The sun crept from behind the Jagged Peaks slowly, reluctantly. The first ray slid across snow-covered slopes, tinting the summits pale pink. The snow caught fire with soft flame, as though someone had ground pearls across the firmament.

  Shadows retreated unhurriedly. They clung to crevices, hid in ravines, but dawn drove them out one after another. Violet twilight shifted to blue, then crimson, then gold.

  A shadow flickered in the air. A swallowtail spread its wings, caught the rising current and soared upward. Feathers shimmered from dark grey at the base to snow-white at the flight feathers' tips. A long forked tail streamed behind the bird like a train. It circled above the precipice, seeking prey in the still-unmelted twilight.

  Below, between boulders, flashed a brown pelt. A mountain wolfhound dragged in its teeth the remains of a night's kill—the torn carcass of a snow hare. The beast hurried. Sunlight seared its muzzle, and it rushed to reach its burrow before dawn fully claimed its rights.

  The slope flared orange. Rays broke through gaps between peaks, flooding the valley with warm light. Snow sparkled with thousands of tiny stars. The crust crunched beneath the wolfhound's paws. It quickened, hind legs sliding on icy stones.

  The swallowtail noticed the movement, folded its wings and plunged downward. Air whistled. The bird shot past a metre from the wolfhound, talons opening to snatch meat straight from the beast's jaws.

  The wolfhound snarled, snapped back, but too late. The swallowtail soared back up, prey dangling in its talons.

  On the opposite slope, in a crevice between cliffs, something massive stirred. A two-headed ice bear thrust from its den first one muzzle, then the second. Both jaws gaped in yawns, fangs flashing. The beast stretched, emerged outside. Fur, white with a bluish cast, gleamed with frost.

  It sniffed the air with both heads. The right caught the scent of blood, the left—the scent of wolfhound. The bear followed the trail, unhurried. Sunlight didn't frighten it; it was a daytime hunter.

  The sky coloured in rich golden-crimson. Clouds flared scarlet, as though someone had set them alight from within. Mountain peaks blazed with pink flame. Shadows finally melted away.

  The wolfhound dived into its burrow between the roots of an old mountain oak. Earth and stones hid it from the light. In the darkness it finally relaxed, settled onto the mossy bedding.

  The swallowtail perched on a bare branch, plunged its beak into the prey. Flesh tore easily, warm blood running down its feathers.

  The bear reached the place where the hare's remains lay. Both heads sniffed the bones, then the beast moved on, seeking the wolfhound. But it had vanished.

  Dawn blazed fully. Mountains flooded with bright white light. Cold wind caught up the snow-dust, whirled it in the air. Tiny crystals glittered like diamond chips.

  Day claimed its rights.

  The bear prowled round the oak a bit longer but, never finding the concealed entrance to the wolfhound's burrow, set off to seek other prey. This had happened to it quite recently before—prey vanishing right before its nose. True, back then everything had ended rather badly for both its heads.

  Four days ago the bear had caught the scent of a snow ram. The beast grazed on a narrow ledge, gnawing frozen roots that pushed through stones. The bear froze, drew in air through both nostrils. The scent was fresh, close. Prey.

  It moved forward, paws treading soundlessly on snow. Distance shrank. The ram didn't raise its head, chewed roots, having cleared a small patch between boulders of snow. Ten more paces. Five.

  An arrow pierced the ram's chest just as the bear was about to lunge. The beast jerked, fell on its side. The heart, torn by the arrowhead, instantly stopped pumping blood. Hooves still twitched, but life had already fled.

  The bear froze. Both heads turned towards the direction from which the arrow had flown. The arrow didn't frighten it. On the contrary. Somewhere nearby hid another prey that should soon appear.

  It crouched behind a boulder, both heads peering from behind the stone. The wait wasn't long.

  A massive figure, wrapped in warm furs, descended the slope easily. The hunter approached the carcass, crouched, examined the wound. A mitten smeared with blood ran across the ram's pelt.

  And then strangeness began.

  The ram vanished. Simply dissolved into air, as though it had never been. The bear blinked with all four eyes. Blood remained on the stones. The scent enticed, teased. But the carcass was gone.

