Snow reached their knees. In places—up to their waists, where wind had piled drifts in the folds of hills. Ayan walked first, parting the white expanse with wide strides. Each footprint remained behind like a deep pit into which sank the legs of Orgatai following.

  The old man widened the trail, trampling the edges with his boots, making the passage broader for Zhuldyz. The mare plodded behind him, snorting into the frozen air. She held her head low, almost touching the snow with her nose. Orgatai led her by the bridle, feeling through the reins each of her efforts transmitted.

  "Steady, steady," he muttered from time to time. "Soon it'll be easier."

  A lie. It wasn't getting easier.

  The hills rolled one after another—white waves of a frozen sea. The sun hung high but gave little warmth. Light cut the eyes, reflecting off the snow's crust. Orgatai squinted, watching Ayan's back ahead.

  The lad didn't slacken his pace. He walked evenly, methodically, as though feeling no fatigue. His cloak billowed behind, catching on juniper bushes protruding from beneath the snow. Orgatai saw how leg muscles tensed with each step, how his foot sank in soft patches—but Ayan didn't stop. Didn't look back. Simply walked.

  The old man remembered such types. Had seen warriors in the Horde who moved forward until they dropped dead. Because stopping meant the end. Because the thought of the goal kept the body on its feet more firmly than any will.

  Ayan walked precisely like that. Like an orc for whom stopping equalled death.

  They climbed another hill. Wind struck their faces—sharp, vicious, reeking of ice and mountains. Zhuldyz whinnied long and pitifully. Orgatai stopped, gave her a breather. He stroked her neck, feeling her exhausted heart beating beneath the coat.

  "Bear it, girl. A little longer."

  Ayan turned round. Looked at them. Said nothing. Simply waited.

  Orgatai nodded.

  "Let's go."

  The descent proved worse than the ascent. The snow underfoot wouldn't hold. It caved in, slid downward along with stones beneath the crust. Ayan slipped, grabbed at branches protruding from beneath the snow, braked with his heels. Orgatai walked more cautiously, steadying Zhuldyz. The mare backed away, resisted, didn't want to go down the slippery slope.

  "Come on, come on," the old man rumbled. "Don't be afraid. I've got you."

  Zhuldyz stepped—her leg plunged into snow up to her belly. She lunged forward, trying to pull out her leg. Orgatai held her by the bridle, didn't let her fall on her side.

  "Stop! Easy!"

  Ayan returned, helped clear the snow round the horse's leg. Together they pulled Zhuldyz from the hole. The mare trembled. Her eyes rolled, showing the whites.

  Orgatai pressed his forehead to her muzzle.

  "Forgive me," he whispered. "Forgive me, girl."

  Further on they descended more slowly. Ayan walked sideways, trampling each step twice before letting the horse through. Orgatai secured from behind, held her by bridle and flanks, ready to catch her if Zhuldyz sank again.

  When they reached the foot, the sun was already declining towards the horizon. Shadows from the hills lay in long blue stripes across the snow. The air grew even colder. Breath escaped in thick clouds of vapour.

  Ayan stopped. Looked back at the path travelled. Then looked forward—there, beyond the next ridge of hills, should lie Aksu.

  "Will we make it before dark?" Orgatai asked.

  Ayan shook his head.

  "No."

  The old man spat into the snow.

  "Then we'll camp here."

  The lad nodded. He began looking about, seeking a suitable place for camp. He found a rocky outcrop, sheltered from the wind. Beneath it there was less snow—earth showed in places, covered with frozen grass.

  "Here," he said.

  Orgatai led Zhuldyz over. Tied her to a stone. The mare lay down immediately, tucking her legs beneath herself. She closed her eyes. A bad sign—horses shouldn't lie down.

  Ayan pulled dry logs from his inventory. Orgatai struck sparks. The flame caught readily. They sat nearby, extended their hands to the warmth.

  The fire scorched their faces whilst wind froze their backs. Ayan tossed on another log. Sparks soared skyward, dissolved in the twilight.

  Orgatai retrieved a pot. He scooped up snow, set it over the fire. The snow settled, turning to murky water. The old man waited for it to boil, adding fresh portions of snow, then tossed in a piece of meat left over from his kill.

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  Ayan laid out the last flatbreads nearby. Three pieces. Thin, hard as boot leather.

  "That's all?" Orgatai nodded at the meagre rations.

  The lad shrugged.

  "That's all."

  The old man didn't ask where the supplies had gone—they should have lasted four of them a month. In time loops anything could happen. Perhaps he'd fed someone. Perhaps he'd lured enemies. Didn't matter. What mattered was what they had now.

  Water in the pot began to boil. Meat floated in the boiling water, changing colour from dark red to grey. Orgatai stirred with a stick, checking readiness. Then pulled out a piece, divided it in half. He held out half to Ayan.

  They ate in silence. The meat was tough, stringy, smelt of game. They washed it down with hot water from the pot. The bland broth scalded their lips and warmed them from within, spreading through their bellies with pleasant heat.

  When they'd finished, Ayan rose. He began trampling out a level area, and when done, pulled a bundle from his inventory. He unwrapped it—inside proved a small tent, designed for one person. Perhaps for two, if lying close.

  He stretched the canvas between stones, secured it with stakes. It came out crooked, but held. Wind tore at the edges, but didn't blow inside.

  "Lie down," the lad tossed out, nodding to Orgatai. "Rest."

  The old man squinted.

  "And you?"

  "I'll stand watch."

  "Against what? There's not a soul here."

  Ayan looked into the darkness beyond the campfire. He remained silent for several moments. Then said:

  "Wolves."

