Бесплатный фрагмент - The Five Prophecies

A Few Words from the Author to My English-Speaking Readers

Dear friends,

Before you lies a book that marks the beginning of an entire fantasy cycle, set in the vast fictional world of Atvan — a world where magic is commonplace, dragons are intelligent beings (though many of the world’s inhabitants doubt this), and dragon riders are legendary heroes and guardians of peace. A world with a deep, ancient history, where — much like in our own reality — the events of the past echo into the present, shaping its destiny.

As a writer who originally crafted this story in Russian, I was determined to translate it into English while preserving the beauty and richness of the original language, carefully selecting fitting synonyms and expressions. After all, my own introduction to many global legends and literary masterpieces began with translated texts — though, sadly, not all of those translations did justice to the originals.

English is not my native language, and while I speak it at a decent conversational level, I relied on translation tools, painstakingly checked every chapter with a dictionary, and consulted friends more fluent than myself (to whom I owe immense gratitude!).

For your convenience — and in case you encounter unfamiliar terms while reading (remember, this is a well-established world, with its own meticulously crafted languages, cultures, and lore) — I’ve included a glossary at the end of the book. Feel free to refer to it whenever you need clarification on meaning or pronunciation.

Wishing you a delightful immersion into the vast, story-rich world of Atvan!

The Five Prophecies
Prologue

The twilight gloom flooded the cramped interior of the small study, and the frail light of a single candle could do little to dispel it. The master of this sanctuary — cluttered with inkwells, quills, scribbled notebooks, and scrolls — flung the window wide open, letting in the fresh summer wind. It carried the fragrance of a dozen aromatic herbs, especially potent now, in the final hours of the smoldering crimson dusk. He inhaled deeply — honey and river mist.

Deeming the lone candle insufficient, he lit several more. A drowsy moth fluttered in through the window, whirled in a clumsy dance, then darted away, swatted back from the lethal flame by a wave of his hand. Now, at last, he could settle into the calm, deliberate work he had postponed for far too long.

The book lay ready; the inkwell and quill awaited their hour. How long can I keep delaying? «I must write this all down. I have no right to leave it confined to my mind alone.»

With a deep sigh, he smoothed his disheveled black locks — tousled by the wind — and finally took up the quill, dipping its sharpened tip into the inkwell. He wrote swiftly yet unhurriedly, his hand moving with the ease of a scholar who had filled countless parchments in his lifetime. As for the words — ah, he had long pondered each one, and now they flowed from his pen without stumble or pause.

Neat, compact script spilled across the smooth surface — ink curling into elegant lines, weaving words, and those words into a story… no, into a life.

Occasionally, he paused.

«…It is difficult to grasp the subtleties of the game played by the Gods and spirits we call Ayulan, the Lords of Elements. Harder still to interpret them rightly, and nearly impossible to later explain these interpretations to common folk. Our world has become the stage for many mysterious, grand, and terrible events — events that matter not only to us, who dwell here from the moment of our birth.

What is the sea? What is the land, and what is the air above us? What is fire — and is the flame in a hearth the same as the fire that blazes in the sky and is called the Sun, if both are ruled by Ayulan Aytir? There is an answer — but few know it, very few.

Yet to learn the will of the sea, one need not spend years bent over scholarly treatises, dissecting the essence of things.

Sometimes, it is enough to recklessly wish — just once — to know more than you were meant to.

And that is where I shall begin my tale…»

Chapter 1. Rudolf the Lucky

The sea had shown no mercy to the ship.

The storm had struck suddenly — as if conjured from nothingness. All night, the captain and his crew had fought to tame the fury of the elements, but Aymira, Mistress of Salt and Waves, proved far more capricious. After toying with the vessel like a child’s ball, she hurled it onto the jagged shore, just as a petulant brat discards a forgotten plaything. Another wave surged, smashing the hull against the rocks and scattering crew and passengers across the beach. Alas, as I later learned, I alone survived. Whether by sheer luck or the fleeting mercy of the Lady of Storms, I could not say.

Nor could I recall how I had survived. At first, I thought only the ill-fated voyage had slipped my mind. But when I awoke, only a single word echoed in my skull:

Rudolf.

My name? Or another’s? The ship’s title? No — it was unmistakably a name. My whole life had flashed before me in that storm, then vanished with the sea’s whimsical sovereign, leaving behind only this half-familiar whisper: Rudolf.

What had the sea stolen from me, if it spared my life? I strained to dredge up some fragment of the past. Nothing surfaced — save for the barest shards of childhood: the first time I’d successfully conjured a flame, the first training sword blow I’d failed to block (a phantom twinge flared in my ribs). Who I was, where I’d sailed from, the ship’s name — all gone. Then it struck me:

Where in the blazes am I?

The shore that had claimed me was foreign — or so I assumed, for I recognized none of it. Bushes, stunted trees in the distance, sand and stone… Hm. With effort, I recalled that those shrubs were gorse, the thorny tangles beyond, wild roses — their autumn berries tart but edible. The trees, too, had names: pines, oaks, willows… I knew them all. Not all was lost, then. The sea, the sky, the earth, the names of things — these remained. But nothing more.

The futile struggle to remember sent a dull roar through my skull, worsened by thirst and the ache in my side — likely a cracked rib. My mouth tasted of salt and bitterness, parched as sand, though I’d surely spent hours in the water. Collapsing onto my back, I tried to steady my breath. My temples pulsed as if cavalry charged through my veins.

Except… the hoofbeats weren’t imagined. Riders were approaching the wreck — four of them.

One dismounted as his steed halted beside the nearest body — mine.

«Praise Ayulan! A survivor!» His voice was jarringly bright, sharpening the agony in my head. For the first time, I regretted living.

The noisy rider hauled me upright.

«Water,» I rasped, startled by the unfamiliar timbre of my own voice. He unhooked a ceramic flask, bound in twisted leather, and thrust it at me. Water. Fresh water. At that moment, it seemed the gods’ greatest gift — even if they’d tried to drown me hours before.

The other riders scoured the wreck for more survivors. None were found.

«Your name?» my rescuer asked. I took another swallow — less from thirst (already fading) than to stall for time, hoping my memory would stir.

A name.

«Rudolf,» I croaked, for lack of anything better.

«I’d call you „Lucky,“» he said with a grim smirk, reclaiming the half-empty flask. «Seems you’re the only one. Can you ride?»

I shrugged. «I’ll try.»

He shook his head doubtfully.

«Don’t worry. My stomach’s empty after last night’s tossing,» I joked weakly.

The man laughed. «Jesting? Good. Means you’re alive.» He helped me stand and led me to his horse. «I’m Mengor, Captain of the Guard in D’Lagrena.»

«And where is «here’?» I asked — the day’s second vital question, after what’s my name?

«New Eten,» he replied, swinging into the saddle behind me. «Jewel of Marbod Mawkant and successor to Elphiz. You’re not from here, are you?»

The terror of that moment? I remembered none of it. Not a single name rang true — they might as well have been plucked from some bard’s fanciful tale. Though… Elphiz. Something flickered in my mind, too faint to grasp. Then, like lightning, another memory seared through me — so vivid it near split my skull.

The horrors of the year 665… no, the Third Dawn. A city I’d been in. News of an invasion. Two names surfaced: Kortuansk and Kraymore. Vast nations. I knew them. Yet where they lay on any map, I couldn’t say. Best not to press my rescuers.

«What happened to Elphiz?» I ventured instead.

«Gods, man — » Mengor muttered behind me as the riders regrouped. «Did you fall from the sky?»

«Washed ashore,» I thought but held my tongue.

«Can’t you see he’s addled?» cut in the second rider, drawing abreast.

«Burned to ash, like Kraymore. Hell, like every city left standing. War, brother. Ergesennallo’s scorched earth. No travelers, no news for months. Only the backwaters of Kraymore might still hold — but that’s a matter of time before the demon reaches them too.»

I digested this. Ergesennallo. The name tugged at some buried knowledge, but I dared not pry further. Just then, the horse jolted, sending fresh pain through my skull — whether from the jostling or the effort to remember, I couldn’t tell.

As we rode, I studied my rescuers. They were like me — speaking the same tongue, sharing the same sharp, pale features: elongated jaws, light eyes shaped like almond kernels, and similar garb beneath their armor. Mengor even had my ink-straight black hair. No wonder they’d asked if I was a local. For a wild moment, I wondered: Am I coming home?

But the question echoed unanswered.

Soon, the city came into view.

To my eyes, it wasn’t particularly large — but it was old and solid. The houses, mostly two-story structures of pale stone, stretched upward, their brownish walls crowned with steep roofs and small second-floor balconies. The streets were surprisingly wide, lined with wild roses and cherry bushes, their greenery punctuated by rowan trees, plane trees, chestnuts, and maples. There was something unpretentious yet deeply familiar about this place — its austere simplicity, the rhythm of life measured and calm. The chestnuts and cherries, the gray and brown stone, the sharp rooftops — it wasn’t a small town, but it felt peaceful. Easy.

An old city…

I didn’t realize when my observation of the surroundings slipped into half-formed memories — or perhaps fantasies. I only snapped back when Mengor gripped my shoulder:

«Off you get, friend. We’re here.»

«Where?» I nearly asked, then decided I’d already embarrassed myself enough for one day. Even accounting for my condition — whether I’d been struck by falling rigging or dashed against the rocks — they surely weren’t obliged to endure my stupidity. Where? Likely the city guard’s headquarters: a time-darkened building, stern and imposing, flanked by twin turrets. Behind it clustered low structures — an armory, barracks, an infirmary…

And that’s where they took me first.

