Varun added, “Besides, I’ve got unfinished business with Gabriel. Time to settle scores.”

Rusalka turned to look at him. “What are you even—? No. Don’t tell me. I regret asking.”

Yudhir let out a laugh. “You two make a nice pair.”

“I don’t!” Rusalka snapped, her cheeks tinted with seafoam pink.

Varun, meanwhile, was over the moon.

Avi, still focused, said, “We’ll split up. Some of us will assist Simargl. Others will storm the garrison. And someone has to guard the temple.”

To keep it fair, they used magic to conjure a glowing dice. Each of them received a number: Ruslan was 6, Yudhir 5, Avi 4, Varun 3, Rusalka 2.

The first two numbers: 4 and 5—Avi and Yudhir, headed to aid Simargl.

Next: 3 and 2—Varun and Rusalka would free the prisoners.

That left Ruslan, assigned to guard the temple—a decision he accepted with quiet maturity. His city still needed a voice of calm.

Rusalka grumbled at being paired with Varun again. “I hope you will stop being a weirdo.”

“Oh, come on,” Varun winked, “It’s not being a weirdo. It’s tactical charm.”

Yudhir nearly choked laughing. Ruslan, still smiling, leaned into the moment. Avi looked at them—his team—and nodded.

“Let’s move. For Pskov.”

Everyone split toward their missions. Ruslan stayed behind.

He watched them go, the wind brushing past his face. Then he felt something in his pocket.

A small, glowing marble—warm to the touch, lit with a soft fire. He stared at it, confused, then clenched his hand around it as he turned toward the temple.

And walked.

The boy had wept. The boy had smiled. Now, the boy had hope.

The Temple of Rod rose solemnly from a stepped stone plinth, its wooden frame darkened with age and soot yet unmarred by time. Slender spires crowned its high roof, curving gently like branches yearning skyward. The facade bore geometric carvings of stars, rivers, and sacred animals—symbols whose meanings had been whispered from one generation to the next. Guardian figures, neither fully human nor beast, stood silently on either side of the grand doorway, their watchful presence casting long shadows across the moss-covered steps. Amid the ruin of the city, the temple alone remained untouched, like a relic immune to conquest.

Ruslan approached slowly, his boots brushing against the moss-grown steps. The flame of grief still simmered within him, but now it danced alongside a growing resolve. He wasn’t the same weeping child from moments ago—his pain hadn’t lessened, only shaped into something steel-edged.

He knocked gently. The massive doors groaned in return.

A male priest’s voice answered from within, cautious and restrained, “Who seeks entry? Identify yourself. If you're not the maiden, then speak your name.”

Ruslan stepped closer, voice steady despite his swelling chest. “I am Ruslan Petrovik. My father is Taras Bulba Petrovik… owner of the clockwork shop near the Mayor’s Office. I… I’m looking for my brother, Andry. Is he inside?”

There was a pause. Then—quick footsteps.

Before the doors could creak open, a blur rushed from the shadows within.

A girl—taller than Ruslan by a few centimeters, but still bearing the youth of sixteen—threw herself into his arms, sobbing uncontrollably. Her grip was tight, desperate, as if confirming that this wasn’t a ghost she was embracing. Her tears soaked his shoulder; her nose, runny from all the crying, left a damp patch against his sleeve. Ruslan froze at first, blinking at the sudden warmth against him—but he didn’t move away. He couldn’t. Because he knew that voice, those tears, that name stitched deep into his memory.

“Ludmila…” he whispered.

Her hair brushed his cheek as she clung tighter, a familiar scent of wild herbs and old ink lingering on her clothes. They had played in the courtyards together, argued over plum pastries, watched the mechanical gears turn at his father's shop like curious philosophers.

Ludmila didn’t speak right away—her sobs were her answer. But the moment she pulled back slightly to look into his eyes, her lips trembled with a smile that wavered between relief and disbelief.

“You’re alive… you’re really here,” she breathed, as if the world had returned to color for the first time in days.

Ruslan looked at her—really looked. Her eyes were red, her dress dirtied from the chaos, and yet she stood with the same fire he remembered. Despite the rubble outside, she was still Ludmila. And in that moment, the Temple of Rod was not just a refuge. It was a home—reclaimed, however briefly, in an embrace.

The doors creaked wider as Arkhiyeri stepped into the light. Seeing the two children reunited, he bowed his head softly and allowed them inside.

Behind them, the weight of Pskov’s pain still loomed. But within these walls—just for a moment—there was warmth.

