Mikena felt strange emotions he could not name or describe, not even to himself. His mind felt veiled in a fine dust of incomprehension—like the debris of Sardas’s fallen walls.

  Detached from reality and sunk into the darkness of his own consciousness, the general washed, changed his clothes, yet the stench of smoke and sulfur seemed to have seeped into his very skin. His hair carried the scent of grief, war, and ruin.

  He wished he could sleep, but each time he closed his eyes, he saw the stone city vanishing into the maw of a colossal serpent. A tense ache settled into his body, tightening his muscles.

  The roar and metallic chittering of that insect horde—the gleam of those lifeless, bronze creatures tearing through everything—still echoed in his head, leaving no escape.

  Mikena stared blankly out the window at Mutaaresh, bathed in the first rays of dawn. The sun—a ripening peach—rose above the tranquil line of the horizon, painting the sky in the colors of spring gardens.

  Few in Sardas would ever see the light of a new day.

  The Eridians had long taught the world to tell time by the color of the sun, and even if on other lands it shone differently—and even though more precise instruments now existed—people still said: a peach sun for morning, a yellow sun after breakfast, a white sun for noon, an orange sun at day’s decline, and a crimson sun before supper.

  This order had long seemed immutable. But even millennia come to an end.

  Mikena rubbed his hands, only now noticing the many small scratches and the forming bruise where Mádyè had seized him so violently. The advisor had left his marks like a beast—a true predator.

  Birdsong drifted upward along the hillside, mingling with the rising hum of the waking city. From afar came the sounds of the palace’s morning assembly, the deep voices of men, and the bright laughter of girls.

  So many had died already—and many more would die in agony, buried beneath the ruins, from wounds or disease. Sardas, once a fortress-city, a legend, had become a grave. And here, on the warm, lazy shores, life went on—no one mourned the end of ancient history.

  A vile pain clenched his throat and burned behind his eyes. A treacherous tear slid down his cheek, and Mikena wiped it away at once, denying himself the weakness unfit for a soldier.

  Should he have surrendered—bowed to power—or, on the contrary, attacked, tried to kill Mádyè when even the faintest chance existed? Would it have saved Sardas? Would it have changed anything at all? He didn’t know—and no one could answer—but guilt carved deep into his heart, tearing away pieces. What he had seen could never be forgotten.

  From behind the door came a voice—and then, as always, the door itself began to wail, breaking the current of his sorrowful thoughts. There was no need to turn around to know who had come at such an hour. That creature… No, not a man at all. No human could destroy an entire city with his own hand, burying every inhabitant beneath the rubble.

  Mádyè’s face remained, as before, an unmoving bronze mask. The beads adorning it now glimmered with dark malachite—matching the cunning shade of his eyes.

  “Would you care for a drink, General?” the advisor asked softly, placing a small jug of wine on the table, careful not to make a sound. The sweet, fruity scent rose from the vessel, teasing his senses.

  Why had he come? Why speak to him?

  “General?” Mádyè repeated when no answer came.

  “I don’t want any,” Mikena said curtly, hiding his irritation. He wanted to see Mádyè even less—whether masked or not.

  Morning light danced upon the crimson liquid. For a moment Mikena thought it was blood. Were it so, he wouldn’t have been surprised—what else could that monster offer him?

  “Not even a single cup?”

  The advisor sat beside him and poured the wine. They were very close, their shoulders almost touching. Mikena could hear his calm breathing.

  “Not even one, Mádyè. Why don’t you leave me alone?”

  The man played his usual game of silence, deftly ignoring inconvenient questions.

  He won’t go away that easily, Mikena thought bitterly—but he did not take the cup.

  Something rustled nearby. The curtain moved slightly, and a soft meow followed.

  The cats of Mutaaresh came and went as they pleased—often at the most opportune moments.

  It gave him an excuse to step away from this unbearable man. Taking advantage of it, Mikena scooped up the uninvited tricolor guest into his arms.

  “These animals are the true masters of the city,” said the advisor. “And though we do not believe in their divine origin, as those who honor the Awakening do, much is still permitted to them.”

  Could this be the Awakening itself—the Lady El Kaitus, the Flow of Blossoming?