The infirmary was… an infirmary. I suspected they looked much the same the world over: pale linen, light curtains, the scent of herbs and soap, scrubbed floorboards, and the faint, clinging odor of recently cooked porridge. The healers — an elderly woman and a man of indeterminate (and likely not youthful) age — poked at my wounds, dosed me with potions, slathered salve on my cuts and bruises, and ordered me to sleep as long as I could and stay out of trouble. I obeyed. Pulling on the washed-out shirt they’d given me, I peeled off my sand-crusted clothes and burrowed under a nettle-wool blanket. Sleep, oddly, didn’t come at once.

The smell of wheat porridge haunted me — faint but persistent. Milky, surely. Salted, with herbs? Or dried apples and honey? I shifted restlessly. A strange sensation — half-nausea, half-ravenous hunger — churned in my gut. Unable to decide which, I buried my face in the pillow and finally slipped under.

When I woke — whether a full day or half had passed, I couldn’t tell — they brought me that very porridge and a drink of rosehip, honey, and red wine. The porridge was cold, salted with cheese and cinnamon. The drink, near-scalding.

I devoured both.

While I’d slept, they’d tightly bound my ribs — so, broken after all. Otherwise, I felt surprisingly whole.

No sooner had I finished than news came:

«Hey, Lucky! You, the shipwrecked one! The guard captain wants a word. Mengor’s here to fetch you — coming?» The speaker was the healers’ boy — Jean, or some such — leaning through the doorway.

«Coming,» I said. It seemed fate had handed me a new name.

Jean returned my clothes — cleaned and hastily mended, but I still looked like a beggar. Dressed, I stepped onto the porch. Mengor stood waiting, polished and professional. I joked that I might join the guard just for the uniform. To my surprise, he shrugged amiably:

«Why not? Can you handle a sword? A bow?»

«I can,» I said, startled to realize it was true. «A spear, too. Even a twin-blade. Anything else… I’d need to learn.»

Mengor eyed me with something between surprise and approval, then nodded.

Not that I’d made any decisions. Why I’d blurted that about the guard, I couldn’t say. Had I lived here? Sword skill proved little. Still, my talk with the guard captain — Lord Galvan, who governed D’Lagrena alongside the city council — was disjointed. He dragged answers from me like a fisherman hauling salmon, one laborious pull at a time, before finally waving me off with a list of places to seek work if I stayed.

The options weren’t inspiring: a greengrocer needed help hauling produce, a merchant’s ledger required tallying, a tavern sought a bouncer… At first, I thought it didn’t matter. Then I realized — it did.

For days, I wandered aimlessly, acquainting myself with the city and the meager opportunities Lord Galvan had offered. The more I saw, the stronger that initial sense of familiarity grew. Had I lived here — or somewhere like it? Yet my memory remained stubbornly blank. Even the city’s name stirred nothing in me.

I spent two days in idle drifting, eating haphazardly (when I remembered to), and on the third, I returned to the guard.

The joke I’d made to Mengor hadn’t been a joke. For reasons I couldn’t name, he and Lord Galvan were the only ones who’d earned my trust. And truthfully? I had nowhere else to go. Worse — I didn’t want to leave. That unsettled me. Perhaps my apathy stemmed from lingering too long in the limbo between life and death, untethered, useless. If so… well, one more guardsman wouldn’t hurt. At least I could fight. And my ribs would heal — by the next moon, I’d shed the bandages. Then, even patrolling the highways for bandits would be better than idleness.

So I enlisted.

My tattered clothes were replaced with a uniform: a dark gray tunic, brown trousers, sturdy high boots, and a hooded cloak — half steel-blue, half deep indigo — with a wide, round mantle bearing the city’s heraldic chevron.

The next day, I reported for duty.

«Time to really get to know the city,» Captain Mengor quipped.

And so my acquaintance began — with a watch shift on the walls.

The walls of D’Lagrena rose like the ribs of an ancient fortress — the first stronghold built where the city now stood. They encircled the settlement like a shell around a nut, protecting it from more than just the northern winds. Built of solid gray stone, they stood tall and unyielding. New Eten wasn’t at war — not now, at least — but walls… walls were necessary. We were accustomed to threats. We could not live without fortifications.

And already, I found myself thinking we.

Though my memories were fractured, I felt it — this instinct, this understanding. Mengor and his men, Lord Galvan, even I — we were of one blood. Not just by race, but by the shared knowledge of why fortresses and blades existed. Swords, arrows, stone ramparts — these were as natural to us as breath. Had our people ever known peace? Had anyone in this world? The question might never have occurred to me, had my mind not been stripped bare.

Today, my watch partner was Tezvin — one of the guards who’d found me on the beach. He was friendly but quiet, this Tezvin, and though we’d later become a well-matched pair, for now, his face was only vaguely familiar. To him, I was clearly a curiosity.

Tez was dark-haired, shorter than me, and unremarkable at a glance — his expression calm to the point of sleepiness, his gaze seemingly unfocused, lips pressed in a neutral line. Yet there was nothing hostile in it. A scout’s face, I thought. Behind those half-lidded gray eyes lurked a focus sharp as talons.

«Storm’s brewing,» Tezvin squinted at the horizon. «That squall from the other day? It’s circling back.»

We stood atop the walls, watching the roads unwind like ribbons of sand beyond the city.

«Might’ve spent itself by now,» I offered.

«Hope so,» Tez shrugged. «But the thunder’s coming. Let’s just pray it doesn’t spit out another shipwreck. Few are as lucky as you, Lucky.»

I laughed. The nickname, tossed out by Mengor, had clearly stuck. I wasn’t thrilled, but I didn’t protest — perhaps fate knew better.

My eyes traced the landscape: the sky cradling its unborn tempest — deep blue at the horizon, piled with clouds where white and indigo clashed; the pale threads of roads cutting through meadows, fields, and groves; the orchards beyond the city, lush even now in early summer. Apple trees hunched under the weight of unripe fruit, while boys waved poles to shoo birds from the cherries. Market stalls brimmed with them — this was a bountiful year. Tattered cloths fluttered from the poles, as if to stretch the season’s generosity.

The world was beautiful. I stared like a man freed from decades in a dungeon. At the birds, the orchards, the roads, the distant smudge of the horizon—

«The road to Naran,» I pointed.

«Aye,» Tezvin agreed idly.

A heartbeat later, I nearly jolted upright.

I’d remembered. A name. A place.

«Wait — you remember?» Tezvin caught my sudden tension as I gripped the parapet, leaning far over the edge, as if the view could shake loose more shards of my past.

«I… don’t know. I didn’t know it was the road to Naran until I said it. But you confirmed it — so I do remember!» Elation surged.

«That’s something!» Tezvin grinned. «See? Told you — »

«But that’s all,» I cut in, frustration dousing the spark as my mind slammed shut again. «For example… what’s there? I don’t know.»

I gestured opposite the southern road — the one to Naran.

«Mountains?» I guessed.

«Right. The Askalon Range,» Tezvin nodded. «Told you!»

«I just reasoned it out. That’s where the cold wind’s been blowing from. Mountains belong in the north, don’t they?»

«If you’re from Eten, sure,» Tezvin said slowly. «Are you, Rudolf?»

«Do I seem it?»

«You do.»

«Maybe. I don’t remember childhood — not properly. But stolen apples and handfuls of autumn plums? That’s every boy’s rite, surely.»

Tezvin snorted.

«Not much to go on. Me, I had a dog — a huge black-and-tan brute with rusty brows. Called him Tangu…»

«No. No dog,» I said, oddly unsettled. The wind alone knew why.

We lapsed into silence until I spotted a cart on the distant road and rapped the copper plate embedded in the walkway with my spear’s butt. The gate guards below would be alerted. Just a trader — a farmer with early cabbages and other humble fare. He paid his toll, exchanged words, then drove on, but I found myself fixated on the mundane scene as if my life depended on deciphering it. The way the man nodded in his straw hat, how he gestured behind him — sharing news, perhaps — how one guard asked something, and the farmer shook his head.

Nothing stirred in my memory.

I sighed, gaze drifting back to the road to Naran. The mountains to the north — because if you’re from Eten, of course they’re there.

«Tezvin,» I said.

«Just Tez.»

«Tell me about your dog. Your childhood. The city. Or… anything. I know nothing except how to hit things with heavy objects.» I hefted my spear.

I was sick of feeling like a spy in what was, apparently, my own homeland. Time to fix that.

«About time,» Tez grinned and launched into his tale. I listened closely. This wouldn’t be our last watch together.

It’d be a long while before I walked the streets or walls alone. But when that day came, I’d know — without doubt — that I was Etenese.

This was my home.

And I’d returned.

I, Rudolf, was truly Lucky.

Chapter 2: «Do You Remember Me?»

D’Lagrena had, if not immediately, become my home — even if it had never been so before. I still couldn’t say for certain whether this ancient Etenese town was truly my birthplace, but everything about it felt right. The people, the customs, the work — it all came to me as naturally as breathing. I had friends now: Tez and Mengor, Ener and Nan, fellow guardsmen like myself.

I had everything, really — except a past.

No one remembered me. No one knew who Rudolf the swordsman was. No face in D’Lagrena, nor in the neighboring settlements I later visited, had ever seen mine before. At first, I asked often — Does anyone recognize me? My name? My face?

Eventually, I stopped. The answers never varied.

«The name sounds familiar, but we don’t have many Rudolfs here. If I’d known one, I’d remember.»

«Forgive me, guardsman, but I’d recall a face like yours. You’re not from Kortu, then?»

Nothing.

As for my appearance — well, I’d always thought myself unremarkable. But here, more than once, I’d been told I was memorable. Mengor himself confirmed it: «If you’d had kin or close friends here, they’d know you. And living in a city without making ties? Unlikely.»

The conclusion was obvious.

«Perhaps I was only planning to come here,» I said at last. «Well, I’ve arrived — just not as intended.»

The city embraced me not as the half-drowned amnesiac I’d been, but as the man I’d become within its walls: Guardsman Rudolf. Swordsman. Lover of old poetry. Loyal comrade. And, according to my friends, a true Lucky.

