Rusalka listened in stunned silence. Every word painted a world she never imagined—one she now found herself a part of.

Andry, on the other hand, was torn. He was grateful—but furious. Ostap had disappeared during a trip to gather wood for their father, a clock craftsman. He was never supposed to vanish.

Andry (low, angry): “First, I’ll save our father and the elders. Then… I’ll bring my brothers back.”

He held up a ring of keys.

Andry: “I’ve got the keys to the cells. Let’s move fast—before those soldiers wake and reinforcements arrive.”

Varun: “Yup, let’s get going. I don’t think I can take on another fifty... today, at least.”

Rusalka (smiling faintly): “Then let’s go. Lead the way, Andry.”

And just like that, the three of them rushed toward the underground cells—a warrior cloaked in moss, a cheerful aqua fighter, and a brother burning with purpose—to liberate the last hope of Pskov.

Amidst the chaos erupting across the shattered city—where screams echoed against broken walls and the flames of war danced in the distance—there was one soul who sat untouched.
High atop one of the crumbling bastions, he perched like a silent guardian, singing not for the crowds below, but for the wind above—as if the sky itself were the only audience worthy of his tale.

He was a slender, soft-spoken youth with long black hair streaked faintly with silver, tied loosely behind him. His eyes were pale grey, often half-closed, as if always listening to a song only he could hear. Dressed in a flowing, earth-toned robe and a weather-worn patchwork cloak, he looked more like a wandering monk than a musician. Across his back he carried a strange, ancient instrument wrapped in a sky-colored cloth, glowing faintly at the edges. There was something otherworldly about him—something in the way the wind quieted when he sat, or how birds circled overhead when he played, as if the world remembered him even if he did not.

Resting across his lap was a strange and beautiful instrument. It looked like a long, ancient harp fused with a lute—its body about the length of his torso, carved from deep, polished wood that gleamed like midnight bronze. One end bloomed into a wide, rounded base, while the other stretched into a gracefully curving neck, arched like the spine of a swan. Twin hollow orbs balanced the instrument on either side, like two moons cradling his song.

Across its surface ran seven luminous strings, faintly glowing with a silvery sheen. The wood itself was etched with delicate carvings—birds in flight, celestial dancers caught mid-twirl, and lotus blooms blooming through waves.
This was no ordinary instrument.

This was called a Kinnari Veena—a relic from a time this world had forgotten.

With his right hand, he gently plucked its strings. With his left, he glided across them, bending the sound into a flowing, sorrowful raga. The melody didn’t feel like a performance—it felt like a memory being born. A dream being remembered. Each note shimmered in the air, slow and haunting, like the heartbeat of a forest mourning its trees.

And as the song poured out of him, the wind hushed its cry. The fires flickered low. The air grew still.

His eyes half-closed, yet behind the lids he saw far beyond the bloodstained streets.
He saw visions.

Ruins that were never part of this world. Temples long buried. Faces from dreams that felt too real. And with each note, he slipped deeper—not into slumber, but into the astral river that flowed beneath all things.

No one noticed him.

And yet, his music was there—woven into the fabric of that moment, like a thread of light in a cloak of shadow.

As smoke curled into the sky and flames danced over the broken city, he sat quietly—alone, but not untouched. On a forgotten bastion, high above the war-torn streets, he watched the chaos unfold below. The cries of the dying, the clash of swords, the crackle of magic—it all churned through the wind. And to that wind, he sang.

With the Kinnari Veena resting across his lap, he played—not with pride, but with sorrow. Each note he drew from the ancient strings seemed to mourn the city with him. Birds, once startled by the sounds of war, circled him only briefly before settling quietly nearby, huddled close as if to share in his grief. His fingers moved slowly, reverently, as though every vibration was a prayer for peace.

He could do nothing to fight. Nothing to heal the wounded or repel the enemy. But music—music he could offer.

Talavan (softly, with a voice like moonlight):
"Brave warriors… my name is Talavan. I am a Nādayogi—one who unites with the divine through sound. I am just one instrument of the god through which performs Maya. I may lack the strength to stand beside you in battle… but let this dhwani, this sacred resonance, be my offering to your struggle. May it carry the hope and strength you need… May my song reach your hearts… and the hearts of all who suffer."

Then, with a single breath and a touch full of love, he struck a note.

It shimmered.

The wind caught it, lifted it, and carried it.

The sound drifted through the streets and alleys, over rooftops and crumbling walls, through blood-soaked soil and shattered homes. A divine tune—at once gentle and powerful—poured across the city like a river of light.

