Reality returned in a jolt—sharp, painful, merciless.

  The lad blinked, only then realising he'd been standing motionless for heaven knew how long. His toes had gone numb. His arms had turned to icy logs. Breath tore free in scalding puffs of vapour. He automatically glanced downward—and froze.

  The health bar glowed yellow. Warning, threatening—as though presenting a final reckoning. Beside it flashed a negative status icon: Frostbite, beneath which gleamed the figure (5). Five stacks. Through his body already crept dull, aching pain impossible to escape—it sat inside his bones, his skin, in every frozen cell.

  Regeneration, natural and from his heritage, no longer coped. The speed of recovery and the speed of damage had equalised at the fourth stack; after the fifth, cold damage had overtaken it.

  Ayan took a step back—his legs buckled, he barely stayed upright. His body responded to the movement with belated, dull pain. He understood: a bit more—and nothing would help him.

  "I was meditating," he realised belatedly. When exactly had it begun? He didn't remember the moment of transition. He'd simply stood, listening to the storm, and then... fallen. Not into sleep. Not into oblivion. Into complete dissolution.

  The sphere of perception had worked flawlessly. Like a guard dog, like an invisible shield—everything that entered its radius resonated in his consciousness with clear echo. No one could have passed. Nothing could have crept close. Ayan was certain: even if an enemy had appeared during meditation, he would have sensed it before they stepped on stone.

  But that he'd nearly allowed the frost to kill him through his own carelessness—that was a lesson.

  He turned round and, swaying, headed back towards the cave. Each step resonated in his joints with sharp needles of pain. Going inside, he immediately retrieved a blanket from his inventory—thick, coarse, smelling of smoke and herbs—and wrapped himself in it over his clothing, pulling the hood lower. The fire still smouldered weakly; he added several dry branches, fanning the embers, and pressed closer to the source of warmth.

  The flames slowly blazed higher. Warmth returned reluctantly, struggling to penetrate through the layers of icy armour encasing his body. The lad closed his eyes, focused on breathing—even, deep. Gradually the negative effects began to fade. First the fourth stack, then the third.

  The storm outside didn't abate. On the contrary—it intensified. No longer simply howling, but roaring, as though the mountain itself groaned beneath the elements' onslaught. The lad listened—wind struck the slopes with redoubled force, snow flew in a solid wall through which nothing could be discerned.

  "Tomorrow we won't move anywhere," he understood calmly.

  And he didn't wake the others. Let them rest. Meditation had restored his strength almost completely—Vigour had returned, hunger had receded after supper, fatigue had dissipated. He could stand watch until dawn without consequences.

  So he did.

  All night the lad alternated watch at the entrance with returns to the fire. He maintained the blaze, added firewood, ensured the heat didn't die. Several times he went outside to check the situation—the storm wouldn't relent, continued raging with its former fury. Rayan still hadn't returned, but Ayan didn't worry—the pet could look after itself.

  Nor did he forget Zhuldyz, covering her with another blanket. The mare slept standing, but opening her eyes, as though thanking him for the care, shifted her hind legs into readiness to kick anyone who crept close, and continued sleeping.

  When the first grey glimmers of dawn began breaking through the blizzard's veil, the lad retrieved supplies from the Seal and set about cooking. The pot hung above the fire, water boiled, the smell of porridge with meat and herbs filled the air.

  Orgatai stirred first, opening one eye, sniffing.

  "Already morning? Why didn't you wake me?"

  "Already," Ayan answered curtly, stirring the pot's contents. "The storm hasn't let up. We won't be going anywhere today."

  The old orc rose with a groan, stretched, approached the fire and sat nearby, extending his hands to the warmth.

  "So we'll be delayed," he muttered without a shadow of displeasure. "An extra day's no trouble. Main thing—stay alive."

  Ainur and Yernazar also began waking.

  After a hearty breakfast, the girl decided to exchange anger for mercy, and approaching the lad asked whether the cart would fit in his Seal whole.

