Zhalgaztur stood before them, a massive silhouette against the dawn sky. Behind him rose the cliff—a place that had been their home for half a year.

  Ayan, Ainur and Yernazar lined up before the baksy. The cart creaked—Orgatai was settling onto the driver's seat, adjusting the reins. He was in no hurry, giving the baksy time to finish his farewell.

  Blue eyes slid over each of the three, lingering for a moment, as though weighing their readiness for what lay ahead.

  Zhalgaztur slowly surveyed them, as though etching every feature, every detail of this moment into memory—the final moments before they left his protection and continued along their own path.

  "You are returning to Aksu," he said at last, his voice quiet, yet in that quietness each word gained the weight of a stone cast into a deep well. The echo resounded in their chests, penetrated beneath their ribs, made their hearts beat slightly slower, more deliberately. "But in time, tagdyr will lead you to Mount Aktas."

  The baksy fell silent, allowing the words to settle, to take root in his listeners' minds.

  "There," he continued, his voice deepening, as though drawing the words from the very bowels of the earth, "you will find what you seek." A pause. "Answers." Another. "Strength." And the longest pause of all. "Trials that will make you doubt everything—yourselves, your choices, what you considered immutable."

  Wind stirred the braid on his shoulder, bringing the scent of mountain herbs and stone.

  "But that will only be the beginning of your path."

  He stepped towards Yernazar, placing his broad palm on the young orc's shoulder.

  "You hear the voices of the spirits, Nazar. Always follow them. They will show the road when all else loses meaning."

  Yernazar nodded, straightening his back. Lights danced in his blue eyes—curiosity, excitement, readiness to know more.

  The baksy turned to Ainur. The girl met his gaze without fear, her chin raised slightly—that stubbornness which Zhalgaztur had seen from the first day.

  "You are stronger than you think, kyzym. When the time comes to choose between duty and heart, remember—true strength lies in remaining yourself."

  The orc maiden compressed her lips but nodded. Amber eyes flashed—not with tears of parting, but with resolve.

  Ayan stood last.

  Zhalgaztur froze before him, studying the lad's face so intently it seemed he could see straight through him—to the very depths, where doubts and fears lurked. His student didn't look away.

  "Baksy..." the lad began, but the shaman raised his hand, stopping him.

  "You walk your own path, Nullus. The spirits see this. I see this." He shook his head. "Don't try to become what you are not. The Great Sky chose you for a reason. Believe in what you carry within yourself, even if it doesn't fit ancient laws."

  A heavy silence fell. Somewhere in the distance a bird cried.

  The baksy didn't remove his hand from Ayan's shoulder. His fingers tightened, not allowing retreat.

  "You hide," Zhalgaztur exhaled, leaning lower to peer into the green eyes. "Think I don't see? Every day you build walls around yourself—from words, from silence, from this false confidence."

  Ayan swallowed, his jaw tensing.

  "The world won't wait whilst you decide whether you're worthy to step into the light," his voice became softer, but the words cut no less sharply than a blade. "It's already moving. Events are unfolding. And you stand at the threshold, doubting whether you have the right to cross it."

  The baksy straightened, releasing his shoulder.

  "Stop hiding from who you are. From what you can become. Ether chose you not so you could skulk in the shadow of your own fears."

  Wind stirred his braid again.

  "We will meet again." Zhalgaztur stepped back, his gaze sliding over all three. "When the hour comes—we'll stand opposite each other once more. But for now, go. Learn. Become stronger."

  He turned, and his broad back blocked out the rising sun.

  "And remember—every choice has a price. Pay it with honour."

  Orgatai chuckled from the cart, tugging at the reins.

  "Get moving, before the sun rises completely. The road's long."

  Ayan moved towards the cart first. Ainur followed, casting a final glance over her shoulder at the baksy. Yernazar lingered a moment longer, as though wanting to say something, but in the end simply nodded and leapt up after them.

  The cart creaked beneath the weight of three orcs. Orgatai clicked his tongue, directing the harnessed Zhuldyz forward.

