Scene 1 : The Fall of Pskov

The city of Pskov bled.

Smoke coiled from shattered rooftops like the breath of a wounded beast, darkening the sky with its grief. Ash and dust swirled in the air, cloaking the once-proud city in a mournful veil. The wind, once filled with the scent of baked rye and pine, now carried only the acrid sting of burnt timber and blood. The devastation wasn’t just physical—it was personal. A wound carved into the heart of a people.

Homes were no longer homes. They stood broken, their wooden frames splintered and slumped like dying men. Doors hung loose from their hinges, windows shattered inward, and hearths once glowing with warmth were now choked with soot. The laughter that once danced through cobblestone alleys was gone—replaced by silence thick enough to drown in.

Only the rhythmic clatter of foreign boots echoed through the streets. Novgorod banners fluttered like shadows of conquest, carried by faceless troops who marched with cold precision, sweeping through the wreckage in search of stragglers and souls still brave enough to defy them.

The bodies of Pskov’s defenders lay sprawled across the dirt-streaked ground, their once-proud armor now dulled with soot and blood. Some still clutched broken spears or shattered shields—as if refusing to surrender even in death. Their flags, torn and scorched, had been trampled underfoot, reduced to little more than ash-stained cloth beneath foreign heels.

The city’s lifeblood had stopped flowing.

The marketplaces—once bustling with chatter and haggling—were now eerie graveyards of ruin. Stalls had been overturned, their goods either looted or burned. Chimneys lay in ruin, carts broken like the spines of beasts, their wooden wheels scattered like bones. The very soul of Pskov, once etched in every painted tile and carved beam, had been ripped away and fed to flame.

There had once been life here.

Men in rough-spun tunics with axe-belts at their waists, who worked the earth and held laughter in calloused hands. Women in flowing sarafans, their aprons bright as spring tulips, moving gracefully through the streets as they weaved, baked, tended. Children had played freely, weaving between market stalls, giggling like the wind—their joy a shield against the harshness of the world.

Within the kremlin, nobles once convened beneath high wooden arches, draped in fur and duty, debating matters of defense with calm pride. Priests of the Temple of Rod, robed in shadow and solemnity, had walked the streets offering blessings and hope, their chants laced with ancient truths.

At twilight, the city would gather around fire pits and within their izbas—wooden cottages built with love and endurance. They shared stories under flickering firelight, of heroes long fallen, of spirits in the forest, of gods who watched silently from the stars. Pskov wasn’t just stone and wood—it was memory, it was community, it was sacred.

And now… it was silent.

Only a single sound remained—a lone gusli, its strings plucked by wind or spirit, echoing through the smoke like a requiem. No hands played it anymore. The melody carried no joy. It was a ghost, mourning the city it once serenaded.

The town square, once a place of festivals and prayers, had become a pyre. Flame-licked banners fluttered weakly in the scorched wind, their once-proud symbols devoured by soot. Each one trampled, stomped into the cracked earth by the boots of men who knew nothing of what they’d destroyed.

Pskov wept

Not with tears—but with ash, ruin, and the hollow ache of all that was lost.

The smoke in Pskov no longer rose—it lingered. Thick, heavy, grieving. It coiled like serpents through shattered archways and across the bodies of the fallen, as if the city itself refused to exhale. Amid this death-stilled silence, footsteps echoed softly. Heavy boots walked over cracked cobblestone and through the remains of what once was a shrine, where the scent of burnt incense had long given way to charred bone.

Then… came movement.

A flicker in the ash.

From the edge of a ruined rooftop of the marketplace, a figure cloaked in tattered black, his long robes trailing through the soot like smoldering silk, stepped into the open. A faint gust blew, and the ashes rose with him, dancing at his feet, responding like shadows to a command long etched in blood.

His presence halted a Novgorod patrol dead in their tracks.

He wore a rune-woven cloak, lined with charcoal threads that glimmered like embers beneath the smoke. His face was hidden behind a full mask, carved smooth and featureless except for faint lines glowing in dull crimson—a sigil not unlike the runes etched on old stone altars.

His left hand lifted—not hurriedly, but with solemn grace.

Ash stirred.

Like a wave drawn to breath, the air thickened with black dust. It whirled around him in unnatural patterns, circling his body before sweeping outward in a spiral. Soldiers shouted, panicked—but it was too late. The ash moved like it was alive.

One raised a crossbow.

But before the bolt could fly, a rune flared on the figure’s palm, and the ash thickened—dense, binding, burning. It filled the archer’s lungs. He dropped, gasping in silence.