  Ayan himself was curious to test this new method of transfer on such a large object. Approaching close and grasping the side—otherwise the inventory wouldn't interact with objects—the lad verified that nothing remained lying in the cart.

  Transfer to the ring occurred instantly. One moment the cart stood by the stone wall, the next it was gone. Not allowing the overload to reduce his vigour, the lad sent the cart, which occupied only one ring slot, into the Seal.

  Repeating everything in reverse order, then placing it in the Seal once more, they nodded to each other with satisfaction, smiling at their discovery.

  Ayan suggested everyone unload their food supplies, household items and other unnecessary objects to lighten the others' burdens. It cost him nothing to carry their things.

  The girl standing closest needed no second invitation and enthusiastically began laying out various items on the stone floor. Everything from needles and thread to wolf pelts.

  The others followed her example. Yernazar also had pelts. He and Ainur had often hunted whilst Ayan had remained stuck in the cave. They handled processing themselves, and judging by appearances, the girl managed it far better than the youth.

  With the cart's disappearance and other surplus items, space in their shelter increased noticeably, and Orgatai, disliking wasting time pointlessly, organised training for the youngsters whilst he himself set about preparing dinner.

  Yernazar and Ainur drilled attack combinations with spears—straight thrusts, lateral turns, parrying imaginary strikes. The youth tried hard, but the girl moved more confidently, more precisely. Ayan held a wooden sword in his hands and repeated movements honed to automatism. No complex manoeuvres—only basics. Stance, step, strike. Again. And again.

  The fire crackled. Wind howled beyond the wall. Training proceeded in silence, without unnecessary words.

  After three hours Orgatai clapped his hands.

  "Enough."

  The youngsters stopped, breathing heavily. The old man was already bustling by the fire, kneading dough in a small wooden bowl. Ainur sat beside him, wiping sweat from her brow with the back of her palm. Yernazar squatted down, working his shoulders.

  Ayan set aside the sword and joined the others.

  The old man rolled out flatbreads directly on a flat stone heated by the fire's edge. Dough hissed, covering itself with golden spots. The smell that rose was simple, coarse—flour, water, a pinch of salt. In the pot bubbled meat the old man had retrieved from supplies that morning.

  When everything was ready, he silently laid out the flatbreads on a wide wooden board and ladled meat into bowls.

  "Eat," he tossed out curtly.

  The youngsters set to. Flatbreads crunched between their teeth, meat was tough but filling. No one complained. Silence reigned in the cave, broken only by chewing and the rustle of firewood.

  When the bowls were empty, Orgatai wiped his hands first, passed a small towel to Ayan and nodded towards their improvised bedding.

  "Rest for half an hour. Then you'll begin sparring."

  Finishing tidying, the youngsters followed the old man's words. Ainur stretched out on the blanket, arms flung behind her head. Yernazar leant back against the wall, closing his eyes. Ayan sat cross-legged and exhaled.

  Precisely at this moment something pricked at him. His pet still hadn't returned. He frowned and mentally summoned Rayan's status window.

  [Status: dead

  Resurrection in: 21:17:42.]

  Ayan stared at the numbers. The timer counted down seconds. Twenty-one hours. This meant Rayan had died nearly three hours ago.

  He quickly checked the event log. There was indeed a record—a dim line, right at the beginning.

  [Your pet has died.]

  Nothing more. No details, no circumstances.

  The lad silently changed settings—now in case of pet death, text would appear in large letters at the centre of vision, not hiding in the log.

  He exhaled and raised his gaze.

  "Rayan's dead," he said quietly, but loud enough for everyone to hear.

  Ainur's eyes flew open instantly and she raised herself on one elbow.

  "What?"

  "Three hours ago," Ayan nodded to himself. "Someone killed him."

  Yernazar frowned, Orgatai turned his head, squinting.

  "When?" The old man asked.