  Zhalgaztur stood motionless, watching them until the cart vanished round a bend in the road.

  The cart moved slowly, swaying on the uneven mountain road. Wheels creaked in time with the mare's steps—a heavy, monotonous rhythm beneath which thoughts wandered on their own.

  Ayan sat with his back against the side, gazing at the receding cliffs. Half a year. He'd spent half a year here—and still couldn't say he was ready for what lay ahead. The baksy's words echoed in his head like a tocsin: "Stop hiding."

  Easy to say.

  "You're thinking about something," Ainur settled beside him, drawing her knees to her chest. She studied his face with the curiosity she'd never learnt to hide.

  "About many things."

  "Now that's specific," she smirked. "Are you afraid of the future?"

  Ayan glanced sideways at her. Ainur didn't look away—direct as an arrow, without a hint of mockery. She was truly asking.

  "I don't know," he shrugged. "Probably."

  "Me too."

  The admission caught him off guard. The orc maiden turned away, watching the road that stretched behind the cart, leaving a trail of dust.

  "I thought it would become easier," she continued more quietly. "I've become stronger. I know more. But the clearer I see—nothing has changed. Nothing important."

  "What do you mean?"

  Ainur shook her head, as though driving away thoughts.

  "I'm simply going where I've been told to go. As always."

  Yernazar sat on the other side of the cart, legs stretched out, arms behind his head. Eyes closed, but from the barely noticeable smile on his lips it was clear—he was listening.

  "What about you?" Ainur asked, turning to him. "What are you thinking about?"

  The ginger-haired orc, without opening his eyes, smiled wider.

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  "About how I've missed my family all this time. Father, brothers, sisters. Especially missed Mother and her baursaks..."

  Ainur snorted.

  "Seriously?"

  "Absolutely," Nazar opened one eye, winking at her. "I'm also thinking that the baksy's right. We'll meet him again. And it won't be soon."

  The tone changed. Lightness vanished, replaced by something deeper, more serious.

  "He sees more than he says," he added, closing his eye again. "The spirits show him roads we can't yet discern."

  Ayan remained silent. No one showed him roads. Zhalgaztur had said, "Believe in what you carry within yourself." But what was he to believe in, when he didn't understand what exactly he carried? Had he meant the heritage "Chosen of Ether" or the title "Blessed or Cursed"? No one was rushing to provide answers.

  "Aktas," he said aloud, addressing no one in particular. "The baksy said we need to reach Aktas."

  "When the time comes, fate will lead us to it itself," Ainur nodded. "Right now our goal is Aksu."

  Orgatai on the driver's seat chuckled without turning round.

  "Aktas isn't going anywhere. The mountain's stood for thousands of years, will stand for thousands more. But in the aul, your help may be needed."

  Ayan leant his head against the cart's side, closing his eyes. The sun warmed his face, wind tousled his hair. Somewhere ahead waited Aksu—a place he'd left half a year ago, but which he'd never even seen with his own eyes.

  His hand found the amulet lying on his chest, beneath his shirt.

  Ayan's fingers felt for the tumar under his shirt—a simple piece of leather folded into a triangle and stitched with rough cord. His body's warmth had transferred to the material, making it almost part of his skin.

  He pulled the amulet out, laying it on his palm. The leather hadn't yet darkened from sweat and time—understandably, only one night had passed. Unfolding the triangle, on the reverse side could be found carved runes—uneven, as though traced in haste, but each stroke carried a meaning Ayan couldn't read.

  Zhalgaztur had given them out yesterday. Hadn't said a word—simply approached each, extended his palm with the amulet and nodded. Silently. As though that were enough.

  The moment Ayan received it, he'd opened the interface, studying the description.

  ["Leather Tumar"

  Rank: F

  Neck

  Durability: 100/100

  Required level: 0

  Sale price: 1 copper coin

  "The Torks believe the tumar protects its wearer from evil spirits."]