  The right head snarled, the left supported. The hunter straightened, turned towards them.

  The bear roared from both jaws and charged forward. Thief. It would eat at least the thief. In size, the figure was comparable to the vanished ram. Paws churned snow, distance melted.

  The hunter didn't flee. Didn't retreat, didn't flinch. Didn't even stir.

  In its hand suddenly materialised a staff. Long, dark, of some unknown wood, with an oddly shaped head. It appeared as though from air, though a second before the hunter's hands had been empty.

  The bear didn't even manage to understand what had happened. Didn't manage to react, to change its leap's trajectory. Two precisely measured blows crashed down on both noses simultaneously—left and right. The strikes were so synchronised it seemed as though the staff had split in space. Pain exploded in both skulls, sharp, piercing, blinding. Sparks showered before all four eyes, the world covered with a red veil. All four paws buckled at once, muscles failed. The beast plunged muzzle-first into the snow, its heavy body crashing against the frozen earth with a thunderous impact.

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  The bear slowly raised both heads, shaking off the clinging snow from its muzzles. Four eyes—two in the left head, two in the right—simultaneously fixed upon the figure of its tormentor, looming over the beast's prostrate body.

  And in each of those eyes was reflected one and the same vision. Not a threat—something greater. Absolute, inevitable, cold death. That very death which doesn't ask, doesn't warn, doesn't hesitate. It simply is, and it is near. Nearer than ever in its entire life.

  Self-preservation instinct filled the bear's entire core. Its stomach twisted, contents spewing into the snow. The beast tore away, heedless of direction, only away from this place. Paws slipped, claws scraped ice. Its heart pounded in its chest, both heads pressed against its shoulders.

  It ran until the slope lay far behind. Only then did it stop, breathing heavily, and looked around.

  The hunter was nowhere to be seen.

  The bear licked both noses. Pain pulsed, reminding it of what had happened. It never returned to that place again.

  Now, standing by the wolfhound's burrow, the bear recalled that lesson. Prey came in different forms. Sometimes it was better to retreat.

  It turned and plodded on, down the slope. Ground squirrels lived there. Small, but safe.

  If today the bear had decided to return and follow the trail left by the hunter, it would eventually have been led to the entrance of one of the mountain caves. True, the animal would never have approached it. Too eerie was the vicinity of that cave.

  The air there thickened, became viscous, heavy. Smells vanished, as though someone had wiped them away with a wet cloth. Even the wind gave this place a wide berth, as though fearing to disturb something sleeping, ancient, evil. Stones were silent. Snow didn't creak beneath paws. Silence pressed on eardrums, crept into bones.

  Any beast that approached the cave felt this in its gut. Instinct screamed: leave. Run. Don't look back. And animals obeyed. Even the hungry. Even the desperate.

  But suppose a beast managed to overcome its instincts and peered into the darkening maw. What would it have found there?

  Its four eyes would have beheld that same hunter. Only the figure that had made the predatory beast flee without looking where it was going would this time have inspired only its contempt.

  Hunched, barely holding its back straight, even though the hunter sat cross-legged. Broad shoulders, once inspiring dread, had slumped as though beneath an invisible burden. Hands lay limply on its knees, fingers clenching and unclenching air in a meaningless, mechanical movement. The staff lay nearby, cast aside like an unnecessary stick.

  The gaze, fleetingly cast at the bear and having made the beast empty its stomach from fear, now wouldn't have frightened even its own reflection. The hunter's eyes, once blazing with cold fury, had now dimmed, transformed into cloudy voids. In them was frozen so much pain that even the air around seemed saturated with it. Pleading could be read in every wrinkle round the eyes, in the way its lashes trembled slightly. Despair seeped through every glance, every barely noticeable movement of pupils.

  This gaze was rivalled to an even darker opening in the cave's far wall. Unwaveringly, as though the hunter feared to miss something important, or conversely, hoped not to see what might emerge from there. The eyes didn't blink, didn't look away for an instant. Simply pierced the darkness, trying to discern in it what possibly didn't exist at all. Or what would have been better never to see.

