Then, closing his eyes in solemn reverence, his voice rose like a prayer echoing through time:

Talavan (in sacred tone, like a hymn):
“May this melody carry the grace of the Four-Faced One who birthed wisdom…
the radiant voice who rides the swan and flows like a river of eloquence…
the lord of storm-chariots who roars across the heavens…
the keeper of balance who sleeps on the endless sea…
the silent dancer who spins time with a drumbeat…
the mountain-born windwalker whose shout shakes the stars…
and the unyielding one whose strength crosses oceans and lifts the fallen.”

That sacred dhwani echoed across the city—not as sound alone, but as spirit. It passed through every alley, every broken home, every wounded soul. And though most heard only a melody… three boys, bound not by this world alone, understood its true meaning.

Avi, Yudhir, and Varun—scattered across different corners of the city—paused amidst chaos and bloodshed. They each bowed their heads, not to a man, but to a master of music. They could feel the power, the reverence, the blessings buried within the music. It was a message not meant for their ears alone, but for their powers… and what they would one day become.

And then, as gently as mist in morning light, Talavan faded—his figure vanishing from the bastion stone, as if the very world had decided his performance was complete.

Beneath the garrison, in the cold-blooded bowels of the fortress, despair hung thick in the air. Dozens of prisoners, leaders of Pskov—Veche council members, merchants, scholars, craftsmen—sat in rusted chains. And among them was Mayor Timothy Dovmont—once hailed as a warrior-saint, now just another prisoner of war.

Dovmont sat near the bars, his powerful frame dulled by weariness. The iron chains around his wrists seemed almost ceremonial, unable to weigh down the spirit he refused to let die. His armor, scarred by fire and steel, was still strapped to him—streaked in ash and blood. His grey-streaked beard clung to his chin like frost. But his eyes… they stared down like a lion too tired to roar, yet unwilling to surrender.

He whispered no prayers. He offered no words. Only the slow, aching breaths of a man who had fought too long and still lost. His blue eyes scanned the floor—the same stones now stained by the blood of the people he swore to protect.

Beside him sat Taras Bulba Petrovik, his best friend, the humble clock-maker. His fingers trembled not from the cold, but from grief. The image of his sons, the cries of the streets, the smoke of his shop—all haunted him. He had lived a life of hardship, raised three sons after his wife was taken back to Novgorod… and now he had lost them all. He clutched the chain between his hands like it was the handle of a broken clock he couldn't fix.

Dovmont, seeing the tears fall from his friend’s cheeks, placed a heavy, calloused hand on his shoulder—not as comfort, but as anchor. His voice, when it came, was low and ragged.

Dovmont:
"We fought for her, brother... and still she fell. Not by might… but by betrayal."

All around them, men sat broken. A merchant muttered dryly:

Merchant (weakly): “Anyone know when they'll release us? My boy… he’s reckless. He’ll get himself killed without me.”

A shopkeeper wept quietly:

Shopkeeper (sobbing): “Please… my wife’s health is failing. She needs me. My daughter can’t handle it alone.”

An elderly Veche councilor whispered a final plea:

Elder: “Let these younger men go. Take us, the old stones. We've lived our time.”

The guards above barked down, venom in their voice.

Novgorod Soldier:
“SHUT UP, PSKOVIAN SCUM! You’ll rot down here until our superiors decide what to do with your bones!”

The silence after that was heavy, like a casket sealed with hopelessness. The torchlight flickered, casting shadows that danced like ghosts across the cell walls.

But then—a rumble shook the earth.

Booms echoed above. Dust rained from the ceiling. Explosions—real ones—lit up the stone slats.

The guards tensed, curses on their lips. They scrambled up the stairs, weapons drawn.

When the last soldier reached the surface, what he saw nearly made him drop his spear. Three figures stood in the middle of the garrison yard, surrounded by the unconscious elite soldiers of Novgorod—handpicked men of Warlord Gabriel, all lying in a heap.

And still standing… were two boys and a girl.

He foolishly charged toward the girl—thinking her the weakest.

Varun and Andry snickered.

Varun (amused): “Oh, poor man… you really picked the wrong one.”

