The rocky ledge hung above the chasm, beyond which distant ridges dissolved in misty haze. Wind roamed between stones, whistled through crevices, carrying the scent of snow and permafrost. Zhalgaztur sat at the edge, legs dangling into the void. His ginger braid, bound with a leather thong, fluttered on his shoulders.

  The air thickened. It flowed, swirled, took on form—shapeless, fluid, barely distinguishable in the bright daylight. The spirits appeared uninvited, as they always did when they wished to speak with the last one who could hear them. Three of them. The local elder Aruaks—the mightiest amongst the incorporeal entities of these lands.

  The first to manifest was Aktas, spirit of the mountains—ancient as the very stone from which the ridges were formed, cold and immovable in his majesty. His presence was felt as pressure on the shoulders, the weight of ages and millennia.

  The second was Akzhel, the wind, who remembered the banners of the first Torki, who had seen how nomads first crossed these lands, how tribes arose and fell. He whispered and whistled, constantly in motion, elusive and changeable.

  The third was Aksu, the river, who had nourished the earth even before sentient beings began drinking from her waters, when only beasts came to her banks to drink. She burbled quietly, melodiously, with the voice of countless streams and currents.

  "Time runs short, Ka-Myn."

  The mountain's voice thundered in Zhalgaztur's head—deep, layered, like the grinding of a glacier against rock.

  The baksy exhaled without turning his head.

  "I know."

  "Are you ready to let him go?"

  The orc raised his gaze to the shapeless glow that swayed above the ledge. His lips compressed.

  "Is he ready?"

  The wind laughed—thinly, brightly, like the sound of breaking ice.

  "We're not asking about him."

  "Then don't muddle my head," the baksy snapped. "The lad will manage. Or he won't. That's his path, not mine."

  The river rustled—softly, soothingly, yet in that rustle could be heard reproach.

  "Have you given him enough?"

  Zhalgaztur froze. His fingers clenched on the stone's edge, knuckles whitening.

  "He has grasped himself. Learnt to listen to silence, to feel the movement of the world around him. I gave him everything I could." His voice became quieter, more hoarse. "But is it enough? Who can know?"

  "And the girl? The boy?"

  Faces flickered through his memory—the girl's stubborn gaze, the youth's resolute stance.

  "Ainur is strong. Stubborn as rock and sharp as a blade. She'll survive." Zhalgaztur shook his head. "Yernazar is still green, but fire burns in him. Not the kind that scorches—the kind that warms. He'll make a baksy."

  "You haven't answered the question."

  The old man spat into the chasm.

  "I have."

  "Time was limited."

  "Yes. But I wasn't born yesterday," the orc snarled, turning to face the spirits. "I've lived long enough to understand—when time is short, what matters isn't how much you give, but what exactly. I gave them the foundation. The rest is their business."

  Silence. The spirits swayed, merged into a single glow, then separated again.

  "You doubt."

  Not a question—a statement. Zhalgaztur turned away, staring into the infinity beyond the ledge's edge.

  "Of course I doubt. I'm not a god. I'm an old orc who's outlived too many."

  "But you are the last Ka-Myn."

  "So what?" His voice broke into a shout. "Does that make me all-powerful? Give me the right to decide who survives and who falls? I did everything I could. Everything you demanded. If that's not enough—blame yourselves, not me."

  The wind stilled. The river fell silent. The mountain sighed—heavily, like a rockfall somewhere in the depths of the cliffs.

  "You have done enough, Zhalgaztur Kokkoz, son of Nazar. We do not doubt."

  The old man clenched his jaw.

  "Then why did you come?"

  "To remind you—doubt is natural. But it must not fetter."

  The spirits began dissolving, thinning, losing form.

  "Let him go, Ka-Myn. You gave him the path. The rest is his choice."

  The final words echoed in his head, then vanished. Zhalgaztur remained alone on the ledge, in the company of wind and ringing silence.

  The orc continued sitting motionless, gazing at the mist that shrouded the distant peaks. His braid slipped from his shoulder when he threw his head back, peering at the sky. Clouds drifted slowly, carelessly, as though they had eternity ahead.

  He did not.

