The pack leader didn't tear its gaze from him. The growl gradually subsided, dissolved in the silence of night. The wolf froze like a sculpture of ice and fury—only its tail, which had been raised above its back, slowly, almost reluctantly lowered. The muscles of its hind legs tensed. Its forelegs shifted slightly backwards, transferring weight. It was preparing to leap.

  Ayan exhaled, released his fingers.

  The arrow flew from the bowstring.

  Fletching flashed in the darkness. The shaft whistled through the air. The leader lunged sideways—too late. The arrowhead entered its shoulder, pierced muscle, lodged between ribs.

  The beast howled. It fell on its side, thrashed in the snow. Paws scrabbled at the ground, trying to find purchase. Blood gushed from the wound, staining the snow with a dark patch.

  The pack froze for an instant.

  Then exploded into movement.

  Wolves surged towards the rock from all sides. They ran low to the ground, snarling, baring fangs. Snow flew from beneath their paws in fountains. Distance melted with each second.

  Ayan grabbed the next arrow. Nocked, drew, shot. He didn't aim long—simply chose a target, released the string, took a new arrow. Movements flowed one into another, without pauses, without stops.

  The second arrow entered the nearest wolf's throat. The beast tumbled, skidded muzzle-first across the snow.

  The third pierced another's flank—it yelped but kept running, dragging its hind leg.

  Fourth, fifth, sixth.

  Wolves fell, but the rest didn't stop. They skirted their companions' bodies, leapt over drifts, tore forward. Twenty metres to the rock. Fifteen. Ten.

  The first wolf leapt.

  It flew up, stretched in the air, paws extended forward, maw gaping. Aimed for the throat.

  Ayan released the string. The arrow entered the open maw, pierced the palate, exited through the back of the skull. The wolf went limp in mid-air, crashed to the base of the rock in a heavy heap.

  Second leap—from the left. Ayan spun, shot on instinct. Hit the chest. The beast crashed down beside the first.

  Third, fourth—they attacked simultaneously, from different directions. Ayan darted to the rock's edge, shot at the nearest. Missed. The arrow went into the snow. The wolf landed on the summit, claws scraping granite.

  The lad threw down his bow. He yanked the axe from the loop on his thigh. Met the beast with an upward strike—the haft severed several ribs at once. The wolf jerked, choked. Warm blood gushed onto Ayan's hand, scalded his skin through the glove.

  He shoved the carcass away with his foot. Spun round—the fourth wolf was already flying at him.

  He didn't manage to dodge.

  The beast slammed into his chest, knocked him off his feet. They rolled across the rock, grappling. Fangs snapped a centimetre from his face. Ayan braced his hand against the muzzle, holding the maw at bay. The wolf's neck muscles strained, trying to close its jaws. The beast's breath washed over his face—hot, foul, reeking of rotten meat.

  The dagger appeared in his hand of its own accord. Ayan struck its flank. Once. Twice. Thrice. The blade entered easily, sliced through fur and hide, found innards. The wolf yelped, tried to leap back.

  The lad didn't let it. He seized it by the scruff, pulled it to himself, struck once more—straight into the base of its skull. The point passed between vertebrae. The beast went limp instantly.

  Ayan threw off the carcass, leapt to his feet.

  Three remained below. They circled the rock, whimpering, but didn't attack. One limped—an arrow protruded from its hind leg. The second held its head sideways—its ear was torn, blood running down its muzzle. The third simply stood and looked up.

  Ayan raised his bow. He felt for an arrow in his quiver. The last one.

  He nocked it on the string. Aimed at the lame one.

  The wolves turned and ran. They dissolved into the darkness within seconds, only tracks remaining in the snow—deep, uneven, leading away from the rock.

  The lad lowered his bow. Exhaled. Vapour burst from his mouth in a thick cloud.

  Silence returned to the valley.

  At that moment he thought only that the game was ceasing more and more to resemble one. With each month, the Ether increasingly resembled reality.

  Ayan descended from the rock. His legs sank into the snow to the knees. Adrenaline began to recede, leaving behind dull exhaustion. But it too would pass—one need only wait for Vigour to restore.