I buried my old clothes at the bottom of my garrison chest — useful only for roof repairs or dirty work. Cropped my hair to my shoulders, abandoning the braid I’d washed ashore with, and parted it to the side. The straight-cut style didn’t suit me much — not with the unromantic, puckered scar above my brow, a souvenir from the shipwreck. Ah well. Doesn’t hurt.

Most days, I wore my uniform. My wages bought little else — I had no hunger for possessions. Books, sometimes, when duty allowed. I accumulated few belongings but many acquaintances.

I came to know the city — not every alley, of course (that privilege belonged to lifelong residents), but well enough. Three moons had passed since the sea spat me onto Eten’s shores. Three moons! Some days, it felt like half a lifetime. But I never forgot the truth.

Summer waned. Wheat fields ripened to pale gold, and the orchards beyond the walls sagged under the weight of red-cheeked apples. Boys traded their bird-scaring poles for baskets, gathering windfalls for cider. Soon, the whole of Eten would celebrate its harvest.

I liked my new life.

Even on nights like tonight — long, tedious, and foul.

Don’t mistake D’Lagrena for some peaceful backwater. Every quiet pond has its snakes, and every road its predators: bandits, mercenaries fresh from the northern Askalon passes, sly Tkhabat swindlers… and, of course, our own homegrown thieves.

Tonight, I’d spent half the night chasing one such rat through the streets, finally cornering him just before the fog rolled in. Too weary to drag him before Lord Galvan myself, I’d handed him off to Tezvin and Ronan in the alleys. Now, all I wanted was to finish my patrol and collapse into bed.

The fog had other plans.

It clung thick as curdled milk, reducing the world to a ghostly haze. I could barely see my own outstretched hand when my boot struck something soft and heavy. The stench hit me — salt, iron, and the meaty reek of slaughter. Something glistened at my feet: a dark puddle, coiled ropes of offal steaming faintly.

Dead. And recently.

«A damned goat,» I muttered, easing my hand from my sword.

I meant to call for assistance, but a shrill scream cut through the fog first. Then running footsteps. My blade came up again—

But the threat was only a pair of terrified townsfolk: a boy and girl, barely more than teens.

«There! Guardsman — a head! Blood everywhere!»

I followed, listening to their stammering horror. The boy, at least, had the presence to point the way — a narrow side lane where their grisly discovery lay.

«A goat,» I said, nearly laughing with relief at the severed head on the cobbles. «Just a goat. Dogs must’ve dragged it from the carcass back there. Did you hear anything?»

«N-no, sir. Rudolf, right?» The boy recognized me. «We weren’t paying attention. I was walking Enora home when she — »

« — stepped in blood,» the girl finished, shuddering. «Then we saw the head and… ran.»

«Without realizing it was a goat’s,» I said, smiling kindly. «Let me see you home.»

The boy nodded, wisely not pretending bravery. I played the reassuring veteran, chuckling at their fright — but my thoughts were elsewhere.

What kind of dog tears apart a goat silently? Had I been so lost in thought that I’d missed the struggle? Either way, loose livestock and feral hounds were problems worth addressing.

I escorted them to their street, then lingered, listening. The fog muffled all but the creaks and sighs of the waking city. Yet something prickled at my nape — not fear, but an insistent, familiar unease. Like a straw scratching under my shirt, shifting from ribs to spine to the base of my skull. A tickle at the edge of thought, just beyond naming.

When I returned for the carcass, it was gone. Only the head remained, which I bagged — every guardsman carried a sack for night patrol. Just in case.

Come morning, I’d ask Mengor about rabid dogs. If they were prowling, we’d need to hunt them.

But as I trudged back to the garrison, one certainty nagged:

That feeling — the crawling disquiet — I’d known it before.

The «goat incident» had no sequel — not the next day, nor the one after. Mengor didn’t laugh at my concerns, but he made it clear I was overreacting. After praising me for catching the thief, he suggested I take a few nights off patrol, attributing my unease to exhaustion. As for the severed head, he examined it with a sigh before handing it back.

«Give it to the stewards — let them burn or bury it. Just a stray dog’s work. If it’s rabid, it’ll show itself soon enough, and we’ll put it down. No sense making a fuss over a goat. Folks here aren’t fools — they’ll handle it themselves.»

Tezvin and I still traced the goat to a neighbor of the household whose servants had disposed of the carcass. No one else had seen or heard anything.

I was ready to accept Mengor’s verdict — that I’d been overly suspicious. I was, at least. But that persistent straw of unease, still lodged at the base of my skull, refused to relent.

For three days, I dutifully avoided night shifts. I lounged on the walls, admiring the orchards and autumn-gilded meadows. I loitered at the market, crunching apples and cheese pies — vendors often «gifted» guards treats, hoping for preferential vigilance. Evenings were spent with friends, swapping gossip over wine — until the talk turned, again, to slaughtered livestock.

A dog gone missing here. A coop of chickens ravaged there. A gate gnawed to splinters, a basket shredded. At first, it was just outlying townsfolk, like the goat’s owner. Then farmers from the hinterlands began reporting losses.

One word surfaced repeatedly: «chakabre.»

I’d never heard it before, and before I could ask, a patron at the Green Apple tavern — a man who looked Kortish — cut in: *"Chakabre’s a bard’s tale. Doesn’t gnaw — *drinks blood. Prefers goats and calves, yes, but this? Dogs.» The room agreed, settling on the theory of a stray pack.

No one was shocked. No one was pleased.

«Bad timing,» I mused one evening, as the topic resurfaced. «Harvest’s coming. Apples, grain, pumpkins. If these dogs turn aggressive… People are already painting warding runes on their gates.»

«Fieldworkers always bring guard dogs,» Nan countered. «Wolves are thick here. They just don’t enter towns.» Tezvin nodded.

I grimaced. Right. I’d forgotten that too.

«Still,» I pressed, «a pack appearing out of nowhere? Doesn’t sit right.»

Tezvin shrugged. «Not so strange. New Eten’s been at peace for decades, but our neighbors — Marbod Kortu, Askalon, Tkhabat — are always squabbling. Borders shift. Could’ve been a raid — villages burned, folk fled. Dogs left behind, no one to feed them…»

«So they roam,» I finished. «Makes sense. What do we do?»

«Do?» Nan laughed. «If the people ask, we’ll sweep the orchards. Otherwise, we wait for orders. We’re guards, Rudolf — not lords. Let the captains think.»

I smirked but held my tongue. I disagreed. Yes, we followed orders — but we weren’t mindless. And even Mengor and Lord Galvan couldn’t see everything.

«Suit yourselves,» I said at last. «I’ll still mention «chakabre’ to Mengor. And the rest.»

They waved me off, calling for another round and a subject change. I didn’t refuse.

I never got the chance to pester Mengor further — the townsfolk beat me to it. The moment I mentioned «chakabre,» his patience snapped like a dry twig.

«Listen,» he growled, «the guard has better things to do than chase dog tails! A few farmers with pitchforks and hunters with bows could handle strays. Are you seriously suggesting we comb the orchards for — what, storybook beasts? Or a pack of half-starved mutts?»

I lowered my head, shame burning my ears. Yet beneath it, that straw of unease sharpened into a white-hot needle of dread. I’d never felt so… wrong.

«Rudolf,» Mengor continued, voice clipped, «we’ve graver concerns. If you’re listening to gossip about gnawed gates, I’m hearing whispers from Kortu. The city council is preoccupied. War brews.»

«Since when does Kortu’s squabbling concern us?»

«When it spills onto our roads.» His gaze pinned me. «Unless you’ve actual proof for these… hunches of yours?»

«I can’t explain,» I admitted quietly. «But something’s off. Mengor, as a friend — do I strike you as the type to cry wolf?»

«You strike me as the type to dive headfirst into trouble,» he said, but his expression softened. «Yet I named you «Lucky’ for a reason. Why this insistence? What do you know*?»*

«Nothing. I feel it. Like I’m a hound catching a scent I can’t name.»

«A hound,» Mengor echoed oddly. His eyes narrowed — assessing, suspicious — before he relented. «Fine. The orchard owners have petitioned us. A fruit-picker’s boy went missing. Could’ve run off, but…» He jabbed a finger at my chest. «If you’re hiding anything, Rudolf — I won’t forgive it.»

The weight of his stare made my skin prickle. For one horrifying instant, I realized: He suspects me of something. That needle in my skull vanished — as if it had never been.

Of what?!

Dawn fog, again. Thinner this time, thank Ayulan. Underfoot, grass and gnarled roots replaced cobblestones. Trees loomed like charcoal smudges — some distant and blurred, others stark as lacquer on pale Etenese pottery. The canopy rustled, though no wind stirred. Just night birds, I told myself, praying to Erros for a breeze to shred this clinging mist.

My unease lingered, faint but stubborn.

We moved in three groups, shadows flitting between the rows. By now, we’d found little: a gnawed apple trunk, a torn lunch basket, a slope dug up as if by moles. Absurdities — yet a boy was missing. Five goats, a dozen chickens, three guard dogs dead. Gates splintered.

Mengor was moments from calling off the search when a howl split the air — followed by snarls, yelps, the crash of undergrowth. We sprinted toward the orchard’s edge.

Three dogs awaited us. Two dead. The third, wounded, snarled from beneath a bush until Tezvin’s crossbow bolt silenced it.

«Well,» Mengor muttered, surveying the scene. «This settles it.»

«Just dogs,» Nan scoffed. «They killed each other. Problem solved.»

«Three mutts terrorized the whole city?» Norig, a guard I barely knew, sounded skeptical.

«Doesn’t add up,» I whispered.

Lighting a lantern, I traced the bloodied sand. The ground was torn — not just by paws, but by something larger. Tufts of fur clung to the bushes: gray, tawny. The dogs had been black, brindled, and red. The tawny might’ve been undercoat, but the gray—

«Doesn’t add up,» Tezvin agreed, watching me.

