#virinia

The illagers returned home late in the evening. The sun had disappeared behind the horizon, leaving the sky bathed in a crimson glow. The forest greeted them with its coolness. Only a few stars glimmered through the crowns of the oaks.

The group trudged along the trodden path in a weary line. There were far fewer of them. In the morning, they had departed in a dense, imposing column, with dozens of fighters.

Now, only a handful of Vindicators and Frost remained.

On their return journey, the Pillagers dispersed to their outposts. Only Askar remained to escort the group to the mansion. He had to report to the leader about the mission he had completed.

The forest gradually thinned out, and the trees were replaced by sparse shrubs, eventually leading to a cobblestone road.

The massive doors of the mansion emerged from the darkness. The two Vindicators' Guards let the squad inside without a word.

The hinges creaked low, and this creak reverberated through the courtyard, hit the walls and died away somewhere under the arches.

The mansion greeted them with the subdued light of torches. They flickered in iron holders along the walls, crackled and cast long shadows. The light was dim, pale yellow, and accentuated the darkness rather than dispelling it, giving an ominous atmosphere.

The air inside was saturated with dampness and the smell of old wood. Around them loomed the figures of other residents of the mansion who did not go to the raid. They watched them in silence, without curiousity.

Only the monotonous sound of the axe being sharpened on a block broke the silence. The return was mundane, frightening in its everydayness.

Frost walked down a long corridor lined with red carpet. The old pile was worn down to threads in places, and it crunched under his feet. Each step echoed in his chest. It wasn't so much the sound as the weight he carried within himself. The emptiness that had settled under his ribs since today weighed heavily on him.

The others had already dispersed to their rooms. Somewhere to the left, muffled voices could be heard behind a door. To the right, a steady, rhythmic snore could be heard from the next room, as someone had fallen asleep without undressing, exhausted from the long journey.

At the end of the corridor, the Captain's figure appeared. Without turning around, he headed towards the main hall, dragging the Librarian prisoner with him.

The rope was gone from his wrists and there was nowhere to run inside the mansion, but he moved as if he could still feel its invisible pressure.

Frost watched them go, feeling a dull ache inside. He forced himself to look away.

Next to Frost, slightly behind, was the Vindicator, Erwin, his loyal friend and guard. Erwin's footsteps sounded different from the Evoker's: more confident, heavier, with a slight metallic tint. It was the small axe hilt on his belt that jingled.

Erwin was tall, even taller than most Illagers, and broad-shouldered. But his movements had a slow strength, like a bear's.

His face, weathered and rugged, usually seemed stern and unapproachable. But Frost knew that beneath that exterior lay a rare, maternal tenderness.

Erwin never raised his voice, never pushed him in the shoulder, never made hurtful jokes like the others. He was just there. Silent and reliable, like a fortress wall.

He had been assigned to the Evoker as a replacement just two years ago, but in that time they had gotten along very well.

At first Frost had seen Erwin as an inevitable evil — a watchdog sent by his father to keep an eye on the young man.

But gradually, day by day, hour by hour, spent together this mistrust melted like morning fog. Erwin never imposed advice if he was not asked. He never judged, even when Frost was wrong. Never demanded frankness, but was always ready to listen without unnecessary words.

In his presence, Frost could be himself.

Erwin was always there. He was ready to protect and support, although his advice was rare and concise: "don't go there," "go to bed," "drink some water." But there was a deep, genuine concern in those short phrases.

Next to the Vindicator, the world seemed less hostile.

"You don't seem like yourself today," Erwin said suddenly. He turned his head towards Frost. "Are you tired? Has something happened?"

Frost paused for a moment. This question, so simple and mundane, suddenly seemed the most challenging of all those he had been asked. He could have lied and put on that same smile and said, "It's okay, Erwin, I'm just tired."

He was ready to start a stream of lies, but the words stuck in his throat. Because Erwin was different. He deserved the truth. But was he ready to accept it? And was Frost ready to tell it?

"I'm tired," he finally said, and it was both a lie and the truth. "I'm very tired."

Erwin nodded and didn't ask anything else. He reached out with his hand and clasped Frost's shoulder.

They continued walking together, two figures in the dark corridor, two men who didn't need words. The emptiness within him seemed to ease just a little.