  "The timer shows twenty-one hours until resurrection. The system notified me—I just didn't notice immediately."

  The girl sat up, clenching her fists on her knees.

  "Who could've...?"

  Ayan shook his head.

  "Unknown. The log gives no details. But someone definitely killed him."

  "Yesterday I let him go and he dived into that wall." Approaching, Ayan indicated the spot where Rayan had vanished.

  "This isn't good... This place isn't called the Weeping Gorge for nothing..." Orgatai fell silent and became thoughtful, staring at the fire.

  "Why is it called that?" His granddaughter couldn't bear it.

  "My grandfather told me, and his grandfather told him, who heard this story from his grandfather...

  When the ogres first descended from the northern passes, the surrounding auls raised a militia so swiftly that the dust from horses' hooves hadn't settled yet. The warriors went forth to meet the enemy, and the women, children and elders—all who couldn't bear arms—were sent to a hidden cave lost in the mountains. The place was considered safe: one entrance, a narrow passage, walls of solid stone, a water source. An ideal refuge.

  But one ogre detachment, small, predatory, as though trained to hunt the weak, tracked them using unholy magic. They dared not engage the fugitives in open battle, so great was their fear of Torki women and elders.

  And so they chose another path.

  The ogres brought their black mages, the true scourge of all the ogres' sentient neighbours. Those dark sorcerers called upon their unholy powers, and the rocks themselves closed like giant teeth. The cave passage was sealed in an instant, as though it had never existed.

  The warriors, having driven off the invasion, realised too late. They found only a smooth monolith in which could still be felt faint, seemingly human warmth. They said if you pressed your ear to the stone that day, you could hear pounding fists, screams... and the final echo of those who'd awaited salvation.

  The stone, saturated with dark magic, yielded to neither shamans nor pickaxes nor fury. All attempts to rescue kin proved futile. And only the weeping of the living outside and the dying within echoed through the cliffs.

  Since then this pass has been called the Weeping Gorge.

  And the place where we've taken shelter—possibly that very cave..."

  Orgatai spoke monotonously, occasionally stirring the embers in the fire, and the youngsters listened to him with bated breath. When he finished and exhaled heavily, falling silent, Ayan jerked sharply.

  At this moment system text appeared before him.

  [Attention! You have been offered a quest: "Weeping Behind the Stone Wall"

  Rank: S

  Objective: Find the cave of which Orgatai told you and stop the weeping

  Description:

  "The unquiet souls of the innocently slain still cry out for help from behind the stone wall that sealed them in the cave. They desperately desire to find long-awaited peace and complete their earthly path, but the terrible, agonising fate and flagrant injustice of their deaths won't let them pass into oblivion. Help these sufferers, ceasing their eternal weeping that echoes through the mountain valleys. Let the tormented souls at last ascend into the Cycle, where they may find deserved release from endless torments."

  Reward:

  — Increased reputation with all Torks settlements

  — Experience: 7500 points

  Do you accept the quest?

  Yes/No]

  Ayan froze for a moment, still gazing into the emptiness before him where glowed lines of system text, visible only to him. Finally, he slowly, barely audibly, almost unconsciously whispered: "I've... I've been offered a quest..."

  His voice sounded so quiet, as though he feared disturbing the heavy silence that had descended on the cave after Orgatai's tale. But despite the muffled sound, every word carried distinctly to the others. All three—the old warrior, the young shaman and the girl—instantly turned to him. Three pairs of eyes bored into Ayan with mute expectation, demanding continuation.

  The lad shuddered inside from those gazes. There was something in them impossible to clothe in words. Hope—burning, almost desperate. Demand—silent but inexorable. Expectation—heavy, pressing on his shoulders with invisible weight. He realised with piercing clarity: should he disappoint these expectations now, none of them would look his way again. Wouldn't extend a hand. Wouldn't sit round the same fire.

  Stolen story; please report.

