Rain continued to fall monotonously outside, turning the castle courtyard into a gray mess. Coen Prast hadn't taken long to pack—there weren't many things in his possession worth taking on a journey. His father’s old sword in worn leather scabbards, his grandfather's Snow Lion Pelt cloak, and a scrawny canvas bag with an old wool blanket. There was no food—there was absolutely nothing to take from the castle. Deep in his soul, the Baron, tormented by awkwardness, hoped for those strange supplies that surely lay in the depths of the house-on-wheels. At this thought, Coen was lashed by a whip of burning aristocratic shame; it was unseemly for a lord to rely on a stranger's mercy, yet hunger was stronger than pride. As soon as he remembered the taste of tinned stew from a metal can, all proprieties fell to the background. Descending to the courtyard, the Baron saw Hans. The old soldier stood in his unchanging cloak, which had more patches than original fabric, with a bag on his shoulders and a rusty spear in his hand.

  "Good health, my lord!" Hans threw his head up boldly. Karl, escorting his master to the gates, asked anxiously: "Do you intend to go with Hans, my lord?"

  "No," Coen shook his head decisively and, raising his voice, added: "You stay, Hans! Dmitry and I are going together. We need to hurry, and you are already too old to maintain our pace."

  Hans didn't budge. He only gripped the spear shaft tighter and frowned: "I gave an oath to protect the Prasts until my last breath. And I will not allow you to be left one-on-one with this newcomer. Though he be thrice a great mage and feeds us for free, you have known him only a few days. As for my speed... I was going on marches when you couldn't even find your mother's teat on your own. I go with you, or strike me down right here on the stones!"

  At such a fierce onslaught, Coen was taken aback. He was used to seeing Hans as a good-natured drunkard-veteran, but he had never seen such steely zeal.

  "Fine then. Let's go. But I warn you: if you start falling behind, we won't wait for you."

  "Don't you worry about that, my lord," Hans beamed. Clearly prepared for a long argument, he was incredibly glad the fortress of the Baron's stubbornness had fallen so quickly. They stepped out through the gates. The bulk of the Ark towered outside. The Baron still couldn't get used to that name. The owner was nowhere to be seen.

  "Perhaps our guest is choosing to slumber, eh, my lord?" Hans noted with irony. Coen remained silent. Anxiety rose in his chest: what if Dmitry had changed his mind? They stopped a few paces away, not daring to approach the monolith closely. Coen studied the "house-on-wheels." Everything about it was alien: the smooth sides, the giant black wheels, the narrow slit-like windows.

  "Have you ever seen anything like this, Hans?"

  "Nothing of the sort," the veteran admitted. "Dwarves sold wagons with armored sides to allies when your grandfather fought for the passes. But those wagons were pulled by teams of six heavy-draft horses. And here, there is nowhere to hitch them. Pure sorcery!"—and Hans spat wetly into a muddy rut.

  Suddenly, the silence was shattered by a sharp hiss of pneumatics. A panel slid aside in the Ark's wall, and a figure jumped to the ground. Dmitry was wearing a shiny dark blue cloak; raindrops simply rolled off it, leaving no trace. A complex backpack with many straps towered behind his shoulders, and in his hands, he gripped a black club with a side-handle (the Benelli). The wanderer approached, throwing back his hood, and Coen recognized his face with relief.

  "Good health to you!" Dmitry threw out boldly. "I see we have a reinforcement? Well, even better; the way seems shorter with three."

  "Greetings, Dmitri," the Baron took the first step forward and extended his hand. Dmitry caught his palm and shook it firmly with a short, energetic motion. Coen winced slightly at the unexpectedness—local custom dictated men grip forearms—but he once again chalked it up to the eccentricities of a man from another world.

  "It is time to set out, Master Dmitri," Coen said. "The way to Northcross is not short. We need to reach the ruins of the old outpost by dusk. There are still walls and a roof there; we can spend the night in safety."

  "Well then, lead the way," Dmitry nodded and gestured for the Baron to go first.

  The trio of travelers set out at a brisk pace, trying to warm up with movement. From the castle gates, a barely visible track in the flattened grass led north—a sign of the road's infrequent use. Feet constantly tangled and slipped in the thick stalks, and trouser legs were quickly covered in a layer of cold moisture. Coen Prast went first, Dmitry followed him, and Hans brought up the rear. The drizzle stopped, but it grew noticeably colder. The gray canopy of clouds thinned here and there. Dmitry thought about the seasons. Judging by the withered landscape, it was deep autumn, but in this world, everything could be different. On Earth, Dmitry had been a man of science and wouldn't have dared to take myths of magic seriously. However, the events of the last week had shaken his faith in the dogmas of physics. Now Dmitry was no longer sure of what was real and what was not. The Envoy’s Amulet alone was worth a dozen scientific prizes. He decided to test the ground and asked:

  Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

  "Tell me, Hans, what time of year is it now?"

  The old man was silent for a while, sniffling his nose and not breaking rhythm. Finally, he answered:

  "It's well known what it is—autumn is upon us. Another week or two, and winter will arrive."

  "And how do you determine that?" Dmitry persisted.

  "Like everyone—by the weather. If it's warm and everything turns green, it's summer. If snow falls, then it's winter."

  The answer baffled Dmitry. Suddenly, laughter rang out from ahead. It was Coen laughing.

