“The

  future does not belong to the one who runs the fastest,

  but to

  the one who remembers the farthest.”

  It was one in the afternoon and, without knowing why, Sasha found

  himself once again standing before the glass windows of the Starg

  Mosta café. He watched his reflection blend with the

  interior, searching among the occupied tables for Ksenia’s wavy

  hair—or perhaps for the blonde waitress who always seemed to

  observe him with quiet curiosity.

  Then the sentence appeared, sharp and unmistakable, like a warning

  written across the glass:

  “You have betrayed us, and for that you deserve to die.”

  The opening line of Lyudí’s play, Men of the System,

  left no room for doubt about its intent. Perhaps that was precisely

  why Lyudí had been forced into exile to preserve his life.

  What to do?

  Cunning in the face of brute force.

  This was not the country he had dreamed of defending, yet that

  city in the heart of Siberia was, paradoxically, the only place where

  he could still disappear without leaving a trace.

  What chance did he have of escaping a sentence in a trial looming

  at the edge of summer, with the assigned prosecutor—Colonel Igor

  Leonídovich Saranin, the Raven—waiting like a patient

  executioner?

  None.

  Human beings are bound to destiny.

  He remembered another line by Lyudí: vultures let the ravens open

  the way to the entrails of fallen victims.

  Sasha walked back through the streets of the old city, observing

  the wooden structures crowned with steep eaves designed to prevent

  snow from piling up during the endless winters. He was alone. And he

  was beginning to distrust everyone.

  Every shadow seemed a witness; every creak of wood, a coded

  message.

  His phone vibrated in his pocket. A name appeared on the screen

  that pierced him like an icy blade: Yelena.

  —Yelena? —he whispered, forcing himself to remain calm.

  —Sasha… —his sister’s voice was broken—. They found

  Kashtan… dead.

  The world stopped. The scent of spring, the distant murmur of the

  city—everything vanished beneath a blunt blow that struck his

  chest.

  Kashtan.

  Not just any dog.

  An Alabai.

  Silent. Motionless when he needed to be. Tireless. The guardian

  who never needed orders, the one who always stepped in front.

  —How…? —he stammered—. What happened?

  —We don’t know —Yelena hesitated—. The neighbor says it

  might have been poison. There was foam on his muzzle… and his eyes

  were bloodshot, almost bursting from their sockets.

  Stolen novel; please report.

  Sasha closed his eyes.

  Kashtan always stepped in the way.

  Rage, guilt, and something darker—older—ran through him like

  an ancestral echo. Every mistake, every silence from the past now

  seemed to demand its price.

  —I’m sorry, Ye… I’m so sorry —he said at last, his voice

  hardening—. And what hurts most is not having been with my best

  friend when he needed me.

  He hung up.

  And with that, a sacred bond with childhood collapsed. The heroes

  he had grown up with—Ilya Muromets, Dobrynya Nikitich, Alyosha

  Popovich—seemed to have departed for good.

  Life is brief.

  Memory is the only form of immortality.

  The wind lifted damp leaves from the ground. For a moment, he had

  the absurd sensation that the air smelled of iron, as if the blood

  had not remained only in the village.

  A crunch behind him forced him to turn.

  Mihail was there, leaning against a wall of damp bricks near the

  entrance to the Artillery Academy. His boots stirred leaves and dust.

  His dark green coat absorbed the afternoon light, and behind

  gold-rimmed glasses his eyes were cold—alert, calculating.

  —Well… —he said softly—. You look surprisingly intact,

  considering everything that’s happened to you these past months.

  —What do you want, Mihail? —Sasha replied tensely.

  Ravens always arrive first.

  —To talk. Nothing more. Old friends… even if we no longer walk

  on the same side.

  Sasha frowned. That calm was dangerous.

  —How are you? —Mihail asked—. I heard about your leg.

  —Limping. Written off. That’s enough.

  Mihail let a measured silence fall.

  —And now what will you do? —he added—. Perhaps I have

  something for you.

  —I’m listening.

  Mihail raised an eyebrow slightly.

  —But you already know… everything has its price.

  —Of course —Sasha replied—. One always pays in advance.

  Lyudí had written about the strategy of the Grúbaya,

  inspired by the Philidor Defense: sacrifice a central pawn to protect

  the king and queen, gain time, coordinate forces, and conceal the

  true intention.

  It was not a decisive move.

  Only a necessary sacrifice.

  For a fraction of a second, their gazes crossed. They had been

  friends. Now, the raven was proposing his sacrifice.

  He had just lost a friend—and uncovered a representative of

  Krásnoye Naslédie, the Red Heritage. The real

  power. Invisible.

  —You’re not in a position to refuse my offer —Mihail

  concluded.

  Sasha did not respond.

  His phone vibrated again in his pocket.

  Ksenia.

  His pulse quickened. He couldn’t answer there. Not in front of

  Mihail.

  —Who is it? —Mihail asked, feigning indifference.

  —No one —Sasha lied, hiding the screen—. Nothing important.

  But Mihail had felt it. He stored that minimal gesture, that

  involuntary tension, as another piece on the board. He extended his

  hand.

  —You’ll hear from me, my dear friend. Don’t go too far.

  Sasha left his hand hanging in the air.

  As Mihail walked away, he understood that he had to recover the

  full memory of that damned expedition. Something told him that all

  the answers were there. He had to find the Whisperer again.

  —Hello —he finally said, when the call connected.

  —Can we meet? —Ksenia asked.

  —Of course.

  —At Mocma. Half an hour.

  —Yes.

  He retraced his steps. The afternoon was beginning to cool. He

  sought the warmth of his anorak pockets. It felt strange to see

  people so happy, so distracted—just as he had been before. Before

  everything.

  He entered the Mocma café. The unmistakable smell of coffee and

  butter. Dark wood. A muted murmur. At the back, a familiar figure

  toyed with a spoon inside a cup of tea.

  —How are you? —Sasha asked.

  —Bad —she replied, without looking at him.

  —What can I do?

  —For starters, give you back your letters. They’ve only

  brought me trouble.

  —All right.

  —I’m going away for a few days to my village. I need to return

  to my roots… —her voice broke—. I’m going crazy.

  Sasha felt a sharp pang when their eyes met. They were filled with

  fear.

  Then, without seeking it, Kashtan’s spirit rose within him:

  guardian, shield, silent presence.

  An Alabai

  never abandons. Never betrays its own.

  He felt that now, more than ever, he had to step in front.

  —I won’t leave you alone —he said—. I want to go with you.

  And in that instant, he understood that the sacrifice had already

  begun.