  Ayan swallowed, feeling his throat tighten from sudden tension. Then, gathering all his will, he nodded to himself and spoke aloud firmly. "I've accepted it."

  A unified exhalation of relief and joy followed. Then the three exchanged glances and felt ashamed they'd pressed Nullus so hard, leaving him no choice. They tried to say something, beginning to speak simultaneously, but it only made things worse.

  The lad understood their feelings and smiled.

  "It's fine, I wanted to myself."

  Next he read them the quest text aloud twice.

  "Create a group and add them. You'll go together." Judging by the tone, the lad understood the old warrior wanted them to begin executing the quest right now.

  However, Ayan didn't delay and followed Orgatai's words. As soon as all those invited had been added, the lad sent a request to the experienced orc too, but he refused and instead advised sharing the quest with the others.

  After accepting it, Ainur and Yernazar double-checked it, but found no differences except for the reward experience.

  "Whilst we're waiting for Rayan's resurrection, examine all the walls carefully. Perhaps someone will notice something..." On the final words the old man looked so meaningfully at Ayan that the lad understood exactly who should search most diligently.

  The youngsters bolted as though on command. Yernazar was first to rush to the nearest wall and began feeling it with his palms, running fingers across every crack, every irregularity. Ainur dashed to the opposite side, tilting her head and literally pressing her ear to the cold stone. She would freeze, then move on, as though trying to catch an elusive sound. Orgatai himself also unhurriedly walked along the far wall, tapping it with his staff, listening to the dull echo of stone.

  Ayan, however, instead of joining the general examination, silently approached the spot where Rayan had last vanished from sight. He lowered himself to the floor, crossed his legs and closed his eyes. His breathing slowed, became almost imperceptible. He sank into the sphere of perception, expanding the boundaries of awareness, listening not with ears but with something deeper—that which caught the very essence of the surrounding world.

  The cave came alive before his inner vision. Every drop of water trickling down the wall. Every breath of fire in the hearth. Every rustle of fabric. Sounds became voluminous, multi-layered, filled with meaning that had previously slipped past.

  Minutes dragged slowly.

  Yernazar rustled about in his clothing, moving from one wall to another. Ainur tramped across the stone floor in bare feet. Her voice carried, muffled:

  "Nothing here... Maybe try there...?"

  "Maybe we need to tap? Ata, what about a hammer?"

  Ayan winced. The noise shattered concentration, broke the thin thread he was trying to find. He clenched his teeth, tried to shut out the voices—and then Orgatai clapped his hands sharply.

  "Quiet, both of you. Sit. Don't move. Don't breathe."

  Voices fell silent at once. Ainur's disgruntled snort sounded, then rustling—she lowered herself to the floor. Yernazar followed her example. Silence descended on the cave like a heavy blanket.

  The lad exhaled, immersing himself again. Deeper. Even deeper. The sphere of perception expanded to its limit, catching every vibration, every inaudible whisper of stone.

  And then he heard it.

  At first—like an echo, so distant it seemed unreal. Then—clearer. More distinct. A sound that froze everything inside.

  Weeping.

  Not one voice. Hundreds. Thousands of voices, woven into a single, hollow, agonising chorus. Lamentations, ragged, as though souls couldn't agree who should cry first. Distant, drawn-out wails that were born somewhere in the depths of stone and stuck in the rocky mass, finding no exit.

  Children's voices—thin, piercing, breaking off mid-word.

  Women's—furious, demanding, cursing.

  The aged—broken, full of despair, powerless.

  Everything merged, mixed, beat against the walls of an invisible prison. Ayan heard someone scratching at stone. Someone pounding fists against the wall. Someone's voice calling a name—once, twice, thrice, until it grew hoarse and broke off completely.

  He choked.

  Air wouldn't enter his chest. Cold crept up his spine, twisted his innards, pressed him into the floor with invisible weight. The sphere of perception pulsed, absorbing all this suffering, all the pain that had festered in stone for centuries.

