Maksym and Lybid fought together like wind and tree. Her vines held Vovkulakas long enough for his twin blades to pierce eyes and necks. She adapted to his sharp movements, weaving root traps beneath his feet with the nature staff. They learned to breathe as one.
Kyi and Yurko danced through chaos. Kyi's water and light pushed enemies into tight lines, and Yurko—mounted on the wolf—rained bolts of spirits into them while darting between trees. The wolf snarled, bit, dodged. Together, they struck like a holy storm.
Methodius and Shchek were a different storm entirely. Where Methodius shone with divine light, chanting prayers that burned Chort shadows to ash, Shchek's axe split skulls with primal rage. They clashed in rhythm—light and axe. Neither trusted the other. But neither failed.
Kyi and Methodius noticed that this place was somewhat isolated from the outside world, only leaving a small gap for a portion of God's blessing to reach.
The day pressed on.
The creatures grew fiercer. Some whispered lies. Some cried like children. Some burned when struck.
But the group did not fall.
When the rose walls finally withered, and the last of the evil spirits dissolved into smoke, they stumbled together toward the fire.
Yurko rubbed the wolf's ears. Maksym cleaned his blades. Lybid stared at her bruised hands, silent. Kyi pressed his hand to the holy text, still glowing faintly.
Even Methodius looked winded.
They sat.
"I hit a Vovkulaka while riding," Yurko said quietly. "Didn't fall off."
"About time," Kyi muttered with a smile.
Lybid glanced at Maksym. "You're good. Brutal. But good."
He just nodded.
Then Shchek leaned forward, gaze flicking toward Khoryv.
"So," he said. "What's next?"