And everywhere it went, it stirred the soul.

In the hidden corners of ruined temples, survivors stilled their trembling.
Children stopped crying. Tiny fingers let go of clenched fists.
A broken mother looked to the sky with tear-lined eyes and whispered a prayer to Rod.
The priests of the Temple bowed low, recognizing the celestial nature of the melody.
Even the dying smiled.

Inside the infirmary of the temple, Ruslan stood among the wounded.
The melody touched him—not just in his ears, but in his very core.
He turned toward the sound’s direction, eyes softening.
He didn’t know who this bard was, but for the first time that day, he believed again.
"Please," he thought, "just a little more strength… we will protect them all."

Elsewhere, amidst the clash of elemental might, Avi’s great ice blade locked with Ostap’s wooden sword, sparks of frost and bark flying.
The sound of Talavan’s melody reached his ears—and in it, he heard something ancient… something from the world they belonged.
He didn’t smile, but his resolve sharpened.
Without turning his gaze from Ostap, he muttered,
"That sound… it’s from our world."

Yudhir, trapped in battle against the monstrous mimicry of Simargl, heard it too.
He paused, just for a breath, as if remembering a lullaby long forgotten.
"It can’t be a coincidence," he murmured.
"There’s someone else out there… someone who belongs from our world."

And deep within the writhing roots and tangled vines, Simargl—ensnared and drained—felt it stir something ancient in him.
The notes of the Kinnari Veena echoed the voice of his long-departed creator.
A promise once made. A light not yet extinguished.

Far from the battlefield, inside the mayor’s sealed quarters, Alexander heard it too.

He clenched his jaw.

"Who dares…?" he hissed, rising from his seat.
A melody so pure had no place in his twisted rule.
And yet—it slipped through even his walls.

But it was Bezlik, the faceless one, who felt it most profoundly.

Hidden in the distance, cloaked in his illusions, he had watched Avi and Ostap’s duel in silence.
The song pierced even his veil. It touched something he didn’t know existed.

For the first time in his cold, empty existence—he felt something.

A flicker.

An ache.

A… question.

He reached up to his face.
There was no mouth. No eyes. No expression.
But for the first time, the thought entered his mind—

"What kind of expression… should I make… for this music?"

And still, high above it all, Talavan played.

His eyes half-closed, a tear running silently down his cheek, he walked the space between dream and sorrow—hoping that his music might be enough to shift the tide, or at the very least, remind the world that even in darkness…

There still existed beauty.
And memory.
And light.

Scene 6 : Andry's lament

Avi, Yudhir, and Varun—scattered across the war-torn city—each felt it.

A divine dhwani, ancient and unknown to this world, flowed through the wind like a sacred whisper. It spoke not in words, but in memory—of a home they had forgotten and a strength they had buried. Talavan’s music, gentle yet commanding, surged through their veins like fire igniting slumbering coals.

Something inside them awakened.

Avi’s eyes narrowed mid-clash. The moment the note struck his heart, his blade surged with chilling brilliance. His strength doubled. Tripled. Blow after blow pushed the possessed Ostap backward.

Their swords clashed with thunderous force.

Avi spun, sharp shards of enchanted ice forming mid-air and hurling themselves at Ostap like spectral lances. The forest-born warlord responded, raising colossal, blooming flowers as shields. They shattered on impact.

Then—Avi drove his broadblade into the ground.

Avi (voice like echoing frost): “Dragon God Style: Ice Form – Frost Garden.”

A silence fell. Then—crystalline blossoms burst forth from the earth.

In an instant, the entire battlefield transformed into a frozen sanctuary. The massive flowers summoned by Ostap were now sculptures of ice, their petals brittle and still. Even Avi paused—stunned. He had never seen this technique before.

But it came to him instinctively. As if *someone—or something—*had reached into his soul and pulled it forward.

Raging, Ostap unleashed a storm of seeds. They sprouted instantly into thick trees with thrashing limbs. The branches whipped and lashed like serpents. Roots burst through the icy ground, seeking to entangle Avi.

But Avi answered with frozen defiance—summoning titanic ice-blooms to meet the assault.

The clash was apocalyptic.

Magic crackled, the forest howled, and the ground itself trembled as both powers collided. Aether and instinct—force and will. Ostap screamed, vines snaking around Avi’s limbs and neck, seeking to drain his mana.

But Avi didn’t falter.

In fact—his mana grew.