  Ayan parted his lips, trying to inhale, but instead of air sound flooded his lungs—weeping, screams, lamentations—and he drowned in them.

  His palms trembled. Fingers clutched at his knees.

  And the voices continued. Without stopping. Without mercy. Like a curse that knew no peace.

  Ayan didn't remember how he exhaled. Didn't remember how he unclenched his teeth, which had bitten into his lower lip till it bled. He only remembered—he flung open his eyes and the first thing he saw: three faces frozen centimetres from him.

  Orgatai loomed on the right, a heavy palm settling on his shoulder. Yernazar crouched on the left, pressing glowing hands to him. Ainur froze directly before him, amber eyes wide, within them—fear mixed with greedy, sharp expectation.

  "Did you find it?" The girl's voice sounded too loud after the silence into which Ayan had fallen. He flinched.

  The lad tried to swallow, but his throat had dried. He nodded. Slowly. Heavily.

  "Yes," he forced out hoarsely. "I hear them."

  The healer exhaled sharply, as though he'd been struck in the chest. The girl recoiled, covering her mouth with her palm. Orgatai squeezed his fingers on the lad's shoulder more tightly—not painfully, but noticeably, like an anchor keeping him in reality.

  "Where?" The old man asked curtly, without unnecessary words.

  Ayan raised a trembling hand and jabbed a finger at the wall—there, where Rayan had disappeared the day before. The stone looked ordinary. Grey. Unremarkable. The same as all the rest of the surrounding rock.

  "Here," he whispered. "Right here. They're... they're there. Behind this wall."

  Yernazar leapt up first, darted to the indicated spot and pressed his ear to the stone. Froze. Listened. One second. Two. Ten. Then slowly shook his head.

  "I hear nothing."

  Ainur approached next, repeated his actions. Also listened. Also nothing.

  "Neither do I."

  Orgatai didn't move. Continued looking at Ayan with a heavy, piercing gaze. Then slowly unclenched his fingers on his shoulder and nodded.

  "So only you," he stated simply. "The Sky grants you to hear what's inaccessible to others."

  The lad didn't answer. Simply sat, still feeling the echo of those voices vibrating inside his skull, refusing to release him.

  The old man rose, approached the wall and laid his palm on the stone. Stood like that. Then turned back.

  "We can't break through," he said confidently. "Dark magic still holds. If the stone could be breached physically—our ancestors would have done it immediately."

  "Rayan somehow managed; perhaps we should wait for his resurrection before trying anything...?"

  "We've no other choice anyway. Whilst we wait, drill your group coordination." Finishing the phrase, Orgatai retrieved a potion from his ring and drank it to the dregs.

  His appearance transformed instantly—it seemed the very years retreated before the potion's power. Stooped shoulders straightened with the dull crunch of joints, bent back straightened like a drawn bowstring, and in the formerly weary gaze flared a predatory, almost bestial gleam. Wrinkles on his face didn't disappear, grey in hair and moustache remained unchanged, but all this now only emphasised the danger emanating from the old warrior. This was no longer a broken old man with a staff—this was a battle master in the prime of physical strength.

  Following the emptied vial, two training axes materialised in his massive palms—their blades were blunted, but weight and balance remained combat-ready. And before the youngsters could blink, Orgatai launched himself at them in a swift charge that made the cave floor tremble beneath his heavy steps.

  The only one who managed to react to the sudden start of training was Ayan. Instinct took over—his thoughts darted to the storage ring, snatching from it a shield and akinak almost simultaneously. Metal barely touched his palms when the lad was already raising his defence, meeting the instructor's first blow with the crash of colliding surfaces.

  Having engaged the old warrior in a short, furious exchange of blows, he gave Ainur and Yernazar precious seconds to prepare. True, the lad emerged from this clinch far from victorious—he limped on his left leg, where beneath the skin a massive bruise already bloomed dark from a blow by the axe handle, and his right arm hung limp along his body, still not having recovered after blocking a blow that had nearly wrenched his elbow joint.