At the end of the corridor, where the carpet ended abruptly at a wall with a tapestry depicting an ancient battle, the Evoker saw a familiar figure.

His mother, Virinia, was standing by the window with her back turned. She was so still and calm that she seemed to be a part of this old mansion, just as eternal and holding its own secrets.

She turned at the sound of footsteps, recognizing her son's approach among many others.

Her pale face was filled with two emotions. There was the worry that seemed to have been with her since his birth, and then there was the relief. The kind of relief that comes when you see your child alive and well, standing in front of you. Her gray eyes contained everything: love, anxiety, and longing for the days when Frost was a child and her hugs could protect him from the world.

Erwin, realizing the situation, stepped back, standing against the wall and leaning his shoulder against the stone. He folded his arms across his chest and looked away, giving the family space to talk. At the same time, he remained close enough to intervene if necessary.

Virinia came closer silently, and took Frost's hands in her cool palms. They were always like that, even in the hottest weather.

She smelled of lavender and old books, and the scent, so familiar and homey, suddenly struck the Evoker in the heart.

"My son," she said softly, looking into his eyes. "How did it go?"

Virinia had always been like this: wise, understanding, and caring. She never pushed when Frost wasn't ready to talk. She knew how to wait. Frost sometimes thought that she knew more about him than he did. She knew the thoughts he didn't say out loud, the fears he kept hidden deep within, and the dreams that haunted his nights. And she never used that knowledge against him.

Frost wanted to tell her everything. To pour out everything that had accumulated during this monstrous day: about the doubts that tormented him even before dawn, about the fears that he suppressed, about the inner struggle that tore him apart when he met the Librarian's gaze. He wanted to fall into her arms, inhale the scent of lavender and forget himself.

But he restrained himself. Such conversations are unacceptable here, within the walls of the mansion. Words spoken in weakness can become a weapon against yourself. He knew it. And she knew it.

At that moment, she noticed how dejected her son looked. Her eyebrows furrowed slightly. She took a closer look at her son's face, noticing the shadows under his eyes that hadn't been there earlier in the day. She asked in a soft, fearing the answer:

"Has something gone wrong?"

Frost didn't know what to say. He couldn't lie to his mother; it was beyond his capabilities. He opened his mouth, closed it, opened it again, and didn't make a sound.

He stood in front of her like a boy who had committed a dirty deed, unable to utter a word.

Virinia, noticing his hesitation, did not question him.

She sighed and hugged him.

The gesture was so light and weightless, but there was so much acceptance in it that Frost wanted to cry.

She didn't judge. She didn't ask, "What have you done?" She didn't demand an explanation. She just accepted him for who he was and made it clear that he wasn't alone.

"I understand that first experiences can be challenging," she said, her voice even, though her eyes spoke of more. "Rest."

She released him and took a step back. Something flashed in her eyes that Frost couldn't decipher, but Virinia immediately averted her eyes, staring at the floor. Before she went to her chambers, she added:

"If you want to talk, I'll be in my room, as always."

With that, she left. Her dark blue robe glided smoothly down the corridor and soon disappeared around a bend.

Erwin immediately stepped forward and stood next to him. Frost decided that he should visit his father, and then go to his room and lie down on his bed, close his eyes, and try to fall asleep.

•••

The main hall shone with its usual solemnity. The high vaults were lost in the darkness. The walls were decorated with antique banners and paintings. A huge map of the area was spread out on a large table in the center of the hall.

Leader Elias sat on a high throne chair, decorated with emerald inserts.

The torchlight played on his face, highlighting deep wrinkles, the marks of years and sleepless nights. All of this made his stern features even more frightening.

His figure looked impressive even in the semi-darkness: broad shoulders, powerful arms resting on the armrests, a dark cloak and a fur collar. Elias did not move, but there was such strength in his immobility that the air around him seemed to tremble and thicken.

The Captain stood opposite, standing at attention. The back is straight, the shoulders are straightened.

His voice was dry and military-like, but there was a subtle note of tension in it: the Captain was afraid of the leader. He was afraid, as everyone was.

The Librarian was standing next to him, barely able to stand. There was a bruise on his left cheek. A new one. Someone had added it on the way. Askar. Or someone else.

The sound of a door opening. A long creak echoed through the hall, bouncing off the stone vaults.