In a flash of motion, Rusalka’s seaweed-shaped sword sliced the guard’s blade from his hand and knocked him out cold with a strike as elegant as a flowing river.

Then, together, the three of them descended below—to free those who had once led Pskov… and give hope a second breath.

As they descended the stone steps into the underground cells, a sudden thought struck Varun.

Varun: “Hey Andry… how come you didn’t hear Ruslan’s speech?”

Andry: “Ah, that’s because I was unconscious for a while. I pushed myself too far—used up too much Zhivava. Normally, I rely on elemental magic. But when I tapped into rune magic… it drained me. So, I found a safe spot and hid until I recovered.”

Varun (wide-eyed): “Rune magic? That sounds… wow. Okay, once we’re done with this mess, you have to fill me in on all of this.”

Rusalka (raising an eyebrow, unimpressed): “Seriously? You don’t even know the basics of magic?”

Varun (sheepish): “Umm… well, we three came from pretty far. There’s still a lot we don’t know about this country.”

Andry chuckled, catching the awkwardness.
Andry (teasing): “You two look great together, though.”

Rusalka (startled, blushing): “W–We’re not!”

Varun froze. That one little denial sent his thoughts spiraling into daydreams. He didn’t even realize she had punched his arm—lightly, but with a flustered glare. Andry laughed harder, but beneath the teasing, a heaviness lingered in his eyes. Varun noticed, but said nothing.

They reached the cell blocks. The air was thick with mildew and hopelessness—until the prisoners saw them. Gasps and tears broke out like rain. The people of Pskov, once ready to die forgotten, now clung to new hope.

“They’ve come… the gods have sent them…”

Rusalka swung her seaweed-forged blade, slicing through iron locks like they were paper. Varun summoned water into his palm, shaping it into a curved edge—cleanly severing cell bars in one strike.

As they worked, Andry scanned every face, moving with increasing urgency—until his eyes landed on a familiar figure in the farthest cell.

“Dad.”

Taras turned, his weary eyes widening in disbelief.
Taras: “Andry?! My boy?!”

In seconds, Andry broke the chains. Taras stumbled into his son’s arms, clinging to him like he might vanish again.

Taras (weeping): “Thank you… Rod, thank you for keeping him safe! Where were you all this time, my son?”

Andry (holding back tears): “I’ll never leave again. I had to… go on a mission. For you. For Mom.”

From behind, Timothy Dovmont stepped forward, his old face lighting up.

Timothy: “Good to see you alive, lad.”

Andry (grinning despite his emotions): “Hey, Uncle… are you sure that beard wasn’t all black before?”

Timothy (smirking): “Still got fight in me. You still owe me seven wins in our duels.”

Andry: “Hey, it’s 10 to 3 now. One day, I’ll beat you fair and square.”

Timothy: “I’ll be waiting. I’m still the master of you three rascals.”

He paused, his tone softening.
Timothy: “But… what about the mission? Did you find anything?”

Andry’s smile faltered. His knees gave out, and he sank to the floor, guilt rippling through him like thunder in his chest. He couldn’t meet their eyes.

Andry (voice cracking): “I failed… I was caught. I was reckless… naive. I’m sorry, Uncle. Sorry, Dad.”

Tears fell freely now. Even the prisoners looked on in silence. Timothy reached forward instinctively, but Taras held his arm.

Taras (soft, fatherly): “Shhh… my boy… come here. Don’t cry like that. You came back to me—that’s all a father can ask. But tell me… tell us what happened.”

Andry leaned into his father’s arms and spoke between sobs.

Andry: “I went to Novgorod… to find Mom. You said she went back to her family—I thought maybe… maybe they kept her prisoner.”

His voice wavered, but he pressed on.
Andry: “I snuck into the city. From what I’d read, it was supposed to be grand. And it was…”

He sat up, wiping his face with the back of his hand, and began describing it—the jagged spires, the frost-touched rooftops, the ghostly citizens wrapped in wool, the watch-fires glowing green with artificial Zhivava. And finally, the square… the girl with the gusli… and the lullaby that carried the warmth of a forgotten home.

Everyone listened in silence. Even Rusalka, arms crossed, was no longer scolding—only watching with quiet empathy.