  The wind rose, ran across the tattoos on his arms—complex patterns beaten in with a bone needle a century ago. Signs of ancient pacts, bonds with spirits, obligations to ancestors. Each curl carried the memory of a vow, each line—of the path the baksy had walked.

  He ran his palm down his face, rubbing away fatigue.

  "Let him go," the orc muttered under his breath. "Easy to say."

  To invest in a student what you know—that's one thing. But to trust him to go further without holding his hand? Quite another.

  Zhalgaztur rose, leaning on his staff. The wood had darkened with time, covered in scratches and notches, but held firm. As did he himself. For now.

  He turned his back to the chasm and strode along the path that wound between rocks. Stones underfoot lay unevenly, crumbled beneath his weight, but the orc moved confidently. He knew every turn, every dangerous section. These mountains had been his home longer than any other dwelling.

  Thoughts darted about like birds before a storm.

  Ainur. A girl with amber eyes and stubbornness that could shift a mountain. She'd learnt to hold a sword, learnt not to tremble before an opponent. But would it be enough?

  Yernazar. A broad-shouldered youth with ginger hair and blue eyes that shone with faith in every word from his mentor. They shone too brightly. Zhalgaztur had taught him to see spirits, to hear their whispers, to distinguish the voices of wind and water. The youth grasped quickly, greedily absorbed knowledge. But faith without doubt was fragile as ice on a spring stream. One blow—and it would crack.

  And the lad.

  The baksy stopped, leaning against a boulder. His staff pressed into the earth, his hand gripped it so tightly his knuckles whitened.

  Ayan was strange. He didn't reject the spirits, but nor did he bow before them. He listened, learnt, but never lost himself in the process. Zhalgaztur had seen it from the first day—an inner core that wouldn't bend under pressure or fear. That was precisely why the spirits had chosen him. Precisely why the baksy had agreed to teach him.

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  But had enough time passed?

  He recalled his own teacher—old Tole, who had died sitting by a fire, a smile on his lips. Back then it had seemed the mentor had abandoned him too soon, left him alone before the abyss of the unknown. Years had passed before the baksy understood—Tole hadn't abandoned him. He'd released him. Given him the chance to go further.

  The orc straightened, continued his journey. The path descended.

  Perhaps the spirits were right. Perhaps doubt was merely an anchor dragging him down, preventing movement.

  Zhalgaztur gripped his staff tighter. He would let go. When the time came.

  The path led to a wide platform at the mountain's foot, where rock gave way to stony plain. Here, amongst boulders and sparse shrubs, Orgatai had positioned his students.

  The baksy stopped in the shadow of an outcrop, watching.

  The old warrior leant on his staff, his massive body bent beneath the weight of lived years and injuries. But his voice rang firm, without tremor:

  "Nazar, you're leaning to the left again. Think the enemy won't notice? He'll notice. And he'll stick a blade between your ribs whilst you're working out what went wrong."

  Yernazar straightened, shifted his weight, corrected his stance. Sweat ran down his face, soaked his clothes. In his hands—a wooden sword, darkened by the moisture of his palms.

  "Better," Orgatai nodded. "Now again. And don't flail about like a market woman with a ladle. The strike must come from the hips, not the shoulder."

  The youth repeated the movement. The blade traced an arc, cleaving the air with a dull whistle.

  "Kyzym, stop dancing round the dummy," the warrior barked without even turning his head. "Are you at a wedding or on a battlefield?"

  Ainur froze, turning to her grandfather. Amber eyes flashed.

  "I'm practising evasion!"

  "You're practising fussing." Orgatai struck his staff against the ground. "Every movement must have a purpose. You evade—you counter-attack. You shift—you flank. Otherwise you're just wasting strength and time. And the enemy won't wait."

  The girl clenched her teeth, turned to the straw dummy and stepped forward. The sword flashed, traced its path, struck at the base of the mannequin's neck. Straw spilled onto the ground. This wasn't how she'd imagined training in her dreams.

  "Like that."

  Ayan stood slightly to one side, holding two sticks—one long, one short. He moved slowly, flowing from position to position like a dancer learning a new combination. Each movement smooth, precise, without unnecessary jerks.

  Orgatai hobbled towards him, squinted.

  "What are you doing, Nullus?"