«Wolves, then?»

«No.» The word left my lips just as that scalding needle plunged back into my skull. I gasped, grabbing a handful of gray fur from a thornbush. «A skinwalker.»

Mengor cursed — filthily, inventively.

«How d’you know?» Norig demanded.

I pointed to the prints farther out: not paws, not hands, but something between, clawed and massive. Yet I hadn’t needed to see them. The truth had struck me seconds earlier — that itch in my mind, now blazing. Magic. I’d felt its surge when the creature shifted form.

But I’m no mage.

«Hope you’re not a skinwalker yourself,» Mengor said darkly.

I choked. «You suspected me?»

«Forget it,» he grunted. «Skinwalkers aren’t… welcome here.»

«Where are they welcome?» Tezvin shuddered. «The Alexar incident alone — »

«A dog can’t become one,» I cut in. «It needs a human form to shift into. I… read that. Before the storm, I think.»

«So you do remember things?»

«Enough chatter!» Mengor barked. «Fan out. If there’s a skinwalker here, we end it tonight.»

Our search proved futile. The skinwalker had vanished — likely shifted back and slipped into the city. Or wherever it hid. One thing was certain: we’d have to hunt it through every alley, field, and forest. At least I could feel its transformations now. How? I’d give my sword hand to know.

Back in the barracks, I laid out my theory to Tezvin and Mengor.

«Were you trained as a mage?» Mengor asked.

I spread my hands helplessly. «I don’t remember!»

«Not a question,» Tezvin clapped my shoulder. «A statement. You must’ve studied magic once — even if you’ve forgotten. Or maybe you’re just gifted.»

«Hope you won’t trade us for dusty tomes,» Mengor grumbled, though his eyes glinted with grim humor.

«What kind of mage would I make?» I forced a smile. «I’m a guardsman. I don’t abandon friends.»

«Good,» Mengor nodded. *"Skinwalkers, though — *not good.»

«We’ll catch it,» Tezvin said firmly. «Nothing escapes me — two legs or four. Or you, Captain.»

We drafted a plan before parting — Mengor to brief Lord Galvan, Tez and I to snatch a few hours’ sleep before the day shift.

I didn’t know the hunt would begin sooner. Or end so differently.

Evening. Unlike the fog-drenched dawn, the sky hung clear, the moon a translucent sliver — waning, I noted absently. Skinwalkers aren’t tied to lunar phases. The thought came unbidden. Where did I learn that?

Nan and I left the Green Apple later than usual. He headed home; I turned toward the barracks — still unwilling to rent a room. What difference did it make where I slept between shifts?

Then I remembered: the leatherworker. I’d ordered a new satchel, paid upfront, and forgotten to collect it. Is his shop still open? Dusk had deepened to an inky blue, the first stars pricking through. No need for lanterns — the cobbles gleamed underfoot.

I rounded the corner and heard the leatherworker berating his apprentice:

«Filthy as a stray! Scratched up — fighting again? I told you: wash daily, change clothes twice a moon, no brawling, no thieving! Did you only grasp the last bit?» A thud. A yelp. A dark stain bloomed on the boy’s sleeve.

«Fighting, my arse,» the master muttered.

«N-no, master! A — a branch. Sharp one. Hurt — »

«Ah! Master Rudolf!» The leatherworker spotted me. «Thought you’d forgotten.»

«A hard day,» I admitted, nodding to the gruff craftsman. «Glad you’re still open.»

«Open? Ha! This lout did half his work, and poorly! Had to fix it myself.»

The boy — Bren — whimpered. «Don’t shout…»

«A branch?» The master scoffed. «Look at him, Rudolf. Slow as winter, but honest. Only virtue he’s got.» He rounded on Bren again. «What branch? Where’ve you been?»

I edged closer. The boy reeked of sweat, unwashed wool… and dog. Not unusual — he slept in the kennel, a simpleton kept more from pity than usefulness. Bren was harmless.

So why did my nape prickle?

«Where were you this morning, lad?» I kept my voice gentle.

«Show me that shoulder,» the master demanded, reaching out.

I’ll never know what triggered it.

«I didn’t — AAAAAGH!» Bren’s shriek became a howl.

White-hot agony lanced my skull.

His body arched unnaturally. Fabric ripped—

And I found our skinwalker.

The beast hit the ground on all fours with a snarl. My sword cleared its sheath, but the creature fled — a gray blur.

«By Ayulan’s light…» the leatherworker whispered, pale as parchment.

«Get inside!» I roared, giving chase.

Instinct drove me to search the back alleys — I had no doubt the skinwalker would seek shelter.

I found it crammed into a woodshed, huddled in the corner, its growls choked with whimpers. The fiery needle in my skull had faded, replaced by a strange warmth — like a breeze against my forehead. The beast’s yellow eyes held no human cunning, only raw fear. Fear is the same in all creatures.

I adjusted my grip on the sword. The skinwalker tensed — then lunged with unnatural speed. I knew before it left the ground: I wouldn’t land the strike. It would sink teeth into my ribs beneath my raised elbow, tear through mail, and—

A gust of wind inside the shed slammed into me — forehead, palm, chest. I flung my empty hand forward, hurling that unseen force at the beast. A word flared in my mind:

«Stop!»

Not in Etenese. A language I didn’t know I knew.

The creature crashed into an invisible wall, tumbling back — and shifted. Not to escape, as I later realized, but in sheer terror. One moment: a snarling mass of fur and claws. The next: a trembling, naked boy, crisscrossed with half-healed wounds.

«Sir… d’you remember me?» His voice cracked. «I didn’t — I didn’t hurt nobody! Swear it!»

My sword arm turned to stone.

«The goat?» I rasped stupidly. His words echoed — remember me — and I did. Bren. The simpleton who slept with dogs. Harmless.

A human wail tore from his throat. «I was hungry! Didn’t mean to — don’t cut me, don’t — »

I rubbed my temples. I can’t.

«I’ll think of something,» I said, hoarse. «But you must come with me.»

Bren nodded, rising slowly. He clutched tattered cloth to his hips. When I produced rope, he didn’t flinch.

«Hands,» I ordered. «Then we’ll — »

A mistake. Hesitation.

Bren twisted past me — human one second, a bounding wolf the next. No headache this time, just that warm gust of magic.

«Stop! It’ll go worse!» My shout was useless.

Tezvin later told me Bren fled beyond the orchards, across the fields, into the woods.

Dawn. The entire guard — led by Lord Galvan himself — scoured the forest. Two mages accompanied us. A wounded, frightened skinwalker, already half-mad, couldn’t have gone far.

He hadn’t.

«Wolves,» declared one mage, surveying the remains. «This is their land. They tolerate no rivals — especially in autumn, when they fatten for winter. This one… didn’t understand their warnings.»

I didn’t need the explanation. The body told the story: limbs wrenched from sockets, patches of fur clinging to human skin, a grotesque hybrid of jaw and cheekbone. One hand still bore dirt-caked nails; the other ended in claws.

«Do we know who he was?» Galvan cut in.

«Bren,» I said flatly. «The leatherworker’s boy. I… lost him yesterday.»

«I recall.» The lord exhaled. «Burn him as a man. In the end, he chose his form.»

Apt. Horribly so.

The pyre smoke clung to my clothes for days. My friends insisted I’d done nothing wrong — Mengor, even Galvan said so.

Yet I remembered.

And each time, the same rot settled in my chest.

Chapter 3: Rumors and Truths, Roads and Whispers

Life, as it tends to do, went on.

The missing orchard boy turned up — just as my comrades had predicted, he’d simply run off seeking greener pastures, only to find none. Without coin or notable skills (and lacking either the will or talent for theft), he’d wandered for half a moon before realizing that digging rows for fragrant roots or picking apples tasted the same anywhere. He returned — not «cloaked in shame,» as some bard might romanticize, but with pragmatic acceptance.

As for me, the skinwalker incident left me with an unexpected reputation. Townsfolk greeted me more warmly; fellow guards listened to my opinions with newfound respect. «The guardsman with an eye for the uncanny» clung to me as stubbornly as my old nickname, Lucky.

And I’d gained something else — that sensation of warm wind that wasn’t wind. Magic. Flowing through everything in this world, and I could feel it. Not as a torment, as it had been at first, but as something exhilarating. Familiar.

I knew I’d remain a guardsman, but this — this was like reclaiming a piece of myself. As if I’d remembered something important.

Yet my past still lay buried beneath the salt-washed shores of Marbod Mawkant. Perhaps it always would.

So be it. Life, as I said, moved forward.

Summer faded, then autumn — the cider festival, the late harvest days — rolling over the city like waves over coastal stones: inevitable, immutable. Each unique in the moment, yet indistinguishable in memory. I didn’t remember much, but I’d seen many autumns. Many winters, too — some mild, dusted with powdery snow; others nearly snowless, frozen in time with leaf mold underfoot and frost crisping the edges of fallen oak leaves.

Eten’s winter was all these things. The city draped itself in festive lanterns and snow-laced eaves. Street vendors warmed spiced ciders over braziers; housewives distilled icy-hard apple brandy in backyard barrels. Thieves, less inclined to freeze their fingers on lockpicks, grew bolder — and night patrols grew longer. Yet I adapted surprisingly well. Cold never troubled me, though some half-remembered version of myself had once been a shivering weakling. How absurd. Now I only chuckled at the thought, sipping hot cider at the start of a shift while Tezvin laughed beside me. We still patrolled together often, as we had since my first days. However it had happened, I was grateful — for where I was, and who stood with me.

Winter, for all its crystalline stillness, could not last forever.

I watched green mist cloak the trees, emerald floods surge across meadows, ice shatter on lakes beyond the walls. The sea shifted from iron-gray to turquoise; orchards became cascades of white blossoms. It was beautiful.