  "Ha-ha-ha! You found the right one to ask, Master Dmitri! Hans is a man of gold, but he’s no good as a teacher. To him, the time of year is determined by the weather, and the time of day by the amount of moonshine in the bottle!"

  It then dawned on Dmitry. What any child on Earth knew was a privilege of the elite here.

  "Perhaps Your Lordship could enlighten me?" Dmitry asked.

  Coen calmed down and answered readily:

  "It is indeed autumn. The fourth week of the third month, fifth day. In two weeks and two days, the reckoning of winter begins."

  The Amulet translated the words, and Dmitry understood: a local month had five weeks. And the month itself was called "Eclipse."

  "And what does this 'Eclipse' mean?"

  "It is the period when the Brown Moon hides completely behind its sister—the Blue Moon. The period lasts five weeks. Three Eclipses per season. It's overcast now, the Sisters can't be seen, but when the clouds clear, you’ll see for yourself."

  "I've already seen your moons," Dmitry countered.

  The Baron looked back in surprise:

  "When? The clouds have been here round the clock."

  "I have my ways of rising above the clouds if absolutely necessary," Dmitry decided to add some mystery to his persona.

  This worked on Coen. He stopped with almost childlike delight:

  "You can fly?"

  "To an extent," Dmitry smiled evasively. "Only if required."

  They continued in silence. The road led them into the open. To the left stretched a plain with giant boulders overgrown with lichen. To the right, a hundred meters away, began a young undergrowth, behind which rose a wall of ancient coniferous forest. Dmitry remembered the Baron's stories about the undead in the marshes.

  "Your Lordship, could you enlighten me regarding the undead? What are they? Have you ever seen them?"

  Coen answered confidently, as if quoting a treatise:

  "Undead are a product of necromancy, a teaching from the Empire of the Premarsh Reach. Magic raises a dead body and completely subordinates it to the will of the summoner."

  The trio of travelers continued walking, rhythmically counting paces along the sodden track. Dmitry felt an old injury coming to life behind his back. At first, it was only a slight tingling, a familiar itch in the lower back where the titanium plate chilled the tissue. Then came a dull, pulling pain. The brace, which had initially seemed like a reliable support, now tightened around his ribs, making it difficult to breathe deeply in the damp air. The backpack, with all its suspensions, inexorably pulled his shoulders down. Dmitry glanced at his companions. Coen Prast didn't look his best: his Snow Lion Pelt cloak had long since become wet and heavy, hanging in dirty icicles. Raindrops ran down his face, but the aristocrat stubbornly pressed on. Hans, by contrast, was surprising. The old man breathed heavily, with a raspy whistle, yet walked remarkably briskly. His old boots found purchase where Dmitry slipped, and his rusty spear served as a reliable staff.

  "So have you yourself ever encountered these... raised ones?" Dmitry asked, trying to distract himself from the gnawing pain in his back.

  The Baron was silent for a moment, bypassing a deep puddle.

  "By the grace of the gods, no, Master Dmitri. My father always said that a meeting with the undead is the last thing a person remembers in their life. But rumors are plenty in Northcross. They say the necromancy of the Empire knows no bounds. It doesn't matter to them whom to raise. It could be a forest squirrel with a broken spine that will latch onto your throat, or a fallen warrior whose mind has long since rotted away. They feel no fear, know no mercy, and attack without delay. For them, there is no difference between day and night—they see the heat of your blood even in the thickest darkness."

  Dmitry listened, and skepticism involuntarily stirred within him. On Earth, he had seen hundreds of such "horror stories." He remembered how a mangy coyote was taken for the legendary chupacabra, and in villages, ordinary hallucinations turned into tales of ghouls. *'Ignorance,'* he thought. *'Common ignorance and fear of the misunderstood. Here people live in the dark; any disease is a curse to them. Most likely, their undead is some local parasite or fungus. And they've already blown a magical theory out of it.'*

  This thought calmed him. Skepticism acted as anesthesia, pushing aside both the Baron's stories and Hans's grim look. After all, he had the Benelli slung over his shoulder. Any magical teaching should have weightier arguments against lead. Meanwhile, the road grew even worse. The forest to the right stood thick, and a perpetual gloom reigned among the ancient pines. A chill and dampness drifted from there. Hans suddenly grew quiet and gripped his spear more comfortably; his breath became quieter. He kept glancing toward the thickets like an old hound picking up a scent. Dmitry also involuntarily fell silent. Even if the undead were fairy tales, common predators here were surely real enough. They walked in silence. Under the spruce canopies, the road lost its grass and became solid mud. Walking grew harder: every step required effort to pull the sole out of the squelching sludge mixed with rotting needles. But the drizzle was less bothersome here—the thick spruce boughs served as a natural umbrella. Rare heavy drops fell from the branches, hitting Dmitry's hood with a hollow thud. The air was still and heavy. Midday approached. All were considerably tired from lack of practice. Dmitry felt the titanium plate in his spine begin to "burn," sending out pulses of pain. His breathing became shallow, and the brace—unbearably tight. Coen stumbled now and again, and Hans no longer hid his raspy breathing. Finally, where the road widened slightly, the Baron stopped and leaned heavily against the trunk of a fallen tree.

  "That's it," he exhaled. "We’re taking a break. It's drier here."