  "What use is knowing the trajectory of his strikes if I simply can't keep up with the speed of his movements?" For the umpteenth time the lad thought bitterly, retreating backwards and trying to restore his breathing, confronting the unbridgeable chasm between knowledge and the ability to apply that knowledge in real battle against an old, experienced warrior.

  Yernazar, who'd been observing the swift skirmish from the side all this time, not losing a second dashed to his comrade. Standing behind Ayan and placing both palms on his shoulders, the young baksy summoned Ether—his hands were enveloped in a soft greenish glow that immediately flowed into the wounded man's body, healing and restoring damaged muscles and ligaments.

  Feeling the pain recede and strength return to numbed limbs, Ayan nodded gratefully to the healer and once more resolutely hurled himself at the old man, trying to join Ainur's swift, furious attack—she'd already snatched out her weapon and was now pressing her grandfather, attempting to break through his iron defence.

  But alas, nothing worthwhile came of their joint attempt—Orgatai, as though playing, unleashed on both a barrage of swift strikes that they barely managed to block and parry. And then, taking advantage of a single moment's confusion from the students, the old warrior with powerful sweeping blows simply scattered them to opposite sides of the cave like rag dolls. And not giving their group even a chance to continue the fight, Orgatai wheeled with his entire massive body and set upon Yernazar, who was desperately trying to reach Ayan.

  The lad tried to raise his shield before him in a pitiful attempt at defence, but the heavy axe didn't even notice this flimsy obstacle. It swept aside the youth's defence with ease and with a dull, meaty sound bit into his broad chest, incidentally mercilessly breaking two ribs with a characteristic crunch.

  The ginger-haired orc collapsed onto his back with a pained groan, pressing his hands to his chest and breathing heavily, raggedly.

  "Three minutes to recover!" Orgatai announced commandingly, stepping back several paces and lowering his axes.

  The instructor didn't waste a single moment of the two-hour positive effect gained from the potion. As though wishing to squeeze absolutely everything to the last drop from this precious temporal window, the old warrior mercilessly drove his exhausted students again and again, giving them no respite longer than a few brief minutes. He forced them to attack, defend, dodge, parry his merciless strikes—again and again, until their bodies stopped obeying and their hands began trembling from unbearable strain.

  When they'd finally finished, all the youngsters lay sprawled across the cave's cold stone floor, unable to find strength even to get on all fours, let alone rise to their full height. Their bodies literally burnt with pain, muscles refused to obey, and breathing came in ragged, broken gasps.

  Orgatai himself felt incredible weariness and deep, all-consuming weakness spreading through his veins. Such intensive, unnatural acceleration of his own organism never passed without trace. His old body, worn by time and injuries, demanded its due, insistently reminding him of the price that had to be paid for each minute of temporary might.

  Supper proved surprisingly modest and simple—none of those present found in themselves either the physical or mental strength to set about preparing a proper hot meal.

  Ordering his exhausted but obedient students to set up wooden targets at some distance and begin drilling archery technique, the instructor, entirely unembarrassed and paying no attention to the indignant, silently reproachful glances cast his way, lowered himself heavily onto spread blankets and almost instantly sank into deep, healing sleep. His massive body demanded rest after such exhausting training and artificial acceleration of his organism.

  The young orcs had absolutely nothing left but to obediently follow the received order, despite their own weariness and desire to sit down, if only briefly.

  Waking approximately three hours later, the experienced orc needed only to glance at his charges—at their tense postures, sweat-dampened faces, hands trembling from fatigue yet still firmly gripping their bows—to understand unerringly: they'd truly trained conscientiously all this allotted time, not sparing themselves, not allowing themselves to relax even for an instant.

  However, the observant warrior also immediately noticed their mental, inner state had begun fluctuating again, like a candle flame in a draught. Anxiety, worry and fear of the unknown were slowly but steadily seeping into their hearts.