  There, in the cave's depths, blackness had condensed into something tangible. Not simply the absence of light—darkness itself, living, breathing. It pulsed, expanded and contracted, like the heart of an invisible monster. Sometimes sounds came from it. Not cries, not moans—something between a whisper and the scrape of stone on stone.

  The hunter didn't look away. Lips moved, but there were no words. Only soundless movement, as though praying to long-forgotten gods. Or cursing them. Or simply repeating someone's name, again and again, to infinity.

  From time to time the figure shuddered. Fingers clenched convulsively into fists, the jaw tensed. Then relaxation again, limp sitting again.

  From the darkness came another sound—drawn-out, grating on the ear. The hunter jerked, leant forward as though about to stand. But remained sitting. Hands reached towards the opening, froze halfway, fell back.

  Light from the cave entrance didn't penetrate further than several metres. Where the sunbeam ended, a boundary began. Clear, sharp, as though someone had drawn a line in chalk. Beyond it—that very blackness which absorbed the hunter's gaze.

  The bear, had it been here, would have turned and rushed away. Because animals know: there are things better left alone. There are places where paws don't tread. There is darkness from which none return.

  But the hunter continued sitting. Watching. Waiting.

  Yet Orgatai's appearance—for this was undoubtedly him—was deceptive. Inside him dwelt what seemed a coiled spring, ready to release at any moment, having accumulated more energy than could be imagined, were anyone else in his place.

  Muscles beneath his clothing were tensed to the limit. Every fibre hummed, demanded action. Fists clenched and unclenched not from weakness—from restrained fury. From the desire to tear from his position, burst into that cursed darkness and wrench his youngsters out. By force, if necessary. With fangs, if hands didn't suffice.

  But he waited. Because he'd promised. Because he knew: interference could destroy everything. Because a teacher doesn't save a student from a trial—only from death.

  His back burnt. Old injury reminded him of itself with sharp stakes along his spine. To sit motionless for fifteen days straight, interrupted only by brief sleep and meals, was torture even for an orc of his mettle. But Orgatai didn't stir. Didn't change position. Didn't look away from the darkness.

  Today was the fifteenth day of his solitary vigil, and he'd given himself his word that if the youngsters didn't emerge from the cave by noon, he'd go searching for them.

  The sun climbed behind his back. The shadow from his hunched figure crawled slowly across the stone floor, shortening. A bit more. Just a bit.

  From the darkness came scraping again. This time louder, more drawn-out. Orgatai froze, stopped breathing. Fingers reached for the staff of their own accord. Gripped the familiar wood, squeezed until knuckles whitened.

  Silence.

  Orgatai exhaled. Fingers unclenched but didn't release the staff. Held it ready now, across his knees. Easier that way. Calmer.

  The shadow from Orgatai's figure shortened further. The sun approached its zenith. Noon approached.

  He followed with his gaze the ray of light crawling across the wall. It met a scratch in the stone—Orgatai himself had left this mark in the morning, calculating the sun's position. When the ray reached the scratch's upper edge, time would be up.

  Another palm's breadth. Perhaps slightly more.

  His heart beat steadily, heavily. Beats echoed in his temples, in his fingertips. Blood hummed in his veins, demanded movement.

  Orgatai forced himself to inhale deeper. Held air in his lungs. Exhaled slowly, counting to ten. An old technique his father had taught. Calm the pulse before battle. Clear the head before decision.

  The ray crept on. A bit more.

  Orgatai sprang to his feet. The staff struck stone, sound rang through the cave, returned as echo. Pain in his back flared like fire, but he paid it no mind. In his inventory still remained five potions gifted him by the baksy.

  The blackness before him breathed—steadily, heavily, like a living being. It pulsed with barely visible waves of darkness that spread from the very heart of the lair. It waited. Waited for his decision, his first step, his intrusion into foreign territory.

  Orgatai gripped the staff with both hands so tightly the old wood creaked under the onslaught of his grasp. Muscles filled with strength—that very strength he'd been accumulating all these long hours of motionless waiting. The spring inside, tightly wound with patience and endurance, clicked, ready to uncoil with one powerful jerk. His body remembered. His bones remembered. Even his broken back remembered what it was—to walk towards danger.