  A trinket. An ordinary item without stats, without bonuses, without enhancements. Could be sold for one copper—couldn't get less. And yet, when the baksy handed him this piece of leather, something tightened in his chest. Not from the object itself, but from who'd given it.

  Ainur, glancing at Ayan, also pulled out her amulet from inside her collar. Unfolding it once again, she began examining it with the same curiosity. Her eyes darted over the carved runes, trying to find in them a pattern, meaning, something familiar.

  "He does know this doesn't work, doesn't he?" She said, addressing no one in particular, though her voice sounded not mocking but rather thoughtful. "No protection. No effect."

  "It works," Orgatai muttered from the driver's seat. He didn't turn round, but the words rang firm, without a shadow of doubt. "Just not the way you think."

  Ainur raised an eyebrow.

  "What do you mean, ata?"

  The old orc shrugged, adjusting the reins.

  "The tumar doesn't only protect from evil spirits. It reminds you that you're not alone. That someone gave you a piece of their strength, their time, their care." Orgatai fell silent, gazing forward at the road. "And that's more important than any spell. Though there are tumars that truly do give additional bonuses."

  Yernazar opened his eyes, retrieved his own amulet and raised it to the sun. The leather showed translucent at the edges.

  "Atababa gave each of us his protection," he said quietly. "Not magical. Spiritual."

  Ayan looked at the tumar again. Crude workmanship, simple materials, no value by the game's standards. Not one player would wear such a thing. They'd sooner discard it, freeing inventory space for more useful items. Or at the very least, sell it to the nearest merchant.

  He tucked the amulet back beneath his shirt, feeling how it settled on his chest—light, almost weightless, yet perceptible. A constant reminder that someone believed in him. Even if he didn't believe in himself.

  The cart creaked, hitting a stone. Zhuldyz snorted with displeasure but continued walking.

  Ainur also hid her tumar, leaning back against the side. Yernazar closed his eyes, but a faint smile remained on his lips.

  Silence stretched out, not heavy but calm. Each thought about their own concerns, but all three kept their hands close to their chests—where the amulets lay.

  Orgatai smirked, though no one saw it. His own tumar rested beneath his shirt, just as simple, just as useless in their opinion.

  "I don't recall giving you permission to rest..." He drawled thoughtfully into his moustache, but loudly enough for every word to reach the youngsters' ears.

  The youngsters froze as though turned to stone. Each tried to portray complete innocence and pretend nothing suspicious had happened or been heard.

  "And you, Zhuldyz, do you remember?" The old orc addressed the mare with exaggerated seriousness.

  She, as though truly recalling something important and offensive, whinnied loudly and indignantly, tossing her mane.

  "You're saying you don't remember anything and it's hard for you to carry these layabouts?" Orgatai translated understandably, shaking his head with feigned sympathy.

  It finally dawned on the youngsters: the longer they pretended not to understand the hints, the harsher the punishment for such impudence would be. Leaping sharply from the cart as though something had stung them, all three jumped onto the road and set about helping the mare. The mountain path was becoming ever more rocky and uneven on the descent, and without their extra weight Zhuldyz found it noticeably easier to navigate the snow-covered slopes and hidden ruts.

  The first few miles deceived with their ease. Sun warmed their backs, snow crunched pleasantly, almost playfully beneath their feet. The cart rolled along the packed track, Zhuldyz snorted contentedly, and Orgatai even whistled some old tune under his breath.

  But the farther they moved from Zhalgaztur's dwelling, the more noticeably the world around them changed.

  First the sound of dripping water vanished. It stopped trickling from stones and branches. Then the thawed patches disappeared—those very dark spots of earth that had shown near the baksy's cliffs. Here there were none. Only whiteness, endless, cutting to the eyes under the midday sun.

  The snow lay thicker. No longer a thin layer that could be crushed underfoot, but a dense crust concealing the road's irregularities. The cart's wheels sank ever deeper, leaving deep furrows behind. Zhuldyz snorted more frequently, lowering her head, straining her entire body against the traces.