  Orgatai froze. He listened closely. Heard nothing save the wind and the crackling of logs. But he believed. Ayan wasn't one to speak idly.

  "How many?"

  "A pack. Following our trail."

  The old man rose, pulled an axe from his ring. Ayan stopped him with a gesture.

  "I'll manage myself. Pay no mind to the noise."

  Orgatai met his gaze. The lad's eyes burnt in the firelight—calm, confident, without a shadow of doubt. There was no boasting there, no show. Only knowledge. Simple, solid knowledge of what would be done.

  The old orc had seen such men. Warriors who before battle didn't shout, didn't wave weapons. They simply stood and waited. Because they knew—they'd win. Or die, but do what must be done.

  Right now Ayan strongly reminded him of them.

  Orgatai nodded. He put away his axe. He headed for the tent, but at the entrance turned round. He wanted to say something, but changed his mind.

  He climbed inside, lay down on the spread felt. His body ached from weariness. His muscles hummed as though beaten with sticks. The old man closed his eyes, listening to Ayan walking about the camp, checking something.

  Then everything fell silent.

  Orgatai heard only the crackling of the fire and Zhuldyz's breathing nearby.

  And somewhere far off, at the very edge of hearing—a prolonged, mournful howl. A solitary voice rising to the stars, calling the pack, promising prey. Then a second joined it. A third. A fourth. A chorus of hungry throats merging into a single song—hungry, greedy, full of the promise of blood and warm meat.

  Orgatai lay on his back, staring at the dark tent canopy. He listened. Counted voices. Estimated distance. They were still far—beyond several folds of the valley, but coming true, following the trail. Wolves in these parts were large, clever, patient. They knew when to attack, knew how to surround. An ordinary traveller couldn't handle them.

  But outside, by the fire, stood motionless no ordinary traveller.

  The old man smirked into the tent's darkness, slowly shaking his head from side to side. He imagined how Ayan looked now—standing by the fire, calm, bow in hands, waiting. Simply waiting until the wolves came close enough.

  Tonight the wolves were definitely out of luck. Absolutely, completely out of luck. They were walking towards prey—but would meet death.

  Orgatai was mistaken. Ayan wasn't standing by the fire waiting.

  He was running through the snow towards the pack, his legs plunging into the white mass but not slowing their pace. His body moved easily, despite the day's weariness. His breathing even, deep. Air scorched his lungs, but he paid it no mind. He simply ran.

  Zhuldyz was already at her limit. The wolves' howling would finish her off completely—her heart wouldn't withstand the panic. He'd spent time wrapping the mare in blankets from his inventory. He'd covered her head so sounds would reach her muffled. He'd stroked her neck, felt muscles trembling beneath her coat. The poor animal held on by her last strength.

  Therefore the battle would take place far from camp.

  Ayan climbed the crest of a hill that rose above the valley. Wind struck his face, tried to shove him down. He braced his feet into the slope, held his balance. He looked about.

  A solitary stone jutted from the snow about ten metres away—a flat top, sheer sides. Two and a half times a man's height. The perfect position, and he'd spotted it earlier.

  He scrambled to the top. He gripped the protrusions, pulled himself up with his arms. Snow cascaded down, exposing grey granite. Another heave—and he was on the flat summit. He stood at his full height, turned to face the valley.

  Darkness spread around. Complete, thick, impenetrable. Clouds hung low, pressed on the earth with a dense shroud. Not a single ray from the moons broke through this veil. An ordinary person would have been blind here. Would have seen only a black patch before their face, perhaps whitish contours of snow several paces away.

  Ayan saw everything.

  The world appeared before him in shades of grey—pale patches of drifts, dark silhouettes of stones, even darker shadows of juniper bushes. Every fold of terrain read easily. Every irregularity, every protrusion, every hollow. Darkness concealed nothing. It simply changed colours, turning the familiar world into a theatre of shadows.

  He crouched. He pulled bow and quiver from his inventory. He checked the string—drawn taut, hadn't loosened from the cold. He laid out arrows nearby, stuck their shafts in the snow. Twenty. Enough.

  The howling sounded closer—to the left, from beyond the distant hill. Ayan turned his head in that direction. He watched without blinking.

  The first wolf appeared between drifts. It walked cautiously, low to the ground. Muzzle extended, ears flattened. It sniffed the air, caught the scent. Then stopped. Froze. Only its tail slowly swayed from side to side.

  The second emerged from the right. Larger than the first, with a broad chest and powerful paws. Fur bristled on its scruff. Fangs flashed in the darkness—long, sharp, yellow.

  Third. Fourth. Fifth.

  They appeared one after another, surrounding the hill in a semicircle. They moved in coordination, without commands, without sounds. They simply knew what to do. The hunting instinct led them, ancient and unerring.

  Ayan counted. Eight. Nine. Ten.

  The pack stopped fifty metres from the stone. The wolves sat in the snow, looking upward. Eyes burnt in the darkness with dull yellow light. Breath escaped in clouds of vapour. They waited.

  The pack leader emerged last. An enormous beast, nearly half again the size of the rest. A scar crossed its muzzle from eye to jaw. The fur on its scruff was grey, almost white. It walked before the pack, sniffed the air. Then raised its head, looked straight at Ayan.

  The lad met its gaze. Didn't blink. Didn't look away.

  The leader growled—low, guttural, prolonged. The sound rolled across the valley, reflected off the slopes, returned as echo. The pack took up the snarl, voices merging into a single chorus of threat and hunger.

  Ayan took an arrow. He laid it on the string. He drew the bow.

  The string stretched to its limit. The bow's wood creaked quietly. Ayan held his breath, aimed at the leader's chest—there, where beneath the grey fur beat its heart.