Within, the air was thick with incense and memory. Massive wooden beams arched across the vaulted ceiling, and the stone floor was etched with runes and floral patterns worn smooth by centuries of prayer. At the sanctum’s heart stood the statue of Rod—stern, powerful, and singular-faced, with deeply carved eyes that seemed to gaze through time itself. One hand rested over his chest in solemn blessing, while the other pointed downward, fingers nearly touching the earth—a posture said to represent the binding of the divine to the mortal. Behind him, a circular relief marked with abstract flames and lotus-like spirals pulsed faintly in the flickering light. Despite the silence, the space seemed alive… as though listening.

People from every walk of life—craftsmen, traders, elders, mothers with infants, children clinging to worn shawls—sat huddled together in the sacred space of the Temple of Rod, their breath shallow, their eyes vacant, longing only for a return to the ordinary days now lost. The air was thick with sweat, soot, and silent prayers. In this fragile refuge, the priests moved with quiet purpose, their knee-length robes the color of old blood, tied with braided golden cords, the lotus symbol over their chests flickering in the dim temple light like a forgotten promise. At the center stood the Volkhvacharya ( also called Arkhiyeri, the head priest) distinguished only by the ceremonial lotus-shaped crown upon his head, worn with solemn grace.

Ruslan and Ludmila entered slowly through the carved archway. The people turned. There was a pause, and then a subtle stirring. Word of the boys who brought Simargl had already begun to thread through whispers like a pulse. Arkhiyeri, leaning on his staff, approached with concern.

Arkhiyeri: “My child, are you alright? Are you injured, perhaps?”

Ruslan: “I am alright, my holiness. I was in the woods when the invasion struck. I found an injured soldier—he told me what happened. My father… the mayor… the elders—captured. The soldier insisted I escape… He didn’t make it. I ran—ran as far as I could…”

His voice faltered with the memory, the guilt. Ludmila held his hand tightly.

Ludmila (softly): “Did you… did you see any magical beasts?”

Ruslan (nodding): “Silvermane wolves. I hid in the bushes… then I met Big Bro Avi.”

He recounted their journey—meeting Avi, their confrontation with Gabriel, the trials within Simargl’s realm. But he left out the revelations of the memory realm, and of the First Emperor. The people listened with bated breath, their silence now tinged with awe. Hope, for the first time, stirred in their chests.

Arkhiyeri (with reverence): “It’s only by the grace of the Eternal Flame that the Divine Guardian revealed itself. Thank you, my child, for carrying our prayers into the wild.
O Rod, Eternal Flame beyond the Four Lights, you have not turned your face from us. In our darkest hour, you sent the guardian flame—may your unseen grace forever dwell in this sacred soil.”

Ludmila (choking, eyes misted): “Thank the gods you’re safe. I… I don’t know what I would’ve done if I’d lost you too…”

Ruslan (freezing): “What… what do you mean, you too?”

He turned sharply. Panic bloomed in his eyes as he scanned the room.

Ruslan (voice rising): “Where are they? Ludmila, where’s Rodgai? Ratmir? Finn?! I see their parents but—WHERE ARE THEY?!”

His knees gave way. His voice cracked, breaking the silence like glass. Ludmila caught him in an embrace, weeping now openly. Ruslan could see the hollow eyes of his friends’ parents across the chamber. He didn’t need an answer anymore.

Gone.

Three lives—Rodgai, proud and fiery; Ratmir, dreamy and kind; Finn, his oldest friend and truest companion. Lost in the fires of war.

Memories surged—mud-flecked races through cobbled streets, shared loaves of black bread at school, voices echoing in the market square. They were his Pskov. His heart ached to the point of rupture. And yet—he remembered.

He remembered what Avi told him, in that world suspended between time and flame.

“Your two greatest strengths—bravery and honesty.”

He always thought he had neither. But now—he had to.

No one else would carry the flame. Not when the city needed it most.

He rose slowly, trembling, brushing away the weight of grief from his shoulders.

The people watched. Some wept. Some just waited. But all watched.

He lifted his hand, pointing to the vaulted ceiling where candlelight danced.

Ruslan (steady, loud, clear):
“I cannot let myself despair anymore. To be drowning in sorrow is not the way of a son of Pskov.
My name is Ruslan Petrovik.
I am that son of Pskov who brought back the Divine Guardian Simargl to protect our home!”

He looked at the crowd—not as a child, but as their voice.

Ruslan:
“My friends and I will do everything to save our city. Please, believe in us—and fight on.
Many of you have lost someone dear. I have too. But if we all surrender to this pain,
who will be left to comfort those still with us?
Hold tightly to those you love, cast away the fear that chains your spirit.
Be like Simargl—our flame in the darkness. Let us burn away despair together!”

“And leave the rest to us!”

At the back of the hall, Arkhiyeri’s fingers gently tapped the hidden crystal node embedded in the offering basin—activating the silent transmission device. Ruslan’s voice was carried, word for word, to the corners of the city.