  And Orgatai understood them perfectly, to painful detail—ahead of the young warriors awaited a frightening unknown, mysterious and potentially mortally dangerous, which they'd have to explore and comprehend entirely independently, without his guidance and protection.

  The old orc would have gone with them on this risky journey with enormous joy and without the slightest hesitation, shielding them with his experience and strength, but he understood perfectly well—in that case, all chances of successfully escaping from the potential temporal loop would disappear almost completely and definitively. But this way, if they went alone, perhaps—only perhaps—they'd manage on their own and find the way out.

  But now, in this specific moment, he again decided mercilessly to dispel all anxious, distracting thoughts from their young heads by the only method he knew.

  The youngsters noticed the instructor's awakening and even managed to think they were in for deserved rest. True, all joy fled their faces the moment they saw the old man retrieve a new potion and begin drinking it.

  Ayan reacted first again, and not waiting for attack, began shooting at the old man at all available speed.

  The old man transformed into a swift shadow and in the next instant, his axe severed the lad's kneecap.

  Pain flared in his head with such force that he thought of nothing else.

  Ainur emerged from combat with both arms broken, and Yernazar got off with three bruises. After all, he still had to restore the wounded.

  "Three minutes to recover!" This phrase drowned out Ayan's groans and the girl's weeping. No one intended to give them concessions. And they understood this clearly.

  The healer lowered himself beside Ayan, hands trembling from fatigue. Green radiance flared weaker than usual—mana reserves melted with each new healing.

  "Bear it," he tossed out curtly, pressing his palms to the crippled legs.

  The lad clenched his teeth till they crunched, feeling bones knitting, arranging themselves into the correct form. Each second of the process resonated with a pulsing wave of pain.

  Ainur sat apart, pressing her elbows to her chest and breathing noisily through her nose. Tears had dried on her cheeks in dirty tracks, but new ones didn't flow. Her gaze had stopped, empty, focused on something invisible within.

  "Kyzym," Orgatai called to her quietly.

  The girl jerked as though from a blow and raised her eyes to her grandfather.

  "Rise."

  She obeyed, slowly getting to her feet, bracing herself against the wall. Her arms hung along her body like dead weight.

  The old man approached, stopped before her. The axes vanished into the storage ring. Massive palms settled on her shoulders—not painfully, but firmly.

  "You wept."

  Not a question. A statement of fact.

  "Yes," Ainur exhaled hoarsely.

  "Good."

  She blinked, incomprehension flickering in her eyes.

  "Pain teaches," Orgatai continued calmly. "Fear too. But tears—that's a choice. You can shed them and remain weak. Or accept the lesson and become stronger."

  Fingers squeezed on her shoulders.

  "What do you choose?"

  The girl swallowed the lump in her throat, fresh waves of pain coursing down her arms. She straightened her back as far as her broken arms allowed.

  "Stronger," she whispered. Then louder: "Stronger, ata."

  The old man nodded and released her.

  "Nazar, mend my granddaughter."

  He'd already finished with Ayan and moved to the girl. The lad tried to stand; his leg held. Limping, he approached the targets and picked up the bow that had fallen from his hands during the attack.

  "Two minutes," Orgatai pronounced, looking at all three of them.

  Yernazar finished with Ainur more quickly—the fractures proved clean, without displacement. The girl worked her fingers, clenching and unclenching her fists, checking the mobility of her joints.

  The young baksy lowered himself onto the blankets, closed his eyes and tried to restore at least some of his depleted reserves. He didn't heal his own bruises. Ether responded sluggishly, as though through a thickness of water.

  "Time," the instructor announced exactly after the allotted period.

  This time Ayan and Ainur moved in sync. The lad loosed an arrow, aiming for the chest—the girl lunged sideways, trying to get round the flank.

  Orgatai deflected the shaft of her spear with his axe and stepped towards his granddaughter's attack. She managed to block with her shield, but the blow hurled her back three metres. Landing on her back knocked all air from her lungs.