  The first wounded wolf lay three metres from the rock. It breathed heavily, raspingly. An arrow protruded from its flank, swaying in time with its convulsive inhalations. The beast tried to raise its head when the lad approached. Its lips twitched, baring fangs. A weak growl caught in its throat.

  The dagger entered behind its ear. The wolf jerked once, twice. A third time. Went still.

  The second lay further on. Its front paws scraped at the snow—still trying to crawl away, though its hind legs no longer obeyed. The arrow had pierced its spine somewhere near the pelvis. The beast whimpered, turned its head, tracked the approaching figure with wide eyes.

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  Ayan stepped on its neck with his foot. He pressed down. Crunch. The whimpering broke off.

  Third, fourth, fifth—he found each by blood trails in the snow. Some still breathed. Some no longer, but the lad checked anyway—drove the blade into the base of the skull to be certain. Not from cruelty. Simply, unfinished business could become a problem later, and why leave the beasts to suffer from pain.

  The leader lay where it had fallen—aside from the rest, almost at the very edge of the hilltop. The huge carcass sprawled unnaturally across the snow. Forelegs flung wide. Hind legs tucked beneath its belly. The arrow protruded from its shoulder at an odd angle—stuck between ribs, having entered deeper than it should have.

  No breathing could be heard. Its chest didn't rise.

  Ayan approached closer. Stopped a pace from the muzzle. He crouched. Examined the wound—blood no longer flowed, only congealed round the shaft in a dark crust. The wolf's eyes were open but motionless. Glassy. Dead.

  The lad reached for the arrow. His fingers touched the fletching.

  The leader exploded.

  A lunge—instant, without warning. The maw gaped, fangs flashing in the moonlight. Ayan recoiled, but too late—jaws clamped on his forearm. The fur cloak didn't hold, split at the seam. Fangs sank into muscle. Pain seared his arm from wrist to shoulder.

  The lad screamed. He jerked his arm towards himself—the wolf wouldn't release it. It pulled back, shook its head, trying to tear out a chunk of meat. Blood gushed, flooded the fur, dripped into the snow.

  Ayan struck its muzzle with his free hand. Once. Twice. His fist crashed into its nose, its eye, its cheekbone. The wolf snarled but didn't unclench its jaws. The arrow in its shoulder prevented it from moving properly—hind legs slipped on the snow, finding no purchase, but its grip didn't weaken.

  The lad stopped striking. He seized the beast by the neck with both hands. His fingers sank into thick fur, found hard muscles beneath. The wolf jerked, tried to twist free. Ayan squeezed harder. He shifted his grip—one palm on the back of its skull, the other under its jaw.

  A jerk to the left.

  Crunch—quiet, almost inaudible.

  The maw unclenched. The body went limp. The wolf crashed onto its side, paws twitching a couple of times. Then went still.

  Ayan released its neck. He fell to his knees beside the carcass. His arm blazed with fire—blood flowed through his fingers, stained the snow around him with scarlet patches. His breathing faltered, his heart pounded somewhere in his throat. Before his eyes hung text about received negative effects of bleeding and infection.

  The lad squeezed the wound with his other hand. He pressed down. The pain grew sharper, but the bleeding slowed. He looked at the dead leader. At the open eyes. At the tongue lolling from the maw.

  "How can I blame you?"

  His voice came out hoarse. Alien.

  Ayan truly blamed only himself for what had happened.

  The journey back took less time. The trail had already been thoroughly broken, all that remained was to walk in his own footsteps, only occasionally plunging into snow to the knees. His wounded arm pulsed with each step. Blood seeped through the improvised bandage torn from his shirt, staining his fur jacket with brown patches.

  The campfire met him with the same steady light. Coals smouldered, occasionally throwing up sheaves of sparks. Ayan added a couple of logs, settled by the fire and crossed his legs. His back straightened of its own accord. His hands settled on his knees palms upward.

  His breathing slowed. Inhale. Exhale. The world narrowed to the boundaries of his own body—to the still-pulsing wound, to the burning in his muscles, to the cold eating into his skin through several layers of clothing.