Elias's head snapped around. His cloak flapped, revealing the hilt of the sword at his waist. Frost stood in the doorway. Elias's eyes narrowed. His gaze was assessing and critical. It swept over Frost's face, his clothes, the way he carried himself, stood, and breathed. Elias was clearly waiting for the Evoker to prove himself worthy of the title of true warrior. He was waiting for confirmation that the Evoker would not bring shame to him.

Askar, who was in the middle of reporting on the spoils and casualties, stopped mid-sentence when he noticed Frost's arrival. There was an awkward pause filled only with the crackling of torches and the barely audible breathing of the Villager.

All eyes turned towards Frost, and even the captive raised his head momentarily.

The leader made a short, authoritative gesture with his hand, inviting Frost to approach. Frost took a few hesitant steps forward, feeling his heart beating faster. He stopped a few meters away from the throne, hesitant to approach, and lowered his gaze.

Looking back at Askar, Elias asked in a low voice, so low that the vibrations of his words seemed to pass through the stone floor.

"What progress has my son made today?"

The question hung in the air like an axe poised to strike.

The Captain cleared his throat, loudly and nervously, covering his mouth with his fist. He began to adjust his shoulder pads, even though they were already perfectly positioned. It was a gesture of uncertainty.

"Er... Considering some... stumbles, his first raid can be considered satisfactory, Leader."

The words sounded like a death sentence. "Satisfactory" wasn't "excellent" or even "good." In military terms, "satisfactory" meant "barely passed, but passed."

At the word "stumbles," Frost felt a hot wave of embarrassment and anger wash over him. Shame at his father and anger at himself, the captain, and this damn day.

Elias's face darkened. His already stern expression turned to stone. He stared at Frost for a long time, and there was disappointment in his gaze. Or anger. Or contempt. Frost couldn't read his father like he never had.

But Elias remained silent. No words of reproach, no words of comfort, not even a nod.

He dismissed Askar and ordered him to lock the prisoner in the cell.

Askar bowed very low and respectfully, grabbed the Villager by the shoulder, and quickly dragged him out. The door closed behind them with a dull thud, and Frost was left alone in the hall, facing his father.

Elias was silent. And in that silence was everything: his unspoken disappointment, the weight of a legacy that Frost didn't seem to live up to, and the abyss that had always existed between father and son.

Elias was never affectionate. He never praised. He never said, "I'm proud of you." just remained silent. And in that silence, Frost drowned, choked, and lost himself in an attempt to earn even a single warm glance.

An eternity later the leader turned away. He did so slowly, staring into the dancing flames of the torch as if searching for answers to questions he was afraid to ask.

Suddenly, so unexpectedly, they were greeted by the alluring smell of food. It broke through the heavy atmosphere of the hall, through the smell of wood and torch-smoke. It smelled of roasted meat, fresh bread, and, it seemed, apple pie. The kind that the old cook used to make on special occasions.

The smell burst into the hall like a reminder that life goes on, and made everything even more absurd.

Elias seemed to have smelled it too. His shoulders relaxed slightly and he spoke, but his voice was no longer so icy.

"We'll talk tomorrow," he said without looking at his son. "For now... Go to dinner."

The words sounded so ridiculous after everything that had happened. It was as if he had just returned from a walk.

He bowed his head briefly, without looking up, and turned to leave. The smell of food grew stronger, more insistent, and Frost's stomach rumbled in a treacherous way. Despite his shame and emotional pain, his body craved food.

Erwin, who had been waiting by the door, followed silently, and they walked down a corridor, where voices could be heard, and someone was already setting out bowls of steaming meat.

As they walked, Frost wondered what he and his father would "talk" about tomorrow. About the battle? About his successes? Or about why he was so worthless? He didn't know. All he knew was that he didn't have an appetite, but he would still go to the common room and sit between Cale and Erwin. He would smile because there was no other option. Because he was the son of a chieftain. Because "go to dinner" wasn't a concern, but an order.

•••

Captain Askar led the prisoner through the dark corridors of the mansion to the cells. The torches were lit sparsely, and their weak, light illuminated only fragments: a section of the moss-covered stone wall, the oppressive ceiling that seemed ready to collapse at any moment.

The cells looked depressing: walls of rough gray stone, cold, cracked floor with black water, doors made of iron, with small barred windows.

The atmosphere of hopelessness here was too dense. It reminded everyone who came here that there is only one way out. And it is not where the light is.