  She is worshipped by many southern peoples, who build her temples and offer her flowers. In Vafia, Pernakia, and Navara, cats are revered as her messengers and guardian spirits. To harm a cat there is not merely a sin—it is a crime.

  They say cats have warned humans of earthquakes more than once; thus, in places where such tremors are common, love for them is especially deep.

  El Kaitus—the first Flow to emerge from the Ethereal Sea. She is the beginning of all things: birth, dawn, fertility, and the blossoming of life. Hence the southern saying: “May you multiply like cats”—a particular compliment among them.

  Indeed, love for cats only grows stronger the farther one travels south, reaching its divine peak in Pernakia, whose distant cities shimmer like oases amid the golden sands of the desert.

  Soon the guest grew fussy, no longer allowing him to stroke her soft belly, and he had to let her go. Yet she didn’t wish to leave either—settling comfortably on a broad strip of sunlight.

  The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

  Mádyè rose and came closer, offering the glass to the general himself. He stood very near, peering into Mikena’s face.

  There was no choice.

  “Drink. To those who gave their lives,” he said solemnly.

  “Gave?” Mikena’s tone was sharp. “Rather—to those whose lives were taken by a monster.”

  He took a sip. The wine spread its sweetness through his mouth. He almost wished it were poisoned. But clearly, the gods were not finished with him yet. How many more trials would the Flow of Sharp Stones send his way?

  “How hypocritical,” the advisor said, beads clinking softly as he shook his head. He stepped away and returned to his seat. “Don’t act the noble man, General. How many lives have you taken in these nine years?”

  Many—too many—but never in one single horrifying strike where no one was spared.

  “Do not pretend at nobility,” Mádyè went on. “It was invented by clever men to bind the foolish, forcing them to play by rules they themselves ignore.”

  “Does your damned mask strip you of human feeling? I’ve seen your face, Advisor—you were horrified by what you did,” Mikena snapped.

  It was only part of the truth. He had seen a faint flicker of humanity—sadly, one that led nowhere.

  “I am no hero, but neither are you a villain,” Mikena added quietly. “You’re a monster.”

  “I was forced to become one. I offered you a solution—you refused.”

  How dare he say that?

  Anger surged within him. Barely containing it, the general rasped:

  “You dare blame me for what you’ve done?”

  He leaned forward, looming over him like a storm.

  “No,” Mádyè said calmly. “I merely say that every choice bears consequences. Next time, you’ll choose more wisely, I’m sure.” With one quick motion, he reached out and pulled loose the ribbon tying Mikena’s hair. The curls sprang free, falling around his face, and the scent of the ruined city enveloped him, dragging him back into memories of battle.

  His heart skipped a beat. Fury broke loose. Mikena lunged, throwing the advisor to the floor.

  He wanted—oh, how he wanted—to press his hands around that slender neck and squeeze until all breath fled it. Why wasn’t he afraid? Not flinching, not pleading?

  Only the beads tinkled softly.

  “One day I’ll drive a dagger into you—hilt-deep—and watch you choke on your own blood.”

  Judging by the sly narrowing of those green eyes and the spark of amusement within them, the bastard was smiling! He was enjoying this—and that only enraged Mikena more.

  True to his habit, the advisor said nothing. He merely raised his head slightly—and the cold lips of the bronze mask touched Mikena’s warm, trembling mouth.

  The kiss lasted several seconds—long enough for the general to realize what was happening. When sense returned, he struck Mádyè in the stomach with all his strength. The man groaned, coughing violently.

  “You disgust me,” Mikena spat, wiping his mouth and pulling back.

  A low, stifled chuckle answered him.

  “Your fire stirs so many desires in me.”

  Mikena didn’t want to know what that meant.

  “Filthy blood. Get out—I don’t want to see you!”

  The advisor obeyed, bowing with mock courtesy.

  “I’ll leave the wine.”

  As soon as the door closed, Mikena grabbed the vessel, ready to hurl it against the wall—but stopped. His strength was gone.

  He only tied his hair again and collapsed onto the pillows, longing for rest. Yet true sleep came only by noon—under the white sun.