  Pain retreated gradually. First it dulled, then dissolved completely in the sensation of warmth spreading from shoulder to fingers. Consciousness floated somewhere on the edge of sleep and wakefulness. Clear enough to maintain control of the surroundings, relaxed enough to replace sleep.

  Pre-dawn gloom had only begun creeping towards the horizon when the lad finally unstuck his eyelids. His eyes opened slowly, as though unhurriedly returning to the waking world. Sensations after meditation resembled good sleep—his body had rested, his mind had cleared, even the cold had ceased to trouble him so much. The lad felt splendid.

  He slowly moved his fingers and untied the improvised bandage. The fabric stuck to his skin, dried blood peeling away in flakes. The wound had vanished completely, leaving not even a small scar. His heritage worked like regeneration, and such a small problem as a wolf bite presented no difficulty for him whatsoever.

  There, in the caves' depths, had occurred far more serious trials. Once, after the fight in which Ainur and Yernazar had been killed, he'd had to literally press his palms to his torn-open belly, holding in his innards whilst the flesh edges, ripped by claws, slowly, painfully knitted back together. Back then he'd sat for three hours, hands pressed to his stomach, feeling warm blood seeping between his fingers. Burning spread through his entire body in waves, consciousness clouded from pain—and still he'd waited for "One Who Knew Oblivion" to do its work.

  Driving away unwelcome memories, Ayan rose and worked feeling into his stiff legs. He walked to the camp's edge, scooped up a pot of snow. He returned to the fire and set the pot over the flames. He added fresh logs—dry twigs flared with a quiet crackle, tongues of flame licked the pot's bottom.

  The snow melted slowly. The lad sat nearby, watching the white mass settle, transforming into cloudy liquid. He didn't add new portions of snow—he wasn't planning to cook anything, so what he had should suffice. Steam rose only when the sky in the east had coloured with the first stripes of grey.

  Orgatai stirred on the opposite side of the fire. He raised himself on one elbow, rubbed his face with his palm. He looked at the pot. At the lad.

  "Hot water?"

  Ayan nodded.

  The old orc sat up. He accepted the extended mug with both hands, brought it to his lips and blew on it. He took a sip. He grimaced.

  "Right now I could really do with some tea."

  "There's no tea."

  Orgatai didn't answer, silently continuing to drink. Over the night, despite the fire, his insides had thoroughly frozen and the hot water greatly helped drive the blood round.

  Ayan finished drinking first, and whilst the old orc poured himself a third mugful, he headed to Zhuldyz. Today she received a handful of oats from the bottom of the last sack. The mare thrust her muzzle into his extended palm, sniffed the grain. She ate slowly, running her lips across his palm, not missing a single grain. This didn't sate her at all—at best, her stomach would stop cramping for a time.

  They struck camp quickly and moved out in the same order—Ayan ahead, breaking the trail, Orgatai behind him, widening the path and leading Zhuldyz by the bridle.

  Four hours passed in silence. Snow crunched underfoot. Wind rustled in the bare branches of trees on either side. The sun rose above the horizon but brought no warmth—only light, white and cold.

  They made a stop by a fallen trunk. They didn't even bother tying the mare. They settled on the log, back to back.

  "Why isn't anyone coming?"

  Orgatai's voice sounded hollow.

  Ayan shrugged, though the old man didn't see it but sensed it.

  "Not in such a blizzard."

  "The blizzard died down two days ago."

  "Then the weather. The road's snowed over worse than here."

  "Perhaps."

  "Or beasts. Wolves, bears. Forced them back."

  "That too."

  Each of them heard the falseness in his own voice, but neither would have admitted it aloud. The words sounded empty, like an attempt to convince themselves that everything was so simply explained. That the reason for the delay was merely nature's whims or a pack of hungry predators on the trail.

  Neither wanted to think about what had actually kept the youngsters from leaving the aul. These thoughts crowded somewhere at the edge of consciousness, dark and heavy as leaden clouds before a storm. And even more frightening was the other thought—the one both travellers ruthlessly drove away each time it tried to surface. The thought that perhaps Ayan's heritage hadn't worked. That Yernazar and Ainur wouldn't resurrect at the stele after the appointed day.

  That they were simply dead.