Reaching the right cell, Askar abruptly pushed the Villager inside. The prisoner, before he could even cry out, was thrown forward, his knees hitting the floor with a painful thud, and he landed on all fours, gasping for breath.

Without wasting any more time, Askar slammed the door shut. The lock clicked shut with a screech, trapping the librarian in his new, cramped abode.

Leaning against the door, Askar grinned, baring sharp fangs. He folded his arms across his chest, thrust his leg forward, and spoke, savoring each word.

"So, bookworm. I suggest you think carefully before you try to escape or resist." He paused to let the words sink in, then lowered his voice. "Your enchanting talents will be useful to our tribe. Very useful. So I suggest you cooperate. Voluntarily. Or not, as you choose. But remember, we have ways to make even the most stubborn person talk. Ways your books didn't even mention."

At this, the prisoner looked up for the first time. For the first time, he spoke. The sound that came out of his throat was soft, trembling.

"S-sir... I... I can't cast enchant. My father didn't have time to teach me. He wanted to..." He stopped, taking a shuddering breath. "I just kept the books."

His voice broke into a whisper, then fell silent. He sat on the floor, his shoulders trembling. Not from the cold, but from the feeling of the world falling apart and being left alone, unwanted, and unable to do anything. Unable to even protect his own life.

Askar snorted loudly and with a whistle, and this sound sounded like a slap in the face. He didn't believe it. Or maybe he didn't care.

"Then you'll die here if you don't learn."

Then he pulled away from the door, and walked quickly away to where the lights were on, the smell of food and the sound of lively voices. His footsteps grew fainter and fainter, until they stopped altogether, disappearing into the thickness of the mansion.

The Villager was left alone. He sat on the floor, huddled in the corner of the cell. He was left in complete confusion, alone in the darkness, with no books, no hope, and not even any fear. Because the fear had ended, and all that remained was exhaustion. And silence.

•••

After a long dinner filled with noise and laughter, Frost returned to his room.

Erwin, his loyal shadow, also retired to his chambers, uttering two words before leaving: "Until tomorrow." He departed, leaving the Evoker alone with his thoughts and nightmares.

The spacious room greeted Frost with the usual silence and the smell of dusty books.

It was dark and cool inside. The freshness of the night bringing with it the smell of wet earth. Frost did not light the candle. He wanted to stay in the dark, to merge with it.

He lay down on the bed, on top of the blanket, without undressing. He didn't even have the strength to undo the belt buckle. The sheet was icy, and this cold penetrated through the robe, reaching all the way to the bone.

He closed his eyes. But sleep didn't even think about coming.

The images came back again and again. Bright, painful, unnaturally clear. Frost could still smell the stench of burning and destruction, seared into his very being.

It repeated itself over and over, plunging him into a state of anxiety and internal conflict. One part of him, the one that had been raised by the tribe, whispered: "You did the right thing, it's a war," and the other, weak, crushed, but alive, screamed: "You killed the innocent. You looked into the eyes of the dying. You didn't shout 'stop.' What did you do, Frost? What did you do?"

He abruptly got up from the bed and walked over to the window. He pushed the shutters open, and they creaked slightly, letting in a breath of fresh air.

Frost rested his hands on the windowsill and looked up at the night sky. The full moon reflected in the dark branches of the trees, casting a silver light over the landscape.

The sky, dotted with myriad stars, stretched out above him in an endless expanse. Each star burned with a particular intensity, and in that glow, Frost could see the eyes of others. Thousands of eyes, staring back at him with reproach and the question, "Why? Do you remember us?"

Through the window, Frost could hear the sounds of the forest: the mournful moans of zombies wandering through the trees in search of living flesh, the bone-chilling sound of skeletons, and the rustling sound of spiders. This night was filled with danger and uncertainty.

Frost knew that zombies could be defeated with a sword, spiders could be defeated with magic, and skeletons could be avoided. This world was cruel. The rules were simple: kill or be killed. However, today, these predictable sounds were suddenly different.

The Illager shuddered. He knew that he could no longer sleep peacefully, knowing that a prisoner was suffering in a cell nearby. The same prisoner whose eyes met his for a brief moment, saying without words, "I see you. You are like me."

Frost stepped away from the window, pressed his back against the wall, closed his eyes, and whispered into the darkness:

"I'm sorry..."