  At midday, when the heat outside made it dangerous to stay in the open, the people of the Drowsy Coast lay down for their nap. Indeed, the unhurried southern life, the custom of daytime rest, and reverence for sleep itself had shaped these lands. Rest here was as sacred as food or wine; the very idea of a “small daily death” was honored no less than the divine Flows themselves. With particular pride, the Eridians called themselves the people of the Drowsy Lands. From this tradition arose the names “Drowsy Coast” and “Mutaaresh”—the city sunk in sleep.

  Languor, idleness, even a touch of laziness were virtues to an Eridian. They said: only the truly righteous sleep soundly—and it was hard to disagree.

  ──────── ? ? ? ────────

  It shimmered like a stream—the stony path. A ribbon of silk, it wound its way among gray cobblestones and crooked, withered trees that bent beneath the merciless heat. The air quivered, almost rang, stretched taut like a bowstring. The halo of the whitening sun lay veiled in a faint, weightless haze. Its fierce light scorched the skin, drying the last drops of sweat.

  Mikena walked barefoot across the sharp, burning stones, leaning on a broken spear as if it were a staff. His feet were raw and bleeding, his clothes torn, dust ingrained into his skin. All around him—emptiness. Lifeless, scorched lands.

  He walked without lifting his gaze, as though too burdened by his grief and fear to straighten his back. He walked a road from nowhere to nowhere, and surely it would have gone on endlessly—had not a vast shadow, thick and dark, blocked his path.

  The general raised his head and saw before him two shining feline eyes, golden eyes with narrow vertical pupils. A puma. His heart skipped a beat, his breath caught—suddenly the air seemed denser.

  The tip of a powerful tail swayed lazily, yet the beast did not move. Mikena froze as well, afraid to breathe too loudly.

  The creature did not attack. It merely watched him—calmly, knowingly, almost with a human gaze. Then it stepped aside, giving him passage.

  The general moved past it, keeping the animal in the corner of his eye. But when he looked away for just an instant—when the silver coat with its dark rosettes slipped from view—he saw, from the edge of his vision, a figure. No longer a beast, but a man.

  “Do not turn your head, traveler. Look ahead,” a deep voice rumbled—low and resonant, like an echo in the mountains.

  Mikena tensed; his fingers clenched the shaft of the broken spear until his joints ached. A heavy, clinging sense of fear and uncertainty spread through him.

  “Who are you?”

  “I am the Puma, lord and king of these mountains and stony paths.”

  “What does the lord of the mountains want of a weary traveler?” His voice trembled, betraying exhaustion—and perhaps a hint of despair.

  “I want you to keep walking. Whatever burdens may weigh upon you, do not stop. I will show you the path—but the trials, you must endure on your own. Look ahead, Mikena of Dal-Muzra.”

  Dal-Muzra—that was what the Eridians called the Wolf’s Maw. Mikena gritted his teeth.

  “I’m tired,” he said hoarsely, almost against his will. “I’m walking into nothing. For what? What kind of path is this, when I can’t see its end?”

  The puma stepped closer, and the heat of its breath, hot and fierce, brushed his neck. Mikena could feel the strength of the beast’s body so near—but on the sand lay the shadow of a man, long and clear upon the sand.

  “Yes, you are tired,” the voice said. “But within you burns what others lack—the fire that does not die, even in dust and blood. If you give up, the path will vanish, and so will the world beyond it.”

  The general opened his mouth to reply, but the words caught in his throat. He hadn’t drunk water for days, it seemed, and it was a wonder he could still stand.

  “Why me?”

  “Because you do not break where bones break and souls are torn apart. Go on, traveler. I will be near.”

  The puma vanished—dissolving into the heat like a mirage. Its voice faded, leaving only the echo of footsteps—his own.

  Mikena opened his eyes, not realizing they had been closed. He sat up slowly, drowsy from the noon heat. What a strange dream he had seen—a conversation with the Puma...

  He suddenly recalled: the Puma, the mountain lion, is the symbol of the Flow of Sharp Stones—the Trial.

  The greatest priests live entire lives without ever glimpsing the gods. Could a mere general, who honors no one, truly be granted speech with a Flow?

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