Chapter 9

Chapter 9: The Brothers of Destruction

{ Artom's POV }

My name is Artom, and my day starts when the sun peeks over the trees and spreads golden light through the misty forest. Unlike me, my brother Igor isn't a morning bird—he sleeps in like some pampered duckling. But that's okay. I am the older brother, and that means it's my job to wake him up.

"WAKE UP!!!" I screamed with all my might.

Igor flailed like that broken umbrella Papa kept at the fireplace, his feathers puffing out as he yelped in surprise. He flapped frantically to avoid falling from the nest, glaring at me with half-lidded eyes.

"The sun is up, sleepyhead," I said with a smirk, proud of my morning sneak attack.

"I'm telling Papa!"

"Hey! What did I even do?!"

"I'm telling Papa!" he repeated, hopping off in the direction of the kitchen.

"Wait! You brat!" I rushed after him, hopping across the wooden beams. If only I could fly already, I'd reach Papa first!

"Papa!" Igor squawked, "Artom is being mean again!"

"I was not being mean! He's overreacting!" I countered, my feathers ruffled with indignation.

"Alright, alright," Papa said, holding up a hand as he set down two bowls of freshly cooked meat. "You can settle that after breakfast."

"Hooray!"

All arguments vanished as the savory scent of meat filled the air. We dove into the bowls, chewing and squabbling over the biggest pieces like little beasts.

"You know," Papa said between bites, "I think I'm gonna teach you guys Russian. I can understand you well enough, but it'd be better if you could actually speak."

Russian? Speak like Papa? Awesome!

But...

. . .

. . .

Russian is hard.

"мясо (meat)," Papa said, pointing to the food in our bowls.

"..." My beak moved, but no sound came out right. What was that again? My tongue felt all tangled.

"мясо (meat)," Igor repeated with perfect clarity.

Smug little worm.

He shot me a look. That smug look. The one that said, "I'm smarter than you." Oh, I'll wipe that look off your beak!

"Hey! No fighting!" Papa said as he quickly pulled us apart.

"But he's making fun of me!" I snapped, flapping my wings in frustration.

"It's not my fault you're dumb," Igor scoffed.

That's it! You're dead!

"Ow!" Igor squawked as my talons dug into his head.

"Artom!" Papa's sharp voice sliced through the tension. I froze.

"Apologize. Now."

"But—"

"Now." His glare silenced me.

Then, unexpectedly, he turned his gaze to Igor.

"You too. Apologize to your brother."

"Why?" Igor pouted.

Papa's glare softened. He sighed. "Because brothers don't fight like that. Just because you're better at something doesn't mean you get to mock others."

He placed a hand on each of our heads. His voice was calm but firm.

"Everyone is different. Me, Artom, Igor... we all have strengths and weaknesses. Just because you're good at memorizing, Igor, doesn't mean you're better than your brother. And Artom, you're not dumb. Maybe you're not good at words, but you could be better at something else. What matters is that we help each other. We're a family."

He looked at us both. His eyes were serious.

"A day will come where I may not be there to protect you both, I hope that day never comes, but if that day were to arrive I'll need you two to protect each other. Will you do that?"

"Yeah!" we shouted in unison.

" I will also protect you when you are in danger Papa." I declared.

"Me too." Igor added.

Our eyes met. No words needed. When that day comes, we'll stand beside Papa. No one will hurt him. Not while we're here.

"Now, apologize," Papa said.

Igor sighed. "Sorry, Artom. I shouldn't have called you dumb. I can help you memorize if you want."

I nodded. "I'm sorry for scratching you. And... yeah, I'll need your help."

Papa smiled. "Good boys. For that, you're getting extra meat at lunch and dinner."

"HOORAY!!"

...

...

...

{ A few hours later }

I can't believe it!

. . .

. . .

I'm flying!

"YAHOO!!!"

The wind rushed through my feathers, the ground a blur far below. Trees bent beneath me, the sky stretched above. And Papa—Papa was smiling.

Today was the day. Papa decided it was time to teach us how to fly... Well he didn't actually teach us. He did not wings you see, so we had to watch other birds and try to replicate their actions. We climbed onto a high branch of a tall tree. He stood below, arms out in case we fell.

My first four tries were terrible. I tumbled, flopped, flailed. But on the fifth try—something clicked. Instinct took over.

Now I was flying.

I turned mid-air, looking back. Igor was still perched nervously on the branch.

"Come on, Igor! Just jump! You can do it!" I shouted.

"Easy for you to say! It's too high!"

"Papa's right there! Just jump!" Papa waved from the forest floor.

Igor trembled. Then, with a deep breath, he leapt—squawking, flapping wildly.

He dropped like a rock... then caught the wind.

"I—I'm flying? I'm flying!"

He soared through the air, wings steadying.

"Papa! I'm flying!"

Papa laughed proudly. We were finally birds in the sky.

{ Third Person POV }

Night fell. The forest whispered secrets only the dead could hear. Fog rolled between the trees like a living thing. From the depths of the black woods, they came—rotting flesh, hollow eyes, groans like old bones grinding.

The undead.

But Nikolai was ready.

He stood by the fire pit, wearing the armour formed by the mist, weapons ready on one hand and a round shield on his other hand. Tonight was special. It was not just another battle. Tonight, he was performing—for his sons.

"Papa! You can do it!"

"Show them no mercy!"

Their voices echoed from the treetops, excitement brimming with every cheer.

Nikolai grinned. His children were watching. He had to make this good.

With a roar, he charged into the horde. His sword flashed, slicing clean through skull and sinew. A hammer followed—crushing ribs, pulping brains. Blood sprayed in arcs, painting the trees red.

Artom's eyes gleamed with awe. He watched his father switch weapons like a master—sword, sledgehammer, bow. Each undead that came near was reduced to twitching parts or broken corpses.

"I wanna fight like Papa," he whispered. "I wanna learn every weapon. I wanna be a warrior."

Beside him, Igor sat wide-eyed. But it wasn't the swordplay that caught his attention—it was the moment Papa raised a hand, and the undead froze in its tracks by his magic. A chain was whipped at the Undead wrapping its cold metal on the waist and Papa casted his curse magic.

CURSE MAGIC: GRIP!

The Undead tried to remove the chain but it was too late to even try. Papa yanked the chain and pulled the Undead towards him, when it was close to him, he delivered a vicious punch with his gauntlet shattering the skull.

Once they were wrapped in those chains and cursed, they couldn't move. Couldn't scream. Could only stare into the glowing eyes of the man who would end them.

"I want to learn that," Igor said softly. "Magic. I want to destroy them like that, just like how Papa did. So they can't hurt us. So they can't hurt Papa."

That night sealed it.

In years to come, the supernatural world would know their names. They would fight side by side. Warriors. Mages. Protectors. Destroyers.

They were given many titles. Some feared them. Others worshipped them. But one name etched itself into the legends:

The Brothers of Destruction.