A flash of light arced from beneath the cloak.

A blade—curved and whispering with runes of its own—was drawn, not loudly, but with reverence, as though each inch of steel remembered something ancient. Its edge pulsed faintly, coated with something—ash, or was it decay?

The masked warrior rushed forward, the ash following his movements like a phantom’s cloak. The sword danced in his hands—not wild, not brutal—but precise, deliberate, poetic. Each slash left behind trails of embered air, lingering like afterimages in the fog.

One soldier lunged. A rune burst to life on the phantom’s shoulder—a sudden flash, and the attacker’s sword turned to rust in his hand, disintegrating into ash before his eyes. Another tried to flee, but the phantom merely pointed toward the ground—and the ash obeyed. A ring of burning sigils lit up beneath the escapee’s feet before swallowing him whole in a muffled scream and a flurry of choking soot.

He never spoke. Not even a breath was wasted.

But his style—the way he held his blade, how the runes responded to his silent will, how the ash bowed to his steps—echoed something eerily familiar. Something unspoken, a rhythm seen before in younger, less battle-hardened hands.

The fight ended quickly.

Smoke settled.

And in the aftermath, the cloaked phantom turned toward the scorched mural of Pskov’s city crest—cracked, blackened, half fallen. He paused. Beneath the fabric of his cloak, a soft glow flickered against his chest, something pendant-shaped briefly visible, then hidden again.

With a turn, he vanished into the alleyways, the ash following him like loyal ghosts, scattering behind him in fading silence.

The smoke still hadn’t settled in Pskov.

Ash drifted like snow over a city that no longer breathed. The wind slithered low across burnt stone and shattered timber, carrying with it whispers of the fallen. Broken walls leaned like weary sentinels, and the faint creak of scorched wood was the only protest left in this hollowed place.

And then… something stirred.

Not a man. Not a shadow. Not even a sound.

Just… presence.

Emerging from the veil of smoke was a figure cloaked in nothingness. His robe — not black, not white, not even gray — bore no color, as if reality itself refused to define him. It hung like mist on his frame, clinging to his every step yet never touching the ground. There were no emblems, no armor, no sound of boots. Only silence.

His face was hidden behind a mask — smooth, blank, inhuman. No eyes. No mouth. No identity. Just an empty canvas that stared back at the world with unbearable quiet.

He moved through the ruins like a thought half-forgotten. Where Novgorod soldiers stumbled over debris or kept watch from rooftops, none reacted to his presence. He was unseen, not by magic or trick, but by sheer force of intention.

At the site of a scorched crater, he stopped.

Ash swirled beneath him, then parted, revealing faintly glowing runes embedded in the earth — the residue of a powerful clash. He crouched slowly, gloved fingers brushing over the markings, feeling the heat, the remnants of essence still echoing like a heartbeat after death.

No words were spoken. No conclusion voiced.

He simply understood.

Then, just as silently, the figure rose… and disappeared into the smoke — swallowed by it, as if he had never been there at all.

A nearby soldier froze, suddenly uneasy. His torch dimmed, and the hairs on his arm stood on end.

“...Is someone there?” he whispered to no one.

No answer came. Only silence.

And the sense… that something was watching — and had already left.

Scene 2 : Mayor & the Temple

The city of Pskov still burned beneath the blood-red sky. Its tears ran as smoke, and its soul as ash.

And above it all, seated on the balcony of the once-proud Mayor's office — now repurposed as a seat of conquest — was Alexander Nevsky, the Mayor of Novgorod.

He sat like a king upon a broken throne, the hem of his fine coat fluttering in the evening breeze. His sharp cheekbones caught the dying sunlight, his jawline carved like granite, and his lips curled with a satisfaction that was both regal and unholy. His brown-blonde hair, thick and wind-tossed, crowned him like a lion’s mane, brushing against the high collar of his double-breasted coat — tailored to perfection, ceremonial in design but bloodstained at the cuffs.

He was dressed like a statesman. He grinned like a tyrant.

In one gloved hand, he swirled a cut crystal glass, dark liquor inside reflecting the flames that still flickered across rooftops. The city of his ancestors' shame — the city that mocked their failed conquests — now smoldered under his feet.

And he drank to it.

“Finally... Pskov kneels,” he muttered, half to himself, half to the ghosts of history.

Behind him, standing in unwavering silence, was Gabriel — his most trusted commander, the Warlord (High Commander).