  "Combining basic forms of polearm and blade combat," the lad answered without ceasing his movements. "Trying to understand where they intersect."

  The old man snorted.

  "Philosophising."

  "Experimenting."

  "One doesn't preclude the other." Orgatai shook his head. "Right. Show me what you've got."

  Ayan stopped, exhaled, then exploded into movement. The long stick described a wide arc, forcing an imaginary opponent to retreat, the short one followed—a quick, sharp thrust into the opening. The combination concluded with a spin, both sticks switching to reverse grip.

  Silence.

  Orgatai clicked his tongue.

  "Too complicated. On the battlefield there'll be no time to think which hand goes where. Simplify."

  "Understood."

  "But the idea's not bad." The old man walked to his stool, turned, swept his gaze across all three. "Enough for today. Rest."

  Yernazar lowered his sword, wiped his face with his sleeve. Ainur approached the waterskin, took several gulps, held it out to Ayan. He accepted, nodding gratefully.

  "Rested? Good! Sparring, free-for-all, begin!"

  Yernazar stepped forward first, gripping his wooden sword more comfortably. A broad smile spread across his face—the lad loved sparring more than drilling forms. There he could test himself, feel the thrill, forget everything except his opponent and the weapon in his hands.

  Orgatai's word hadn't even dissolved in the air when he lunged forward. His sword flashed diagonally from below—a reverse cutting strike calculated to force Ainur to retreat, to open herself.

  She went left, the blade gliding past, cleaving air centimetres from her shoulder. She spun, struck at the youth's side—quick, sharp.

  Wood struck ribs. Yernazar gasped but didn't stop. He spun in place, his sword describing a horizontal arc at neck level.

  The girl ducked, the strike passing over her head. Her braid whipped across her back. She thrust her leg forward, sweeping.

  The youth stumbled, swayed, but held his balance. He sprang back, gripped his sword with both hands.

  "Crafty..."

  "Clever!" Ainur shot back.

  "Not quite."

  From his look—the way his pupils jerked sideways, the way his shoulders tensed—Ainur understood something was happening behind her. Instinct made her begin her turn, muscles already tensing for movement, but there wasn't enough time.

  A wooden shaft whistled flat into her ear. Her head jerked sideways. Then—a strike to her thigh, on the outside, where the nerve ran. Her leg buckled.

  She might have managed—held out, seized the initiative, regained her balance. But two more jabs followed to her shoulder blades—short, hard, precise. The thrusts threw her forward, straight into Yernazar's swing.

  He didn't miss the moment. The wooden blade crashed down from above, struck her shoulder, slid towards her neck. The girl sank to her knees, dropped her weapon. Her breathing faltered. Her vision darkened. Another strike.

  Knockout.

  Two young, vigorous orcs remained alone.

  Yernazar stopped pretending to be wounded and straightened, focusing on his opponent. His shoulders squared. The sword lowered into ready position. His gaze became serious.

  Such tricks never worked with Nullus.

  Ayan shifted his grip on the long stick, moving his hands closer to the centre. He flicked the short one to his left hand, reversed the grip. His stance became asymmetrical—one leg forward, weight distributed unevenly, as though preparing to retreat.

  Yernazar stepped forward, his sword rising for a vertical cutting strike. A classic overhead attack—powerful, straightforward.

  The long shaft flashed upward to meet it, intercepting the blade on approach. Wood struck wood with a dull crack. Yernazar pressed, trying to force through the defence with strength, but Ayan had already shifted—a step sideways, a turn of his torso.

  The short stick shot towards the youth's stomach—a quick, sharp jab. Straight to the solar plexus.

  Air tore from his lungs. Yernazar doubled over, instinctively jerked back his sword, tried to retreat.

  The long shaft crashed down on his wrist from above. His fingers unclenched against his will. The sword fell, clanged against stones.

  The short stick was already flying towards his knee—from the side, at the tendon. His leg buckled. The youth collapsed onto one knee, tried to raise his arm to block.

  The long shaft spun through the air, describing an arc, and struck his shoulder—not hard, but precise. Yernazar swayed. The short stick settled against his neck, pressed, forcing him to bend lower.

  It was over in five movements.