He didn't know who he was apologizing to. Was it to the Villager? Was it to himself? Was it to the people he had killed today?

Or was it to Notch, whom he had never believed in but whom he wanted to believe in at that moment, so that someone up above would hear and forgive him?

He needed a plan. He had to do something. At least try to fix what could still be fixed.

His father must have the key to the cells. Elias never trusted such things to servants or guards. The key lay somewhere in a shelf of a table, or in a secret pocket of his cloak, or perhaps hung at his belt, next to his sword. Without this key, he could not do.

He could not escape unnoticed. The mansion was always full of Illagers: guards changing shifts, servants scurrying through the corridors, night watchmen who checked every door, every corner, every shadow. Even if the Evoker knew exactly where his father kept the key, even if he could sneak into his chambers, steal it, and make his way down to the cells, someone would notice. And they would report it. And then... Frost didn't even want to think about what would happen then. Death. Or worse, exile in disgrace, when you're erased from memory like an unnecessary thing.

His head was spinning with anxiety, and thousands of thoughts were racing through his mind. He had to think of something. But his brain was exhausted and overloaded.

Suddenly, a ghostly chuckle echoed through the silence. It was so unexpected that Frost almost jumped. He raised his hands, ready to use magic.

From the depths of his robe, from behind his high collar, a Vex slipped out. Its appearance spoke of clear displeasure. The glowing eyes were narrowed, and the eyebrows were lowered.

Normally, these creatures act swiftly and precisely, attacking opponents with imperceptible strikes of their small swords. Perfect fighters for their size.

But this one was special. Frost had noticed it the day he first summoned it from the other world. Instead of waiting for commands, the Vex immediately began to dash around the room, knocking over inkwells and books. Instead of attacking, he liked to make noise and attract attention, acting like a little imp who enjoyed pissing his master off.

Frost, watching his restless movements, even gave him a funny name: Dizzy.

"Dizzy," he breathed, feeling the tension in his shoulders ease a little. "What are you doing? You scared me to death."

He held out his hand, and beckoned him closer. Dizzy with a short, playful squeak, flew into his outstretched hand.

Weightless, he sat down in the center, tilting his head. There was something in his eyes that hadn't been there before. Sympathy or curiousity.

Frost walked over to the bed, sat down on the edge, rested his elbows on his knees, and began to speak. His voice was a whisper, so that no one outside the door would hear. He needed to talk. He told Dizzy everything: about the Villager, and the key, and the fact that he wouldn't be able to do it because he was a coward, because he was a traitor if he tried, and a traitor if he didn't try.

Dizzy listened attentively. His large eyes widened in surprise and then narrowed thoughtfully. He frowned. Then he flew up from Frost's palm and began to fly around the room, back and forth, making a thoughtful, quiet singing sound.

And then Dizzy suddenly squeaked piercingly, so that Frost winced, and in the next moment he was gone, somewhere in the wall.

The Illager was stunned, staring at the place where he had just been. The Vex never disappeared like that. Usually he would dissolve with reluctance, making a long squeak at the end, as if apologizing for having to leave.

"Thanks for your support," Frost muttered, shaking his head.

Dizzy had left him.

Outside the window, the Zombie moaned again. The sound seemed to mock Frost's helplessness.

He wondered if he was doing the right thing. What would his mother say? Her pale face and her worried gaze, suddenly appeared in his mind's eye. Frost imagined her standing by the window, gazing out into the darkness, waiting. Waiting for him. If he managed to escape with the Librarian, there would be no turning back. His mother would be left alone in this cold, empty mansion. She would surely go mad with grief. Frost knew his mother, wise, outwardly calm, but as vulnerable as he was. If he disappeared, she would just cease to exist. Her body would remain, but her soul would die. And Frost didn't know which was more terrifying, betraying the tribe or betraying his mother.

On the other hand, was this the life she wanted for her son? The question was like a punch to the gut. He remembered how she had peered into his face, catching every hint that something was wrong with him. She's always seen it. She wanted a happiness for him that no one here in the mansion had ever thought about.

Finally, determination took over. He'll try. No matter what happens, he's tired of doing nothing. Even if it costs him his life. It's better to die doing something than to live with the Librarian's eyes in your nightmares every night. It's better to be a traitor to your tribe than a traitor to yourself.