  The lad was already drawing his bowstring. He shot. Missed—the old man ducked, and the arrow whistled overhead. The next blow caught Ayan in the solar plexus with the handle. He doubled over, trying to breathe.

  Ainur leapt up, ignoring pain in her ribs. She swung. Orgatai parried almost lazily, turned his axe and struck flat against her thigh. Her leg buckled. The girl collapsed to one knee.

  "You're moving separately," the old man tossed out, retreating. "Each on your own. Where's the coordination?"

  Yernazar rose, retrieved his staff. Dashed to his comrades. The glow on his hands flared weaker than before—barely visible.

  "Low on mana," he admitted hoarsely, healing bruises.

  "Then conserve him," the instructor answered harshly. "In a real fight no one will give you a breather to recover."

  The next attack began before they'd managed to prepare. Orgatai descended on the healer first—he barely managed to raise his staff. The axe blow split the shaft in half. The next knocked him off his feet.

  Ayan and Ainur attacked simultaneously, trying to draw attention. Useless. The old man wheeled, blocked his granddaughter's sword with one axe, deflected the lad's sword with the second. He counter-attacked—Ainur flew aside with a broken wrist. Ayan took a blow to the jaw and lost consciousness for several seconds.

  When he came to, Orgatai already stood over all three of them, breathing heavily.

  "Three minutes," he announced hollowly.

  Yernazar didn't move. Lay on his back, gazing at the cave's stone ceiling. His hands barely stirred.

  "I can't," he whispered. "Completely empty."

  The instructor silently retrieved from his ring a small vial with blue liquid and tossed it to the healer.

  "Drink."

  When the potion's effect expired, Ayan, as had his comrades half an hour earlier, fell asleep instantly. Directly on the cold stone, unable even to speak a word.

  Orgatai, having recovered somewhat, moved them all to their sleeping places and covered them warmly. Ayan had made him exert himself fully. No surprise—after all, the old man knew that in characteristics the lad equalled an eightieth-level fighter.

  At first, this pace of characteristic accumulation had seriously frightened him, but at some point their growth had completely stopped. One parameter after another, halting in development upon reaching a certain limit. The lad didn't share what was happening with anyone; possibly Zhalgaztur knew more, but didn't hasten to share it with the old orc.

  However, no strength remained for pondering the lad's oddities. He hadn't felt this shattered and helpless in a long time. But overcoming weakness, he rose.

  "How are you, my dear? Hungry?" He patted Zhuldyz's croup.

  She snorted in reply and turned away from him.

  "Don't turn your nose up; she asked to be taught herself. I know no other way and won't!" He justified himself before the mare.

  "You were there when the baksy revealed her future to me. How can I show weakness?" Whispering in Zhuldyz's ear, he was calming his own nerves. No one could imagine what he had to step over each time, crippling his own granddaughter.

  The only living being remaining to him. After all, he remembered how he'd first taken her in his arms, how she'd first begun crawling, and then to universal joy, walking.

  What a celebration he'd thrown then. For the ceremony of cutting the hobbles, tausau kesu, the entire aul had gathered. And how proud he'd been when Ainur, waddling comically, had reached the end of the white tablecloth and chosen the bow. In those distant days he'd wished with all his heart for her to grow into a true warrior.

  Yes, to this very moment, he cursed himself for it. In that second, joy had clouded his reason, and he'd forgotten the main thing. One should always fear one's wishes.

  "Forgive this old fool..." Pressing his forehead to her head, he looked into the animal's understanding eyes. Ashamed of his sentimentality, Orgatai added. "Otherwise I'll turn you into shuzhyk!"

  Zhuldyz merely snorted contemptuously, not even glancing at the finger he wagged at her.

  Thoughts of boiled sausage made his stomach rumble in displeasure. Retrieving dried meat, he began unhurriedly chewing it, glancing at the sleepers. When sleep overcame his mind, the orc never knew.