Evenings brought giggling couples to shadowed lanes. I slept with windows wide, drunk on the floral perfume that filled the city before Greenmoon — or, as D’Lagrena oddly called it, «The Day of Colored Ribbons.» I sang spring-turning songs with friends, drank more brandy than I ever recalled consuming (though who could say?), and one night, slurred an ancient word: «Elbentein.»

Mengor hauled me home — I’d finally moved from the barracks to a second-floor apartment in an old but sturdy house on the outskirts. As he steadied me up the narrow stairs, he chuckled:

«Rud, if you keep drinking like this, you’ll start babbling in dragon-tongue next.»

I’d muttered something else that night — none of us remembered what. Not even me, come morning. No matter. If wine could dredge up fragments, sobriety might yet reveal more. Knowing myself, I’d likely been quoting some long-lost poetry. Thus far, I’d discovered no stranger passion in myself than literature.

Life would have continued its steady rhythm — had it not become clear by midsummer that Mengor’s grumbling about troubling rumors wasn’t just paranoia.

More and more, I heard whispers from Marbod Kortu — not just from anywhere, but from Naran itself, its capital. Traders shrugged vaguely or spun wild tales of fire-ribbons in the sky and unseasonal storms. Bards sang of an ancient knight-king risen from the dead and treacherous court mages. Mercenaries, usually tight-lipped, occasionally confirmed the strangest accounts.

It was no easier to sift truth from fiction than it had been with the chakabre myths. The pragmatic claimed Tkhabat was stirring trouble again, testing Kortu’s borders — their feud was ancient, after all. But doubt gnawed at me: Would Tkhabat march straight for the capital? If so, dark times loomed.

Summer passed in uneasy anticipation. My first year in D’Lagrena came full circle. Autumn returned — cider and apples, scarlet and gold blazing in the trees. Maples and plane trees shed their fiery fans; oak leaves gilded the streets. I marveled at the orchard’s bounty — apple trees usually alternated heavy and light years.

«They plant «even’ and «odd’ trees,» a gardener explained. «One group rests while the other bears fruit.»

«At home, they just… grew,» I muttered without thinking, then froze. What home? A parent’s garden, perhaps — one I couldn’t remember. Yet I’d known about the trees, hadn’t I? The world kept revealing gaps in my mind I hadn’t known were there.

But this discovery paled beside the confirmation that Naran’s turmoil was real.

Lord Galvan assembled us twice. First, to confirm the «fire-ribbons» and unrest were true. The chaos, he said, stemmed from King Santar himself — no scheming mages required. History would remember him as Santar the Fiery or Santar the Mad.

The second time, he said: «The Knights of the Circle request aid.»

Knights of the Circle, I thought. The Circle of Elements, my comrades whispered.

The name tugged at some buried memory, but I focused on Galvan’s words. The Circle, I learned anew, was an order of mage-knights bearing rings said to be gifts from the benevolent Ayulan. Ronan later prattled about the Ring of Earth, the Ring of Water, the Ring of Air — and the Ring of Fire, kept by the royal line. These artifacts supposedly helped Kortu maintain prosperity, provided they honored the gods’ covenants. Sometimes the rings bore the names of the deities who’d imbued them: Aytir, Emuro, Eharo, Erros.

The world is full of mysteries, I mused. Yet I had no reason to doubt it. Who knew what else I’d forgotten?

But that was later. Now, the order stood: prepare to march. New Eten would aid its neighbor, and our garrison — the quiet city’s closest — would lead the contingent. We’d take the road to Naran and…

«Do what we always do,» Mengor said back at the barracks as we cleaned gear and mended uniforms. «Restore order.»

I didn’t know what to think. Marbod Kortu was our oldest ally. The pact between D’Lagrena and Naran was ancient, unbroken. We’d help.

For now, Mengor was right: we’d do our duty.

I hadn’t planned on going anywhere. They couldn’t possibly strip the entire garrison from the city, could they? I’d stay behind, guarding fog-drowned streets, breaking up tavern brawls, chasing thieves — or so I thought.

Fate, as it turned out, had other plans.

A week later, Mengor intercepted me after patrol with a brisk: «Ah! There you are. Come on.»

It was morning. I’d just returned to the barracks, savoring the thought of a full day’s sleep — only to find the courtyard buzzing with activity. Comrades packed supplies; Mengor waved me over.

«What’s happened?»

«You heard. We march for Naran. Two days to prepare — you’re with us.» He gripped my shoulder. «All my best fighters go. And you, Lucky… well. We’ll need that nose of yours.»

«Taking me as a talisman now?» I grumbled.

«Not just.» He dragged me into the yard and thrust a glaive into my hands. «You said you’ve handled an ayn’to? Then this’ll be easier. Help me train the others — Ronán’s decent with a sword but clumsy with polearms.»

The curved blade gleamed, its haft carved with intricate patterns. I traced the metal quietly.

«Just „keeping order,“ then?»

«Rudolf.» Mengor’s voice turned sharp. «This is our marching weapon. Tradition. And if we’re posted at the palace — which we will be — you’ll thank me for it.»

«Why the palace?»

«Because unrest becomes civil war when opportunists scent a vacant throne.» His gaze darkened. «That’s why they requested us. And why your skills might prove… useful.»

I exhaled. «Even for hunting chakabre?»

«Especially for that.»

He knew something. Something he wouldn’t share.

Dawn. Our column set out, provisions loaded, armor checked and rechecked. The road to Naran unfurled like unbleached linen — or perhaps a weathered scroll, its surface inscribed by countless footsteps and wagon wheels. Now it bore ours.

Sunlight glinted off my glaive’s blade. Autumn mist veiled the forests ahead; the air smelled of leaf-smoke and damp earth. And all I could think was: I’d give anything not to write this chapter of my story.

But I had so little to give.

I didn’t want to leave. Not this autumn. Not this year. I’d grown to love drowsy, archaic D’Lagrena — being a guardsman, the taste of an apple tossed by a comrade, the ache of a night watch in mail. The power to stop violence with just a shout.

My fingers brushed the glaive’s engravings — a sinuous tail, a crowned head, wings arched for flight. Not a sea dragon, but a mountain one. Ancient. Older than D’Lagrena’s fortress.

A talisman, Mengor had called it. Now I understood.

This wasn’t just a weapon. It was a symbol. Like the guard’s chevron on our cloaks. We can fight. We will if we must. But we don’t rush to it.

My steps lightened. The overcast sky cracked, sunlight spilling through. Let this be just a show of force, I prayed. Let our duty be dull palace watches.

Still — I had wanted to see Naran. Just not like this.

But choice had never been mine to make. The sea gods saw to that when they stole my past and left me with a nickname.

Now, like the road beneath my boots, I could only move forward.

Third day on the road.

We traveled in two groups — a vanguard of seventy ahead, while our contingent of eighty followed with supply wagons: cookpots, provisions, great canvas tents to shelter against rain. Though autumn had come, the skies stayed dry — all the dampness in the air bled into the mists that clung to us each morning, thick as wool one day, wisp-thin the next.

At times, the journey felt like scenes painted on those delicate Etenese vases — the ones of eggshell-thin white clay, glazed in milky hues or translucent colors. Artists brushed willows by water, river lilies, darting fish; forests shrouded in mist, mountain ridges, pines spearing tattered clouds. Delicate. Half-suggested.

And we — we were figures on such a vase, moving through the fog until the sun burned it away.

That evening — clear and unseasonably warm — the wheel of a supply wagon shattered against a stone.

The axle split. The cart listed heavily. The driver cursed — a pothole or unseen rock. With daylight still ample, stopping now would cost half a day’s progress. After two hours of debate, the captains decided: the vanguard would press on with one wagon; we’d repair the broken one, rest, and catch up at dawn.

So the elegant vase-figures became characters in a rustic folktale. Such was life.

Repairs proved tedious. Too many hands hindered more than helped. Some of us left to hunt woodcocks — a half-serious diversion that netted Tez a sackful for supper. By the time we returned, the work was done, and the sun grazed the treetops. We made camp at the forest’s edge as mist thickened.

Night. Wrapped in my blanket by the fire, I felt it — that warm, unnatural breeze.

Campfire smoke? Or something… else?

I dragged my sword closer, squinted at the rack where our glaives stood. I’ll wake if there’s trouble.

Drowsiness tugged at me. Then—

A jolt of unease. Sharp as a slap.

The forest held its breath. No owls. No rustling. Even the insects had gone quiet.

Cotton silence.

I slept.

Chapter 4: Path Through the Mist

I woke to the acrid stench of smoke.

Had the night wind scattered embers while the watch slept? Impossible.

I threw off my blanket, scanning for flames. Thick white fog — or was it smoke? — cloaked the camp. The sentry had fallen asleep. Dawn hadn’t broken; gray light seeped through the haze.

The smell didn’t fade. Stale. Sour. As if a fire had burned out long ago, doused by rain — yet no rain had fallen since we’d left.

Unease curdled in my gut.

I shook Mengor awake beside the smoldering fire. Him, asleep on watch? I’d sooner believe in chakabre.

He inhaled sharply. «Rouse the others. Forest fire nearby — we need to move.»

We packed in frantic haste, as if flames licked at our heels.

«Column of three,» Mengor ordered. «Wagon at center. No one strays. This fog — » His eyes flicked to me, seeking answers I didn’t have.

The glaive’s haft warmed in my grip. Perhaps there had been a fire — dry autumn tinder catching overnight. That explained Mengor’s urgency.

I took position between him and Tez at the head of the column. The forest thinned; the mist lifted as we climbed onto open plains.

Then we saw.

«What in the — ?» Mengor’s voice cracked.

I froze.

This wasn’t New Eten. Couldn’t be. Unless the entire realm had burned overnight, leaving only our forest untouched.

Blackened wasteland stretched in every direction. Ash choked the air, blotting the rising sun. The reek of old fire clogged my throat.