He walked quietly, heading towards his father's chambers. Each step was difficult, but he forced himself to keep going, ignoring the consequences and the voice in his head.

The corridors of the mansion were empty and eerie.

The carpet noiselessly took the steps of the Illager, and it seemed as if he was walking on a layer of soft, yielding moss.

Somewhere below, the guards were talking. They exchanged jokes and gossip, and had no idea that the one they were supposed to be guarding was sneaking over their heads in the dark.

But right now, Frost was only thinking about how to save the prisoner. He knew that every mistake would cost him everything. The wooden floor creaked under his weight, especially in places where the boards had cracked and moved away from each other, forcing him to slow down and listen to the sounds of the night.

Suddenly, three steps ahead of him, something bright and small flashed by. Frost froze in fear, his heart ready to burst out of his chest and run away for his life.

He ducked behind a nearby pillar and pressed his back against the planks, trying to control his breathing.

After a moment, he peeked out, stretching his neck and squinting, but he didn't see anyone. The corridor was empty. No rustling or footsteps.

With a sigh of relief, he pulled away from the pillar and returned to the middle of the corridor. And at that moment, he shuddered so violently that he almost cried out. Directly in front of him, level with his face, Dizzy was frozen in the air. His eyes were filled with pride, and in his tiny hands was a key. The key that Frost had risked his life, freedom, and future for.

Frost looked at his find in shock, not believing his eyes. How did this tiny creature, noisy, who did nothing but attract attention, manage to steal the key? How it got away unnoticed? Frost went over all the possible options in his head, but his brain refused to work, eclipsed by surprise.

Dizzy, noticing his confusion, proudly puffed out his chest and spread his wings even wider.

A wide smile spread across the Evoker's face. For the first time that day, he was actually smiling. He held out his hand and Dizzy placed the key right in the center of his palm.

"And you're not nearly as simple as you seem," Frost whispered, looking at the Vex that was now sitting on his shoulder. "You... You're a genius, Dizzy."

In response to the praise, the pest straightened his shoulders, — and Frost realized it a moment before the sound escaped that tiny creature — he giggled loudly. It echoed through the hallway. Frost's muscles tensed, and every fiber of his being seemed to harden.

"Shut up, you fool," the Evoker whispered in a panic. "You're going to ruin us!"

But it was too late. The echoes carried the ill-fated laughter deep into the mansion, into the corridors and rooms.

Somewhere in the distance came the sound of cautious footsteps. They were lazy — the guard wasn't even in a hurry. He was creeping along, listening and keeping his weapon at the ready. The footsteps were getting closer.

"This is the end," Frost thought.

When the footsteps were just a few paces away, he heard the sound of an axe being shifted from one hand to the other. The Evoker panicked even more. He couldn't run, he couldn't breathe, and he couldn't even think. All he could do was stand against the wall, praying to all the gods that the guard would pass by without noticing him.

As he turned around, he saw that Dizzy had disappeared again. "He's mocking me," the Evoker thought. The Vex just left him in the face of danger.

Suddenly, at the other end of the corridor, there was a crash. Something heavy fell from a height, rolled and collided with another object. All of this blended into a loud symphony.

The guard, who had almost reached Frost, paused for a moment and then, without hesitation, he rushed towards the noise. His footsteps echoed rapidly away, until they were drowned out by the sound of two or three pairs of feet hurrying towards the scene.

The Evoker couldn't believe his luck. He opened his eyes, took a breath, and realized that he was still alive. For now, anyway.

He knew that if he didn't hurry, things would get ugly. "Dizzy," he thought, picking up the pace. "That was definitely Dizzy."

•••

After descending to the lower level, he finally reached the cells.

The floor was slippery, and Frost kept stumbling. It seemed to him that everyone could hear his every step. The guards upstairs, his father in his chambers, and even the monsters outside.

Without wasting any time, he inserted the key into the keyhole.

His hands were trembling: fingers slipped over the metal, unable to find the right position, and the key kept slipping out, scraping against the iron around the keyhole. Frost bit his lip, trying to control the trembling, but his body was uncooperative. "Calm down," he told himself, "calm down. You can do this."

He took a deep breath, closed his eyes for a moment, and when he opened them, his hands were no longer shaking. The key entered the lock and Frost gathered all his strength and turned it.