To the crumbling homes.

To the frightened hearts.

To the ears of soldiers, friends—and foes alike.

And like embers catching dry wood, something began to burn again.

Hope.

Scene 4 : Subzero

The speech of Ruslan Petrovik thundered through Pskov like a bolt 

of sacred lightning—echoing through crumbled alleys, splintered stone, and heavy hearts. The people, the hidden rebels, the frightened children, the praying priests, even the dying men—everyone heard him.

But not everyone was pleased.

Far away, in the grand balcony of the Mayor’s seized office, Alexander Nevsky’s face remained composed—too composed. He held his glass with the same poise a nobleman does at a masquerade, but his fingers trembled slightly. His jaw clenched. The voice of that boy and the echo of his name, Ruslan, rang in his ears.

Alexander (voice calm but eyes burning):
"My wellwisher... it seems we’ve been gifted with a complication."
"The tree-walker battling Simargl, the masked ash-bearer, and that boy—Ruslan. Along with his companions. They were not part of your plan."

He leaned forward, rubbing the smooth marble-like regalia on his palm, barely larger than a thumb. Its glow pulsed faintly, like a heartbeat in stone.

"Gabriel might be able to contain Simargl, but this is becoming a little too theatrical, even for me. I’ll need your help."

On the other side of a magical relay, came a voice—low, composed, and unmistakably female.

The Mysterious Wellwisher (smooth, amused):
"Mr. Nevsky... You're cleverer than most. But remember—knowing when to sip and when to bite… is what separates leaders from corpses."

Alexander’s fingers froze mid-motion. That voice… it was always a little too calm. A little too knowing.

Alexander (masking unease, with a forced smirk):
"So I was right. You're not just anyone. You're from the top echelons of the Red Winter. Perhaps... higher than I thought."

Wellwisher (flatly):
"You’ve done well. You’ve taken Pskov, activated the Regalia of Alkonost… and I upheld my part."
"Now… uphold yours."

Alexander (fiddling with the Regalia):
"Of course. With this Regalia, I can feel the divine blood of Alkonost coursing through me. Defeating that guardian wasn’t easy, even with Gabriel. But thanks to your instructions, I now have power unmatched."
"One day, even the capital will bow to me."

Wellwisher (with a razor-thin smile behind the words):
"A small reminder, then: the tree-man… is not alone. He is bound to a force equal to mine. Do not test him."
"And do not test me."

Alexander (his face twitching with quiet rage):
"Of course. I will remain… loyal. For now."

He ended the communication with a flick, the magical relay fading into smoke. Then his composure shattered. The oil lamp shattered against the wall, firelight flickering madly across the room.

Alexander (muttering like a mad king):
"You think you're above me... You all think that."
"Just wait—when I control both Regalias, Alkonost and Simargl—I will rip the gates of the Capital open myself. I’ll be the true ruler. Not some lizard playing god in the shadows."

But as his voice roared in fury, he remained oblivious to the shadow that had already been watching him—seated silently atop the balcony railing like a wraith of silence.

A figure in a cloak that shimmered like void, face hidden behind a blank white mask with no eyes, no mouth—just nothingness.

Bezlik the Faceless.

The observer slipped away like mist, without disturbing even the wind.

Bounding across rooftops, the ghostly agent contacted his mistress. The magical sigil in his ear buzzed faintly.

Bezlik (cold, monotone):
"Mistress Kikimora. I’ve heard your orders. I am en route to the target."
"Also… the Mayor plans to betray you. He seeks both Regalias for himself."

There was a short silence. Then—

Kikimora (calm but with venom buried deep):
"So he bares his fangs already… how quaint."
"Let him try. I, Kikimora—the General of Silence and Shadows—do not lose to rats. Let him claw all he wants. I will tear the city from under his boots."

"Bezlik, execute the mission as instructed. Do not engage with the Divine Guardian unless it becomes necessary."

Bezlik:
"Yes, My Mistress. The shadows shall walk with me."

And then he vanished again.

Running faster than wind, unseen, unfelt—the ghost of Red Winter moved like a curse toward the battleground where Simargl and Ostap raged.
The Faceless one was coming…
…and with him, the will of Kikimora.

Smoke coiled through the broken avenues of Pskov, rising from charred homes and collapsed roofs, staining the sky in mourning. Avi and Yudhir walked briskly through the devastation, their boots pressing into ash and blood, past bodies of soldiers—some no older than themselves. Lifeless animals, shattered barricades, and the whispers of those who had fallen surrounded them in silence.

Yudhir (bitterly): “This... this isn’t war anymore. It’s slaughter.”

Avi (quietly): “Wars never belong to people like us. It’s the madness of rulers, dressed in flags.”