Gabriel was still. Always still. His tall frame, clad in a dark Novgorodian officer’s coat, stood like a sword planted in the earth — firm, obedient, and cold to the touch. His eyes did not move, but inside them, a storm brewed. He had once watched Alexander grow up — a fierce, spirited boy who once cried when a bird died in his hand.

Now… he watched a man transformed. A man twisted.

And yet… Gabriel said nothing. Loyalty, after all, was not always born of admiration. Sometimes it came from blood-debt. Sometimes from love. Sometimes from the fear of what would happen if loyalty wavered.

Alexander took another sip.

Below him, Pskov lay broken — its people scattered, its soldiers dead, its soul burned. Only one structure stood untouched: the towering statue of Simargl, guardian of the city, and the Temple of Rod, whose walls now shielded the last remaining citizens.

Alexander's gaze paused there, resting on the solemn monument like a lion eyeing a chained beast.

He sneered. But he did not move against it.

“I know they're hiding,” he said flatly, fingers drumming the glass. “Civilians, priests, frightened old men clutching relics… huddled under their god.”

A pause. He lifted the drink again but didn’t sip.

“Let them rot in that temple.”

Gabriel’s voice was calm but laced with tension. “We agreed. You would not provoke Rod. Let the faith survive… so the city can, too.”

Alexander turned slightly, eyes flickering. “Yes, yes. Your advice, wasn’t it?”

Gabriel gave a small bow, saying nothing more.

The Mayor turned back to his panoramic ruin. “We need their hands to rebuild,” he said. “Let them weep for their dead gods… and raise temples to mine.”

A cackling laugh escaped his throat — wild, unrestrained, borderline maniacal.

The balcony quaked under his boots as he stepped forward and raised his glass toward the crumbling city below.

“To Novgorod! To vengeance fulfilled!”

His laugh carried through the smoke like a curse.

Gabriel stood behind him, rigid. Loyal. Silent. But in his mind, a shadow flickered: the boy Alexander once was, buried now under victory… and madness.

And the war, he feared, was far from over.

The scent of burning timber still lingered in the air as Alexander sipped from his crystal glass, sitting upon the ornate balcony of Pskov's Mayor’s residence—now repurposed as his war room. Behind him, the Pskov skyline crumbled in silence, smoke trailing upward like the final breath of a dying city.

Victory tasted strong, almost too strong. But he savored it like a long-aged vodka—his family’s dream fulfilled. The shame of past failures was now buried under rubble and bodies. The conquest of Pskov had not just restored Novgorod’s pride—it crowned Alexander as the greatest Mayor in their history.

His brown-blonde hair shimmered in the reddish glow of sunset, the gold trim of his politician’s coat gently fluttering in the breeze. Though dressed like a statesman, Alexander’s eyes betrayed something far more dangerous—a mad general cloaked in civility. His grin was the grin of a man who had cracked.

Behind him stood Gabriel—stoic, disciplined, and loyal. He wore the silence like armor. Though his eyes followed his master with unwavering focus, his heart weighed heavy. The boy he once swore to protect had long vanished beneath ambition and delusion. Still, loyalty bound him like iron chains.

Just then, a Komandir stormed in, saluting rigidly. Gabriel turned to receive him, but Alexander waved his fingers lazily.

“Say it out loud,” he muttered without looking, his voice soaked in calm tyranny. “I like my reports with a little theater.”

The Komandir stiffened. “My liege, there was an attack—near the marketplace. A patrol squad was ambushed.”

Alexander twirled the rim of his glass. “How many?” he asked. “A rebel group, perhaps? Or the temple rats trying to breathe again?”

The Komandir swallowed. “Only… one man, sir. And he had the powers of ash, from what we gathered so far.”

The sound of the wind outside filled the pause. Glass stopped spinning.

Alexander turned his head slowly, his voice dropping to a cold whisper. “You had the nerve to come all the way up here… to tell me that a single person routed my men?”

The Komandir froze.

“I admire your bravery,” Alexander continued, rising to his feet, “but I value results more.”

A deadly smile touched his lips.

“Find him. Drag him here. I want to see who dares spit on my victory. Dismissed.”

“YES SIR!!” The Komandir bowed so sharply it looked like he might snap his spine before bolting from the chamber, chased by the weight of Alexander’s chilling gaze.

Alexander turned to Gabriel.

“Warlord Gabriel. Report to me the moment you find this ghost. I will go and meet my well-wisher, you—”

His words stopped mid-air.

A thunderous quake shook the entire building. Bottles fell and shattered on the stone floor. Gabriel immediately reached for his blade as Alexander staggered back, steadying himself on the table.

Both rushed out to the balcony.

What they saw stole their breath.