Talavan’s music filled the skies.

And Avi—fueled by it—glowed with white, icy aura. His eyes lit like twin stars, casting back the forest’s green.

Ostap staggered. “Impossible! How is your mana still rising?! What… what are you!?”

He wasn’t prepared for what he saw. A boy, barely in his twenties, holding the power of a god. And for the first time—the spirit possessing Ostap felt fear.

At the edge of the battlefield, Yudhir too was resonating. His aura surged, wind circling him in a furious spiral. He channeled it, forming a living tornado that erupted around him. The storm shredded through the forest.

The abominable Simargl-copy—crafted of roots and fury—was helpless.

Yudhir (whispered): “Sky Dragon Style : Wind form - Whispering Tempest ”

As if patiently waiting for the right moment he casted the tornado upon the creature. Razor winds tore it asunder. The beast was trapped and grinded by the winds. Its howl was silenced in pieces.

Yudhir fell to one knee, breath ragged—but his task wasn’t done. He turned, teeth gritted, to free the real Simargl.

Back in the icy court—

Avi shattered the vines binding him with a single step. With each footfall, the frost spread wider. The possessed Ostap—now trembling—watched the boy advance, blade drawn and glowing with divine chill.

He tried to run.

He summoned every plant, root, and limb the forest could spare. They all lunged—

Avi swung his blade once.

SPLASH! A wave of pure frost cleaved the battlefield. Ostap’s chest tore open, the wound immediately freezing over. He collapsed, gasping.

The entity possessing him felt terror… Why is this body afraid?

Avi stood before him—no longer a boy. A beast of ice. A predator. A sovereign.

Ostap (possessed): “Who are you…? How can you instill fear in a puppet I control?”

Avi (calm, icy, divine): “I am… Avikarh, son of the Dragon God Garjhimagni. And I am here to tell you one thing—leave Ostap’s body. Or I will destroy you along with it.”

The spirit reeled. This couldn’t be a coincidence. This boy… was no mere hero.

Ostap, still half-possessed, tried one last strike. He plunged his wooden sword into the ground—roots shot out, aiming to bind Avi again.

Avi slashed once.

The wooden sword split in two. Clean. Effortless.

Ostap’s body screamed. He backed away, crawling, desperate to flee from the ice-clad dragon before him. The fear wasn’t just physical—it was spiritual.

Ostap (spirit voice): “Boy… I’ll remember you. Next time, I’ll destroy you… I’ll devour your hearts, make you beg for death! YOU AND YOUR DRAGON FURY—WILL DIE!!”

Avi (voice sharp as glacial steel): “Dragon Fury is ready to face you all. Hurt those I care about… and I will uproot you from your own garden.”

With a final curse, the spirit forced Ostap’s hand to the ground—one last spell.

Then—the connection snapped. Ostap collapsed, unconscious.

And the forest went mad.

Roots screamed. Trees twisted. The entire jungle bent backward, then forward—pulling Ostap’s body deep into the earth.

Avi lunged, reaching for him—but the vines shoved him out. A barrier rose.

On the other side of the field—

Yudhir had freed Simargl, though the divine beast was weakened, its glow fading. But it sensed something far worse coming—and used the last of its strength to pull Yudhir out just in time.

The forest rumbled.

And then—it rose.

A giant.

A titan of bark and root, vines and moss. Towering far above the fortress walls, its chest pulsed—and at the core, barely visible—was Ostap, trapped, like a soul in a cage.

It was towering even the walls of the fortress.

The heroes stood, wind in their faces, staring at the living colossus.

It had no master now. Only chaos.

Avi clenched his fists.

Avi (commanding): “Dragon Fury… new mission—stop this tree giant. And save Ostap.”

Yudhir (steady and sure): “Roger that, Captain.”

They turned.

The forest giant had risen.

And the battle… had only just begun.

Talavan completed his melody just as the entity possessing Ostap lost control. The birds that had circled him gently landed near his feet, as if they too had witnessed a divine performance. They fluttered their wings softly in joy—no longer anxious, but calmed by the dhwani of the master. Talavan nodded to them with serene gratitude, acknowledging their presence as his last audience.

The musician gazed down one final time upon the fractured city—the smoke, the cries, the distant clash of blades. His fingers strummed a parting note, a farewell wrapped in silence and sound.

Talavan (softly, like wind through sacred halls):
“Forgive me, brave warriors… I cannot linger any longer in this world. I wish I could witness more of your journey. May this final note carry strength to your hearts.”