  The wind changed. Earlier it had caressed, played with hair, brought the scent of pines and mountain herbs. Now it tore, struck their faces with icy needles, crept under clothing, reached their skin. Breathing became harder—the air burnt their lungs, as though they inhaled not oxygen but sharp shards of ice.

  Orgatai tugged at the reins, halting Zhuldyz by a small outcrop. The mare snorted gratefully, lowering her head.

  "Get dressed," the old man ordered, climbing down from the driver's seat. "It'll get worse farther on."

  No one argued. Hands had already gone numb, cheeks burnt from the wind.

  The youngsters untied the bundles. First they pulled on warm trousers, then retrieved thick chapans—long sheepskin robes, hand-quilted. These went over their shirts. Wrapping the fronts and tightening the wide belts, the youngsters felt the warmth of sheep's wool envelop their bodies almost instantly.

  Over these they threw on beshmets—quilted felt waistcoats that protected chest and back from the piercing wind.

  Next, they wrapped their heads in broad camel-wool scarves, leaving only their eyes exposed, then pulled on felt caps with long earflaps, tying them under their chins.

  The final items were felt boots and thick gloves. Weapons couldn't be gripped in these, but they'd manage to push the cart easily enough.

  Orgatai silently checked Zhuldyz's harness, throwing a blanket of thick cloth over her.

  "Ready?"

  The three nodded.

  The cart moved forward again, plunging into the white shroud of snow.

  Ayan walked beside it, pushing in particularly difficult places. His leg muscles hummed from the strain, his fingers went numb even through the gloves. He didn't complain—it would be pointless. The others were coping with the same.

  Ainur strode ahead, forging the path. Her long braid lashed her back, covered with frost. She didn't look round, didn't check whether the others kept up. Simply walked, stubbornly, step by step, crushing the snow.

  Yernazar kept to the other side, propping the cart with his shoulder each time a wheel slipped from the rut.

  Orgatai remained silent. The old orc sat on the driver's seat, hunched beneath the weight of the blankets piled on him. It was hardest for him—he could neither warm his blood through movement nor relax. He didn't hurry Zhuldyz, didn't shout. Simply led her forward, patiently, slowly, allowing the mare to choose the pace.

  The path narrowed. Cliffs loomed to the right, to the left gaped a precipice—not bottomless, but deep enough to make a fall fatal. Snow lay unevenly here—in places forming dense drifts, elsewhere a thin icy crust concealing sharp stones.

  Once the wheel slipped. The cart jerked sideways, tilting dangerously close to the edge. Zhuldyz whinnied in fear, bracing her hooves against the earth.

  All three rushed to the cart simultaneously. Ayan grabbed the side, Ainur braced herself against the front, Yernazar caught the axle. Orgatai leapt from the driver's seat, went round the mare, calming her with quiet words.

  They pushed in silence. Every inch came with difficulty—wood creaked, snow cascaded from the precipice's edge, wind howled as though mocking their attempts.

  The cart groaned, settling deeper into the snow. The wheel sank slowly but inexorably—inch by inch, dragging the side towards the precipice's edge.

  Ayan's fingers dug into the wooden side, his feet slipping on the icy crust. Muscles burnt with fire, arms trembled from the strain. He pushed with all his strength, but the cart wouldn't yield. On the contrary—it pulled downward, as though invisible hands clutched at it from below. Rayan, coiled round his waist, seemed to sense something and began squirming.

  Ainur snarled through her teeth, her shoulder braced against the front wheel. Her felt boots slipped; she fell to one knee, sprang up again. Sweat rolled down her forehead, mixing with the frost on her lashes.

  Yernazar gripped the axle with both hands, pulling towards himself, trying to shift it from the edge. Wood cracked under his grip. Snow cascaded downward, revealing the dark maw of the precipice.

  Zhuldyz thrashed in her harness, hooves scraping stone, but couldn't find purchase. The mare whinnied shrilly—not from pain, from fear.

  Orgatai seized the traces, trying to calm the animal and pull it forward simultaneously.

  The side tilted even more steeply.