This shouldn’t exist.

My skull split with sudden pain — white-hot needles, worse than after the shipwreck. Around me, muffled curses. No one understood.

This wasn’t Marbod Mawkant.

I knew. The road from D’Lagrena’s walls, the maps I’d studied — none led here. Worse: some part of me recognized this place.

«Can’t be,» I whispered as shadowy memories stirred.

«Where are we?» Mengor snarled to no one.

«Kortuansk,» a guard called from the ranks. «That’s the road to Korfu, the Dusk Mountains yonder. But — this is the world’s far edge. We couldn’t have walked here.»

Kortuansk.

The name ignited recollections: the war, the fallen island kingdom, the unknown conqueror aided by dark mages. I’d been here — on Kortuansk’s western coast — before its fall. But why?

As the men debated forest «crossroads» or «wells» — fey paths said to displace travelers — figures emerged from the scorched trees.

A man in ash-stained wool approached, spear in hand. His hooded cloak hid little — he could’ve been anyone.

«You’re not Draeva. Nor them,» he said, squinting. «Elfré from Elleral, finally venturing out?»

«D’Lagrena garrison, New Eten,» Mengor corrected, lowering his hood. «How did we get here?»

The man whistled. «Marbod Mawkant? Aytir’s teeth — stranger than Elleral’s aid!»

«You’re from the Citadel?» the same guard pressed.

A nod.

«A mage, then,» Mengor deduced.

«Aye. Come — it’s not safe here.» He gestured toward the Dusk Mountains — their name confirmed. As was our location: Kortuansk.

The Dusk Mountains loomed ahead — jagged peaks softened by distance, their slopes cloaked in velvet forests. A majestic indigo ridge beneath a sunless sky. Even the ashen air couldn’t dull the cobalt shadows between the cliffs.

I longed to breathe their crisp winds, to escape this smoke-choked wasteland.

The mountains were magnificent. Ancient bones of the earth, untouched by history’s tides. Their silent grandeur mocked the scorched valley behind us.

Our guide led us along a path that defied logic — narrowing, widening, twisting through ravines and under stone arches carved by long-dead rivers. Magic hummed in the air, compressing leagues into footsteps.

Then — the Citadel.

Even the most jaded among us gasped.

A fortress-city hovered above a yawning abyss, woven from mist and pale stone. Waterfalls cascaded from its cliffs, boiling into clouds that seemed to buoy the entire island.

«The Citadel of the Dusk Mages,» Vidar said, noting our awe. «The Order’s stronghold.»

It shouldn’t exist. Yet here it was.

A deep breath filled my lungs with something more than air — the raw pulse of magic, older than the world. The same current I’d felt when Bren transformed. The same force lifting this mountain.

«How do we reach it?» Mengor asked.

«Patience,» Vidar smirked.

He produced a mirror, then a crystal, murmuring commands. Moments later, a vessel emerged from the clouds — a boat shaped like a fish, its oars replaced by undulating fins. It glided on the wind itself, riding currents of power.

We boarded.

As the fish-boat ascended, Vidar explained:

Kortuansk’s war never truly ended. The conqueror — no mortal, but a sorcerer possessed by a spirit calling itself Ergesennallo — had razed the land. Only the Citadel resisted, shielded by older magics.

«He burns villages that defy him,» Vidar said. Each utterance of Ergesennallo sent shivers down my spine. «But his true goal? Unknown.»

Refugees flocked to the mountains. The scorched valley we’d crossed? A recent attack.

«I thought you were Elleral’s reinforcements,» Vidar admitted. «They’ve… withdrawn.»

Mengor snorted. «Called our kin cowards, did they?»

«As Kortu called theirs,» Vidar countered.

I listened, piecing together fragments. Elleral — a lost ally. The «other face of the world» Vidar mentioned — our world, where Ergesennallo now sought gates.

«We must learn how you came here,» Vidar pressed. «Before he turns his eye westward.»

No one had answers.

Then — the dock. A floating pier where our fish-boat moored. The air smelled of freshwater falls, not salt. My legs trembled as I disembarked, too drained for wonder.

What awaited us next?

First, food — hot, hearty, and far better than trail rations. Then quarters to rest, though the Order’s hospitality came with a condition: their leader wished to speak with all of us, not just Mengor and a chosen few.

Mages and their quirks.

Despite my gnawing unease, the Citadel felt… right. The others seemed to agree, relaxing into the strange comfort of floating towers and mist-shrouded halls. Even Mengor, though he fretted over our stranded vanguard — now marching toward Naran at half strength, unaware we’d vanished.

Had we failed them?

The future, like the base of the Citadel’s cliffs, lay swallowed in fog. The road ahead dissolved — just as the Etenese forest had, just as Kortuansk’s plains had when we stumbled into this shattered realm.

Chapter 5: The Words of Manridius

So, we were expected.

The conversation took place without unnecessary pomp — in a hall that most resembled a public library. Manridius — not a name, as Vido had explained, but a title, denoting the head of the Order — was slowly making notes on a long scroll. When we entered and took our seats on the long benches, he rose, bowed, and introduced himself.

He listened to our greeting in return, swept the scroll into a document chest, and offered Mengor, as the squad’s commander, a few hollow pleasantries. Then his gaze swept over all of us, lingering — for some reason — on me. I could almost physically feel the sharpness of his stare.

I cursed under my breath — what now? I didn’t stand out from my comrades in any way!

Manridius looked away. Then back again. I made it clear I noticed his undue interest — to which the mage only gave a slight nod, as if to his own thoughts — and then he asked the most expected, logical question: he requested an account of what had happened just before and during the translocation. That is, everything leading up to our meeting with Vido. I had no doubt Vido himself had already given a detailed report.

Mengor began the tale. I joined in later, when it came to the fact that I had woken before the others. I recounted what I deemed important or unusual, and at times, my comrades added their own remarks. The picture didn’t grow any clearer — at least not for us — but Manridius, for some reason, nodded with grave understanding, his half-gray (salt and dark ash) head bobbing solemnly.

I studied the head of the Order, trying to discern whether he could help us or not. But Manridius’s appearance was inscrutable — a man of considerable years, he looked every bit the noble, stern elder. The face of an ascetic, the attire of a wealthy man (with refined taste, I might add), deliberate movements — yet behind that façade of calm gentleness lay a cold, sharp gaze and a mind both quick and unorthodox. I realized this as I listened to his rapid, occasionally bizarre questions — swift as a snake striking from tall grass. Another thought struck me: Manridius resembled a military commander more than a mage in a citadel of knowledge. A duke bent over war maps, not a scholar. I found myself both liking and disliking him — his quiet voice and conversational skill were pleasant, but the steely coldness beneath unsettled me. I had likened his questions to a serpent’s attack — well, if so, my answers were like trembling mice. And I felt ashamed and awkward because of it, even though I knew it wasn’t my fault.

«Your arrival here is ill-timed — if we consider that our enemy would gladly march his troops into the New World, if only he knew how,» Manridius remarked, finally ceasing his barrage of sudden clarifications.

«With all due respect, we had no part in this!» I protested.

«True,» Manridius murmured, his thin, pale lips barely moving. «Which makes this event all the more puzzling. Even now, deliberately reaching Marbod Mawkant is a feat achieved by only a handful!»

«So this isn’t some jest or negligence on the part of the Old World’s inhabitants?» Tezvin asked, slightly surprised.

«How many ships from the Old World have reached the shores of the New Kingdoms in the last few decades?» Manridius countered with another question.

«Almost none,» Mengor grunted.

«Exactly. And there are reasons for that — without delving into our science, which I assume holds little interest for soldiers…» (Here, I snorted, while Manridius continued unperturbed.) «…Our world is now like a shattered vase, glued back together. Or a cup. The world, let us say, has always been divided by certain internal lines of tension, fine cracks — and the war waged by our Obsessed foe on these shores acted like a thin blade wedged into those fractures. One shake, two — and the vase split in two. To cross from one half to the other…»

«So the world is broken?» one of the lads burst out. «Then why are we here?»

«As I said — like a shattered but mended vase. Crossing the «seam’ is possible. But difficult. A handful of daring sailors can manage it, enough to guide a small ship through. But for a military unit to pass without getting lost? Ah, that requires either great skill, or…»

«Or?»

«Or the sudden whim of Ayulan, as it seems to me now,» Manridius sighed. «I — forgive me — have no clear explanation for how you stumbled upon such a wide and significant „fork.“ And what is most regrettable is that I must admit I currently see no way — not even in theory — to return you.»

Disappointed and frustrated exclamations erupted, mine among them. Mengor only scowled darkly.

«So we’ve unwittingly betrayed our comrades and our duty,» he muttered.

«Alas. The fault is not yours. Still… I won’t lie to you, gentlemen warriors. Even if I could send you back to Marbod Mawkant — right under the nose of one so eager to launch an invasion — I wouldn’t. Do you understand what that would mean?»

«That we’d show the enemy the way ourselves?» I ventured uncertainly. The mage nodded.

«In that case, I’d consider it a blessing to refuse such an offer,» Mengor said after a moment’s thought, nodding firmly in return. «Perhaps you have safer ideas, Lord… Amis Manridius?»

«Perhaps. Perhaps… but I would prefer to think it over more carefully first. You may settle in the Stronghold for now — we could use strong arms and sound minds in general, and if their owners know how to fight, all the better. You’ve seen for yourselves that my colleagues now resemble a garrison more than an Order of scholars.»

«We have,» several of us replied at once.

Manridius then shrugged and suggested we get settled. He fielded a few more questions from Mengor and the others, answering succinctly and to the point. And just when it seemed the audience was truly over, his gaze settled on me again.

«What in the world is this about?» I thought, looking past the mage.

«One more clarification, Mengor. Your comrade to the right…»

«Rudolf. His name is Rudolf the Lucky.» Then, turning to me: «Rud?»