The lock clicked inaudibly, but it seemed to the Evoker that it sounded like a thunderclap. He froze, listening. Silence. Only drops of water monotonously fell somewhere far away. Frost slowly pulled the door open.

The half-asleep Villager immediately reacted.

He sat in the corner of the cell, huddled up. He stared at the dark silhouette that appeared in the doorway. The Librarian did not recognize Frost. Or perhaps he did, but he did not believe it, thinking it was a hallucination, a product of his fear.

Frost approached him carefully, as one approaches a wounded animal, fearing to frighten it off, and held out his hand.

"Come on. Rather. We don't have much time."

The Librarian hesitated. He looked from Frost's hand to his face, from his face to the open door of the cell, behind which freedom loomed black. Wasn't this a trap? Did this Illager, one of the ones who had burned his village, really want to help? Or was this some new, twisted way of tormenting him? First, give him hope, and then... Then slam the door shut again, this time for good? A thousand thoughts, a thousand doubts raced through his mind, but at some point, something clicked.

The Librarian staggered to his feet. His head spun, and his vision blurred, but he stood his ground, and when he caught the Evoker's determined gaze, he took a step towards freedom. His muscles ached from sitting on the cold floor for so long, but he kept walking.

Together, they left the cell. Frost let the prisoner go first, and then closed the door to make it look like no one had even opened it.

Together they made their way to the exit, trying to avoid being seen, hugging the walls, ducking into the shadows, freezing at every suspicious sound.

The Librarian tried to be faster, but he limped on one leg. Frost noticed this and realized what was wrong. Askar must have been a little rough when he shoved the Villager into the cell. Or perhaps the Librarian had fallen himself, twisting his leg in an unfortunate way. Frost walked beside him, holding his elbow, helping him not to fall.

There was almost no time left, and ahead was a long corridor, a staircase, an exit, and perhaps freedom. Or death. But now he was ready to accept both. Because he made a choice, his own, the first one of his life.

•••

The night air hit him in the face, fresh and moist. Frost inhaled it deeply. This air was different from the air inside the mansion. The tension eased a little, just enough to straighten his shoulders and calm his breathing.

The forest stretched out before them, spread out under the starry sky. The moon, hidden behind the clouds, peeked out and then disappeared again, making the forest impenetrable and full of sounds. The branches whipped at their faces, but Frost paid them no attention. He only looked ahead, where the trees parted, revealing new paths.

The sounds of the forest grew louder. Somewhere a fox ran, rustling leaves. But the main blood-curdling sound was the distant, hungry growl of zombies. It came from somewhere to the side, causing both to freeze. Frost saw the Librarian turn even paler, if that was possible. The growl repeated, closer, louder, more insistent. A second growl joined it, then a third, and Frost realized that there was a whole group of the undead.

The tension was rising, but Frost was keeping his composure. Or at least he was trying to, because if he panicked now, they would both be lost.

He grabbed the villager by the arm and pulled him deeper into the forest, away from the mansion and those nasty zombies.

The Librarian stumbled after him, limping on his injured leg but keeping up, occasionally letting out a stifled hiss as the pain in his knee intensified.

Adrenaline filled their bodies with energy, and the Evoker ran, saving himself and this strange, foreign, but now so close Villager. He ran as if all the Nether's blazes, all the shadows of the past, and all the sins of the day were chasing him.

•••

After several hours of running, it seemed to Frost that they had reached a safe place. It was a small cave, hidden behind dense thickets of vines and ferns, the entrance to which was almost invisible from the side. It was shallow, but it was enough to hide from the creatures that roamed outside.

The Librarian, almost falling from exhaustion, sank to the ground, leaning back against the stone wall and closed his eyes. He didn't say a word, just breathed hoarsely, pressing his hand to his chest, where his heart was pounding.

Frost was tired too. He wanted to lie down and forget himself, to fall into saving nothingness. But he did not allow himself to rest. Instead, he gathered his remaining strength, and left the cave, leaving the Villager in a state of confusion. The Librarian watched him go with a puzzled gaze, but he didn't dare ask where he was going, why, or for how long.

As time dragged on like molasses, the Librarian began to worry. What if the Evoker didn't return? What if he had been captured and he was left alone, unarmed and helpless in this place of danger? His throat tightened, and he was about to stand up and search for him when a familiar figure appeared in the cave's opening. Frost had returned, and he was carrying branches.

