for days,” Ruslan added. “No one has broken it.”

Avikarh nodded. “If so many guards are stationed here, the Regalia must lie behind that seal.” His tone was calm, as if stating a simple truth. “We need to secure it before they do.”

Ruslan’s breath caught. “I thought it was hidden elsewhere…”

Avikarh rose, stepping onto the path. “Warlord Gabriel,” he called, voice clear but devoid of anger.

Gabriel turned, expression unreadable. The soldiers straightened, eyes locked on Avikarh.

“Boys in the shadows,” Gabriel said, voice low and measured. “You leak icy mana as though you’ve trained for war.”

Avikarh folded his arms, still and composed. “I am here for Pskov’s Regalia,” he replied quietly. “Please stand aside.”

A flicker of amusement sparked in Gabriel’s eyes. “Such calm confidence. Very well,” he answered. “But demands carry risks. Let us see if you can back up these words.”

He signaled, and two guards rolled forward a massive iron cage, sealed on every side—no keyhole in sight. Ruslan’s heart pounded.

Avikarh studied the cage. “What’s inside?”

Gabriel’s lips curved slightly. “A special tool. Watch.”

He snapped his fingers. The cage hissed open, releasing a plume of white smoke that swirled like restless ghosts.

From the vapor emerged a lone figure who sat motionless—his silhouette sharp against the mist, as if unearthed from a forgotten legend. When he stood, his movements were fluid, almost liquid, cloak rippling as though tracing invisible currents. A faint sheen on his skin caught the torchlight like droplets on still water.

Avikarh’s breath caught. For a heartbeat, he felt a subtle pull—a connection he couldn’t name—his pulse echoing the boy’s quiet rhythm.

Gabriel’s voice broke the moment: “Meet my new slave. He will break your precious seal. Refuse—know the consequences.”

Avikarh’s gaze stayed on the mysterious youth, unflinching. “We will never surrender,” he said, voice calm but resolute.

Ruslan’s nod was firm, trust shining in his eyes.

Gabriel straightened, arms crossed, serene menace radiating from him. “Very well. Let the match begin.”

The hooded youth lunged first, blade glinting like a drop of water in moonlight. Avikarh shifted into a measured stance—still, composed, every sinew ready. Ruslan braced at his side.

Stealth dissolved into action. The forest held its breath as Avikarh met the challenge with focused strength and unwavering calm—prepared to keep his promise, come rain or storm.

….……………………………………………………………………………………………………….

The air around the sealed gate hung heavy with suspense. A soft breeze rustled the leaves above them, brushing past the worn stone walls and the overgrown brush they crouched within. Ruslan’s breath caught as he peeked out from behind the shrubs.

General Gabriel stood near the sealed entrance—still as a monument, his long black-and-crimson military coat fluttering in the dusk wind. He exuded control, not through noise or rage, but the cold finality of his presence. The silver runes on his armor shimmered faintly, like promises of a bloodless end. His scarred face was unreadable, yet his gaze pierced everything around him.

And then came the cage.

It was dragged forward by the soldiers—large, metallic, and sealed with strange lockless plates. The mechanical hiss of its release broke the stillness. A veil of thick white smoke spilled into the air, coiling around their legs and vanishing into the soil like breath lost to time.

A silhouette sat unmoving within.

From the curling mist stepped a boy—tall for his age, posture balanced and precise. He wore an ocean-blue bomber jacket embroidered with wave-like patterns across the sleeves, a white collarless pullover inside, and neat shorts that allowed agile movement. His shoes—hybrid slip-ons with reinforced grips—spoke of modern make, entirely foreign to this world. What truly stood out was the cap on his head: cyan-colored, peculiar in make, bearing an emblem of a lion-like creature with a horse’s head and a spiraled tail stitched in white thread. Not something crafted here.

Avikarh’s eyes narrowed. That cap… the fabric…
He knew.
No, he felt it.

“Hey… are you from the same place as me?” Avikarh called out softly, stepping forward with a kind of reverence—as if addressing a dream made flesh.

But the boy didn’t answer. His gaze remained fixed ahead—cold, distant, and absent.
Then, without a word, he launched.

The air cracked as he surged forward like a wave breaking off a cliff, targeting Ostap and Ruslan. Avikarh, reacting purely on instinct, intercepted mid-motion, gripping the boy’s arm with a powerful but non-hostile grip.

“Wait! I don’t want to hurt you—hold on! Are you being mind-controlled?”
There was no flicker of recognition, no hesitation. Only silence.

With a deft twist, the boy wrenched his arm free, flipping backward to gain distance—fluid, controlled, like a soldier drilled beyond thought.

A laugh broke out. Cold. Gleeful.
General Gabriel’s.

“Oh, he’s mine,” Gabriel said, folding his arms with smug satisfaction. “Controlled? Of course. And from the look in your eyes, you do know something about him. But don’t think you can take him away so easily. He’s useful… and soon, you all will serve as he does.”

Ruslan had already begun panicking.

“BIG BRO, DO SOMETHING!!” he shouted, tugging at Avikarh’s sleeve in desperation. “Isn’t he from your world? Can’t you wake him up or something?!”

“I don’t know him,” Avikarh muttered, eyes never leaving the boy. “But there’s… a feeling. Something familiar.”
He exhaled slowly. His breath fogged slightly—an unconscious rise in mana.

The boy attacked again.

Avikarh blocked with fluid grace, each movement calculated, precise—not a single blow returned. Only parries. He wasn’t fighting to win. He was fighting to understand.

“We need a link,” he murmured under his breath. “Something tied to his memories. Something that can reach him…”

Then, he noticed it.

The cap.
Not the embroidery this time—but the buckle.

Etched onto the clasp was a single word, shimmering faintly in letters he could read, glowing only when he looked directly at it—as if whispering just to him.

“Varunesh.”

The name struck him like a bell echoing through deep water.

His heartbeat slowed. The sounds of the world around him dulled. Gabriel’s voice became a distant echo.

Varunesh.
The name swam through his mind, tugging at a memory he didn’t even know he had.

And somehow, without knowing why, Avikarh understood—
This wasn’t just any boy.
This was someone who once stood beside him… or was meant to.

He shifted his stance, not out of caution, but purpose.

“Ruslan,” he said quietly, “keep Ostap close. I’ll handle this.”

“But—”

“No more shouting,” he added, gently. “We’re not just fighting him. We’re reaching for him.”

The forest rustled with a low wind, brushing over the stone gate. The sky overhead had turned a deeper shade of indigo, as if the world itself was holding its breath.

The lone boy moved again, and Avikarh met him—not with wrath, but with resolve.
The calm before the tide turns.

The battle had changed.

This was no longer about winning.

This was about bringing someone home.