«At your service,» I responded.

«Rudolf, might I detain you for a moment? It seemed to me you were the most observant in this strange affair. I’d like to clarify a few things, and it wouldn’t be right to keep the others for that.»

«As you wish,» I nodded and followed him into the tower. As we ascended the spiral staircase, he spoke again.

«Don’t be surprised that of all your squad, I chose to speak with you.»

«Why?» Our voices echoed strangely off the stone walls.

«Well, I noticed you’re clearly not from New Eten.»

«Hm.»

«Your accent, Rudolf, isn’t native to Eten. Barely noticeable, but there. Elleralian? No, that doesn’t fit either.»

I spread my hands. I didn’t much feel like admitting I remembered nothing.

«Moreover, there are currents of magic in you that the others lack,» Manridius continued.

«What? What are you talking about? I’ve never cast a spell in my life! At least…» I trailed off, suddenly recalling how I had repelled a leaping werebeast.

The mage gave me a puzzled look, so intense it seemed he was trying to see through me to the opposite wall.

«So you remember nothing?» I couldn’t fathom how he guessed, but there was no point in denying it now. Still, out of sheer stubbornness, I tried.

«What am I supposed to remember?» My question sounded just as bewildered and hesitant. The mage snorted and walked on in silence. This piqued my interest. What did he know about my life that even I didn’t?

We reached his study without another word. Closing the door behind us, Manridius sighed — deeply, without a trace of pretense. Gone was the image of the benign, gentle lord of a mountain town; now, palms braced against his desk, stood a weary warlord, worn by endless schemes and campaigns.

«Your appearance in Kortuansk has upended all our plans and placed Marbod Mawkant at risk of invasion…»

«You already know we had no hand in that,» I objected, burning with shame.

«But at the same time, it gives us a chance to drive Ergesennalo out of Kortuansk before it’s too late,» Manridius finished unexpectedly. «A slim chance, but a chance nonetheless.»

«What do you mean?»

The mage walked to a small liquor cabinet, poured himself a glass of something clearly strong, and offered me the same. I accepted. A fiery, tannic taste rolled down my throat — nothing like the white apple brandy, «frost wine,» common in Eten. This was grape-born, aged far beyond a year, and steeped in oak. I took another surprised sip. The flavor was oddly familiar.

«Let’s start from the beginning, Amis Rudolf. Or how should I address you?»

«As you like,» I said, unsure of his angle. «Perhaps you could just ask the questions you intended?»

«I will, of course. But first, I want to understand how a mage could be unaware he is one — unless he never received training. Yet you don’t strike me as a green youth, Rudolf. Have the elves changed so much in these sinful few decades? I refuse to believe it! Someone should have tried to hone your talent.»

«But I don’t remember,» I said, the liquor making the admission easier. «I’m sorry, but I remember almost nothing before last summer, when I found myself in Eten.»

After a pause, I told him of the shipwreck.

Manridius seemed both surprised and frustrated.

«So if you were counting on another mage in me, then…»

«No, that’s not the main concern,» Manridius said, settling at his desk and shuffling through a pile of manuscripts. «Though I did hope you’d noticed some shifts in the flow of magic during your translocation.»

«All I noticed was that the wind blew from all directions at once — weak, yet oddly warm, despite the chilly, foggy morning. And also… I wasn’t keen on this journey, to be honest.»

«But now you wish to return with the others?»

«Of course!»

«Well, I didn’t lie earlier — I told the truth, and your captain seemed to accept it.»

I nodded grimly. Then, unexpectedly even to myself, I voiced the question that had gnawed at me since meeting the mages:

«So what’s the truth about this… Obsessed One? Who is he? I’ve heard he calls himself by a demon’s name, but even I, no mage, know that’s impossible!»

«What’s impossible?»

«That someone — even a sorcerer — could become a vessel for… the Spirit of Destruction. Not for so long! This history stretches back years, doesn’t it?»

«You were taught something,» Manridius observed shrewdly. «Even if you don’t realize it. Yes, Rudolf. Yes. It should be impossible, yet here we are. The Conqueror who lost his name is indeed possessed. Nothing else could explain his power. Nor why the Folk Beneath — the drow — follow him. Those wretches deal only with those marked by the hand of their so-called Father-of-Void.»

«Ergesennalo?» The name was strangely difficult to say, but I forced it out. A flash of pain burst in my head. I took another sip of brandy. «You know what? This all sounds too fantastical.»

«Perhaps. Yet we’re nearly certain we’ve found a way to sever the bond between the man leading the Underfolk’s army and the demon empowering him. Without the demon’s presence, the Underfolk will abandon their conquest. Then the people of Kortuansk can finally end this strife, overthrow the usurper, and live normally again. Not as before, no. But we’ll have a chance — not just hiding in the mountains.»

«Then what’s been stopping you?» I knew the question sounded rude, but it slipped out.

Manridius, however, seemed to have been waiting for it.

«A lack of military and manpower. It’s not that mages make poor warriors — far from it. But if we fight, there’ll be no one left to wield magic. That’s the crux. What we needed was a well-equipped unit. I mean that we have a plan to banish the demon. It requires getting dangerously close to the Obsessed One, and warriors would need to draw him out of his fortress. Say, if your squad could distract the usurper while we executed the rest without a hitch. And yes — he always takes the field himself when someone approaches his stronghold.»

I drained my glass in one go. The strong liquor stole my breath, sending another wave of heat down my throat.

«So you’re saying we’re to sacrifice ourselves to buy you time?»

The prospect, to put it mildly, was less than ideal.

«I won’t mince words,» Manridius spread his hands. «We can’t guarantee your protection or arrange your departure. And returning you to New Eten is outright impossible.» He walked to the window, overlooking the refugee tents on the square below, and fell silent.

Then he motioned me over and continued as I joined him:

«Look at them, Amis Rudolf. Their lives are hard. Every one of them had a home, believe me. Despair fills their eyes — they’ve endured the ruin of their homeland, their houses. Many have watched loved ones die: children, parents.» A flicker of lightning passed through Manridius’s gaze, his voice trembling. «Your arrival gave them hope that all isn’t lost. They thought — Elleral, our neighbors and allies, has come to our aid! They didn’t wait to be crushed in turn… But no. Elleral is silent. The city lives — like us, in a state of half-siege, yet not in want. But they do nothing, while we act. And understand this: if we don’t seize this chance now, Ergesennalo will soon attack again. And then no power of ours will hold back the tide of the demon inside that fool who once called it forth.»

After his words, there was no room for doubt. We had no choice. Die attacking, or die defending.

«But I’m not the commander,» I sighed after a long silence. Mengor will kill me for this news. Then again, if we were to die anyway, why not heroically?

«But he is your friend, is he not?»

«And why are you telling me all this?»

Manridius shook his head again.

«Even if you’re not a full mage, there’s power in you — power that could distract Ergesennalo long enough for us to act. And I’m warning you now so you’re prepared to face him.»

«Even better,» I muttered, then added aloud: «So the success of this mission rests on me. On me, who can’t even remember his own past.»

«Your mission — yours and your comrades’ — is to march on Korfu,» Manridius nodded. «We can open a portal for a couple of squads — we have some militia among the refugees. Lure the enemy out, and while he thinks you, Rudolf, are the true threat… we play our hand. I’m certain Ergesennalo is already mustering forces against us, but he’s still preparing. We must strike first. I won’t lie — you’ve arrived at the worst possible time.»

«Where are the best times?» I grumbled, remembering the rebellion in Naran we were supposed to quell.

«Do you agree?»

«I do. But the others… I can’t decide for them,» I exhaled. «And you’ll explain the plan to the soldiers and Captain Mengor yourself.»

I didn’t hear what the mage said to our commander, nor did I particularly care to — I needed to sort through my own thoughts. For some reason, I was utterly convinced that the scorched ruins of Kortuansk would soon claim my charred bones. Because I couldn’t believe in the success of this mission. How could we possibly destroy a demon? Slay the Spirit of Destruction? It was impossible! Every hazy memory tied to that name was steeped in fear and brought on a throbbing headache. What thread had that old man pulled in my mind, just like his enemy — the one who had lost his name and now bore some obscure title? Before this conversation, I’d known nothing of demons! And now, suddenly, I remembered — demons were only those beings that came from the Outer Void into our world. Within the world, there were gods, spirits, forces. But demons were always outsiders. And as far as I could recall, the only truly dangerous demon was that very same… Destroyer.

Manridius was either a madman or a delusional dreamer if he thought he could defeat it with a ragtag band of soldiers, when it had crushed armies and burned cities to ashes.

From the outraged murmurs, I gathered my comrades were asking themselves the same question. Curiosity got the better of me, and I stepped outside, rejoining the squad.

"...And for us, this is the only chance — if not to return to our world, then at least to avenge what’s happening in the Old one, and try to prevent the same from happening to our lands,» Mengor was saying. «We won’t make it home either way, but we can still do something to protect it! Isn’t that better than chasing down some other city’s troublemakers?»

«You know, back in Naran, we were almost certain we’d return home!» someone shouted.

«But no, my friend. No. When you take up arms and step beyond the gates, you must accept that you might not come back. Even from a night patrol — just like Kavan didn’t. And was he the only one? Who remembers Kavan?»

They all did — except me. I’d never even met the man. The squad fell silent. Mengor gave a bitter smile — though his voice remained steady, it was clear the decision weighed heavily on him. Others must have noticed too, because the grumbling slowly died down. And one thing became certain: we would take this mission.

Our commander headed back into the tower where the mages held their council — to discuss the plan — while a heavy, suffocating silence settled over the squad. Everyone busied themselves: some obsessively sharpened their swords, others polished helmets, and a few dismantled and reassembled their plate armor, tightening and loosening the laces as if unable to decide whether they’d fight in a tight formation — where maneuvering was impossible — or darting and dodging in open combat. Of course, we wouldn’t be marching out immediately. Maybe not even tomorrow. But the air was thick with the sense that battle loomed mere hours away.