Frost squatted down and began carefully arranging the branches in the middle of the cave. First, he placed the thinnest twigs, then the slightly thicker ones, and finally the thickest ones, creating a simple structure that he had learned to build as a child. The Librarian watched his movement and realized that the Evoker must have been a good student.

Frost struck a spark with a flint he always carried in a hidden pocket of his robe. The flame flickered and grew, and within a minute it was crackling, filling the cave with a warm glow. The fire was perfect, not too large to attract attention, but bright enough to warm and light their small shelter.

Then Frost was gone again, and the Librarian could only hear rustling and cracking. The wind carried fragments of sound, whether the Evoker was muttering to himself, sighing, or cursing under his breath as another branch broke in the wrong place.

After a while, Frost returned. He was dragging a heavy log. It was so large that Frost had to walk backwards, bent over, his hands almost touching the ground. His feet slipped on the wet grass, and his back muscles seemed ready to burst from the strain. But he kept pulling, gritting his teeth. This log might provide protection from the hungry dead.

The Librarian wanted to help, and he jumped up and took a step forward, but Frost stopped him with a sharp gesture. The Librarian didn't argue. He sat back down and watched as the Evoker, breathing heavily, carried the log to the cave.

He placed it across the entrance to the cave. Then he added vines, weaving them between the log and the stones, tying them together, making the structure more reliable. Then he added large boulders. When he was finished, he took a step back, examined his work critically, made some adjustments, and nodded in satisfaction.

Now the monsters definitely won't get through. Frost took a deep breath, wiped the sweat from his forehead, and finally allowed himself to sit down next to the campfire.

Something like admiration appeared in the Librarian's gaze. This Illager who attacked his village, freed him from cell and now he's built a shelter for them, like for old friends. Without demanding gratitude or expecting anything in return. The Villager wanted to say at least a simple "thank you," but that would be too little.

Frost, as if sensing someone else's gaze, raised his head, looked at the Librarian and smiled faintly.

"How are you?" he asked.

But suddenly he realized that he had said something stupid. Of course he wasn't all right. Look at him: beaten, hungry, in a tattered chiton, without his glasses, without a home. What a tactless question!

Frost blushed, looked away and stared into a crack in the cave wall.

The response was silence. The Librarian seemingly at a loss for what to say.

The only sounds were the crackling of the fire and the rustling of the wind outside. The sounds were interrupted by the distant moans of zombies, filled with longing for their lost lives. This made the atmosphere even more eerie and lonely.

Suddenly, the silence was shattered by a question:

"Why?"

It was a quiet question, almost a whisper. There was so much pain and confusion in that "why."

It took the Illager by surprise. He had been prepared for anything: a blow, a rebuke, or a shout, but not this. Not this short "why."

Frost turned to the Villager, as if doubting that he was speaking to him and not to someone third, invisible, sitting between them in this dark cave.

"Why did you save me?" the Librarian repeated, a little louder and more insistent.

"Because it was the right thing to do" sounded too grand and wrong. "Because you look like me" sounded too direct and too strange. Frost not knowing what to say.

"I don't know," he finally gasped, and that was the only honest answer he could find. "I'm just... I couldn't help it."

These words hung in the air, unable to find a way out, and the Librarian looked down again.

"Vardy," the Villager said again, his voice still quiet, but for the first time sounding even and calm, "This is my name."

Vardy. Frost repeated it to himself, tasting it. The name had a master, and the master had a name, and that made him go from a faceless victim to a living person with a past, a present, and maybe a future.

When Frost heard that, he relaxed a little. He exhaled and replied, looking at the fire:

"Frost."

Short and sweet, no explanation, no titles or ranks. Not "Frost the Evoker," not "Frost the Illager," not "Frost Chief's son." Just Frost. Equal before equal.

In response, the Evoker received a questioning look.

"Don't even ask," he said, grinning.

Feeling his strength drain from him, he sank to the ground. He didn't choose a place, just collapsed where he was sitting.

He deserves a rest. Somewhere outside, the wind was still crying, and the darkness of the night forest continued to live its ancient, cruel life.

Tomorrow is the day that will change everything. Or it won't change anything. But that will be tomorrow. And now it's night. Silence. And the rest he deserved after the longest, heaviest, and most terrifying day of his life.

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