  Ayan stepped back, lowered his weapons. Breathing even, without faltering. Not a drop of sweat on his brow.

  Yernazar sat on the ground, rubbing his wrist, staring at his opponent in bewilderment.

  "How did you... I didn't even have time..."

  "You attacked predictably." Ayan extended his hand, helping him rise. "A vertical overhead strike leaves you open to a side counter. And when I forced you to retreat—you lost the initiative."

  The youth rose, shook his head.

  "Easy to say."

  "Try again—you'll see for yourself."

  Orgatai struck his staff against stone.

  "Enough philosophy. Kyzym, get up. Nazar, pick up your sword. Nullus, you finished too quickly—which means you can repeat it. Only this time against both of them."

  Ayan nodded, gripping the sticks more comfortably.

  Yernazar picked up his weapon, glanced at Ainur. She was already rising, rubbing her bruised places. Her eyes shot towards Ayan with a look full of determination.

  "This time it'll be different."

  "We'll see."

  "These ones are definitely ready to begin their own path," Zhalgaztur thought.

  Leaving his cover, he approached Orgatai, waving to the youths not to interrupt their training.

  Zhalgaztur lowered himself onto a boulder standing beside the stool, laid his staff across his knees. Orgatai glanced at him without taking his eyes off the sparring students.

  "Has something happened?"

  "In ten days you leave."

  The old warrior didn't flinch. Only his fingers gripped his staff slightly tighter.

  "Back to Aksu?"

  "Yes."

  Silence stretched between them. On the platform, Ainur was trying to flank Ayan whilst Yernazar distracted him with frontal attacks. Wood struck wood, beating out a dull rhythm.

  "Have you fulfilled your task?" Orgatai turned to the baksy, the wrinkles around his eyes deepening.

  "I have." Zhalgaztur ran his palm along his braid, flipping it behind his shoulder. "I've laid the foundation. The rest is their business."

  "The foundation..."

  "Nothing more was required." His voice sounded calm, but weariness seeped through—not physical, but deeper. "I'm not a god, to make them into what they must become. Only they themselves can complete it. You'll be near, at first."

  Orgatai nodded, returning his gaze to the students. Yernazar took another strike to the solar plexus, doubled over, retreated, gasping for air.

  The baksy, sensing tension, turned his head, met the warrior's gaze.

  "Speak plainly."

  "The mol-la." The old man spat to one side. "He surely hasn't forgotten how we left him. These types nurse grudges long, and their memories are longer. When we return—he'll want payback."

  Zhalgaztur exhaled, leant back, bracing his palms on stone.

  "He will."

  "And?"

  "And nothing." The baksy squinted, looking at the sky. Clouds drifted slowly, shapeless, indifferent to what happened below. "The spirits have already decided everything."

  Orgatai frowned.

  "That's not an answer."

  "That's the only answer I can give." The baksy leant forward, clasping his fingers together. "The mol-la is a problem. But not yours."

  "Whose, then?"

  Zhalgaztur remained silent. His gaze became distant, as though he looked through stone, through earth, into depths inaccessible to ordinary sight.

  Orgatai watched him intently, then shook his head.

  "You're being evasive, baksy."

  "I am." The corner of his mouth twitched in the semblance of a smile. "Because I can't say more. Take my word—there'll be no trouble with the mol-la."

  "The word of the last Ka-Myn?"

  "The word of an old orc who's lived too long to lie without reason."

  The warrior snorted but didn't argue. He turned back to the platform. Ainur had finally managed to catch Ayan with a strike to his side—glancing, shallow, but counted. The girl triumphantly raised her fist.

  "Ten days," Orgatai repeated. "Not much."

  "Enough." Zhalgaztur rose, took his staff, leant on it. "I'll finish the final instructions. You'll have time—polish the forms to automatism. They'll complete the rest themselves."

  The old man nodded, not taking his eyes off his granddaughter.

  "Go. I have my own work here."

  The baksy turned, strode away. Wind tugged at his braid, whistled through the crevices in the cliffs. His footsteps echoed hollowly on the rocky path.

  Behind him came Orgatai's voice:

  "Nazar, you're leaning again! Kyzym, stop celebrating—the fight's not over! Nullus, stop holding back!"