«Mengor!» I called out the moment he reappeared from the tower doors.

«Ah, waiting for me, I see. Rud.»

«We’re really doing this? I heard right?»

«Well, you agreed. I almost didn’t believe my ears when the mage said you’d given your consent. Rudolf, who didn’t even want to chase rebels from the palace gates, now ready to fight a demon!»

«I — Meng, you say that like I’m the one leading everyone to slaughter! I agreed because I’ve got nothing left to lose, that’s all! I don’t want anyone else dying because of me… I don’t!»

«I thought the same,» Mengor replied evenly, and I felt a scorching wave of shame and guilt — so intense I nearly forgot he was the one who’d made the final call to take the mission. «And you know, you’re our Lucky One. The sea spared you. You took down a werebeast. But Kavan — you never knew him, but we all did — was torn apart by some thug’s vicious hound, set loose on him right in the city, at the end of a day’s shift. That’s how it goes. We’ll fight regardless — that mage said the Obsessed One will come for the Stronghold in half a year at most. Sure, we could leave. Head to Kraymor, or wherever. Even Elleral, if those swamp-fire tales are true — assuming it’s still standing. Turn mercenaries on the road, eh?»

«Doesn’t sound too bad,» I muttered.

«But we’re the Guard. We protect the city. And what can we do for D’Lagrena now? Try to keep the enemy from reaching it.»

And he truly believed that, I realized. So I stayed silent. Because I believed it too. And… it felt like the right thing to do.

We walked side by side in silence for a while before rejoining the others — where I was immediately met with jeers:

«Well, you’ve really landed us in it this time, Rud!»

«Enough,» Mengor snapped. «Shut it. Rudolf was the one trying to talk me out of this just now.»

A murmur rose — and to my surprise, two-thirds of the shouts echoed what Meng had said earlier: We’re the Guard, and the Guard doesn’t give evil a chance to reach our city. Those who disagreed wilted under the weight of it.

The decision was made. And though it hadn’t truly been mine to make, I suddenly wanted to howl at the moon like Bren, that unlucky werebeast.

«You know, Rud…» Mengor said quietly, «I really think one of us opened that „well.“ I’m no mage, I’ve no idea if that’s even possible — but I don’t want whoever did it falling into the Obsessed One’s hands.»

«And yet here we are, walking straight into them.»

«Under the mages’ cover, don’t forget. The living can escape; the dead are useless to the enemy. But while we’re stranded in these lands, they might start hunting us. A thing like crossing worlds? Hard to hide. From mages, demons, and the like? Impossible, according to Manridius.»

«So better to die in battle than live in shame or fear?»

Mengor didn’t answer. I already knew my own reply was yes.

And so, I accepted it.

We marched out two days later — escorted by militia, their numbers roughly matching ours. I gripped my glaive and thought: Ayulan, if you mean to take anyone, take me. Let the mages succeed. And if they fail… I don’t want to see it.

Chapter 6: The Banishment

The mages had initially promised to shorten our journey by some arcane means, but in the end, they abandoned the idea — too difficult, too risky, and requiring such a surge of magical energy that our enemy couldn’t possibly miss it. At least, that’s what I gathered from their explanations.

«But isn’t that exactly what we want?» I asked, puzzled.

«Not quite,» admitted the usually silent Vido, who had joined us as part of the mages’ divided forces — now a dozen or so «shadow-weavers» rode with us. He was dressed once again in unassuming dark garb, though now a dull-glinting mail shirt peeked from beneath his gray tunic, making him look more like a down-on-his-luck Ascalonian mercenary than a mage. Then again, he’d never looked much like a mage to begin with — when we first met, I’d mistaken him for a local bandit.

«We need to distract him, not announce that we’re strong and attacking with magic. A portal over such a distance… might work for three spies,» another mage cut in. «But for two hundred? Impossible.»

«The power spent on transporting us would be needed for the main strike,» I realized suddenly. «Right?»

Vido nodded and fell silent again.

The journey was far from easy. We avoided main roads, sticking to winding coastal paths, moving almost furtively — if a force of nearly two hundred could be said to «sneak.»

The land was unfamiliar, foreign — Kortuansk was enemy territory. And even though some part of me knew this country, I couldn’t shake the feeling that I’d stumbled into a murky, feverish nightmare. Everywhere bore scars of skirmishes, raids, and fires — some old, grass-choked, others fresh. I’d learned by now that this war, sluggish and grim, bringing no real victory to either side, had dragged on for nearly a century.

The Obsessed One had seized the capital, but he couldn’t force the land to submit. People were regressing into brutal survival, towns fracturing into nomadic clans and tribal communes — like the earliest days of Kortuansk’s founding. Yet they refused to surrender. Occasionally, rebel-held regions were scoured by bands of «those ones» — the folk Vido had mentioned when we first met. Men who served Ergesennalo — some ordinary, others with dark, gray-black skin. At first, I thought they were scouts smeared with soot for stealth. But I was told these were the Underfolk. The Draeva, some called them, or «drow,» but most often Nel-du — the name the Kortuansk people gave them.

«Swamp-dwellers know what they really are,» muttered one of the local militiamen. «They speak our tongue, but twisted and foul — like chewing gravel. Live in caves, can’t stand bright sun, though if they wrap themselves head to toe, even cover their eyes, they’ll fight in daylight well enough. Killed a few myself. Inside, they’re like any living thing — except their blood’s black. Some thought they were risen dead, but no, their blood’s hot, and they die fine. Just remember — their heart’s on the right.»

Not that I’d had a chance to test that yet.

We avoided clashes until reaching our destination, slipping past patrols where we could. When that proved impossible, the mages diverted the raiders’ attention — their bands were small, and the trick worked every time.

So we pressed on, through abandoned lands, past the ruins of coastal villages, the ceaseless roar of the sea our constant companion. Six days later, we reached Korfu.

Korfu. On the march, I’d been told it was once one of the most beautiful sea fortresses in all of Kortuansk. They spoke of its harbor — capacious, nestled in a natural curve of the coastline. Of the city as it had been before the war.

By all accounts, it had been glorious.

Now, as I looked down from a distant hill, a bleak, gray sorrow settled over me. The city before us was… cursed by the Void. I couldn’t explain why that comparison came to mind, but it fit perfectly.

«Enemy troops hold it now,» said one of the locals, a militia captain. «The folk with any sense fled to the mountains — some to us, others there.» He gestured north. «The high ridges. Where our true capital stands.»

Our task was to fight our way to the fortress and draw Ergesennalo’s full attention.

But there was no need to fight.

The city seemed submerged in a stupor — that foggy, pre-dawn stillness. Lazy trails of smoke curled over the rooftops — hearths, kitchens, something of the sort, most likely.

We were nearly at the walls now.

To our right, the sea roared, glinting like steel beneath a storm-churned, murky blue. The weather’s turning, I noted distantly.

I meant to ask — what now? — but the words died in my throat.

Then, as if echoing my thoughts, as if answering the unspoken question, a hollow whisper skittered over the stones:

…Aiyav me nnua-Lla rih…

A voice — what voice? I wasn’t sure if it had truly sounded or if it had only echoed inside my skull. I scanned our surroundings. Nothing but our force of two hundred — no one by the sea, no one on the cliffs. Yet the language was agonizingly familiar. The shape of the words, their sound — but not their meaning. I couldn’t translate them. They scattered like minnows fleeing a child’s grasping hands in shallow water. But I grasped… the sense of them. And I realized — before the shipwreck, I had known this tongue. I had spoken it. And in this language, I had commanded Bren to «stand.» It would have been: ahii.

I studied my companions’ faces — no, it seemed I had imagined it.

Predawn. Gray, dull, and the day beyond would be the same, surely—

No.

The sky split with dawn. Blood-red, murky — the storm would come.

Under that sky, the frozen city of Korfu looked truly monstrous.

…Tyur ku’vennol, air…

Again, that voice. I couldn’t have imagined it twice.

«Did you hear that?» I asked Tezvin, marching beside me. He wore the same baffled expression.

«What?»

«A voice. Some sorcerous trick of our enemy’s — right?»

«Heard a strange rumble, but it didn’t sound like a voice.»

We fell silent, listening to the sea wind’s howl.

«Damn this cursed place,» I muttered.

One of the mages signaled the halt. Mengor and the Kortuansk militia captain conferred with the spell-weavers, then relayed orders through the ranks. Mengor returned to us and repeated the plan:

«We split into squads of ten. Move in staggered order toward the walls — what’s left of them. Then we wait. They will meet us. If they attack, we hold formation, fight on command — until then, we maneuver.»

Small groups began peeling away from the main force, advancing swiftly toward the city.

«Move out!»

We followed. All that remained was to cross the field — charred, ash-choked, littered with scorched grass. Our forces obeyed, and the ashen waste before the gates stirred to life. We advanced.

Each squad moved as ordered: the left flank crept forward in short, sharp bursts, dropping low between advances; the right flank darted in sprints, eyes locked on the enemy, never pausing longer than three heartbeats. We mirrored them, adjusting our grips on weapons, readying for the final push to the walls — and the battle beyond. On the last furlongs, we tightened into marching ranks again, bracing to meet the enemy with full force.

«Ar-Aram!» The cry rang out nearby, followed by the clash of steel. The call repeated from different directions along the crumbled fortress walls. We had breached the city.

We attacked from the Cliffside Gate — from there, the fortress was barely ten minutes’ climb up the slope. But those ten minutes could stretch into eternity. From the fortress marched a formidable detachment of nel-du clad in bizarre armor — leather reinforced with strips and rings of metal. «When you strike, remember — their heart’s on the right.» I mentally thanked the nameless warrior who’d told me.

These nel-du wielded twin blades or sword-and-dagger with unnatural agility, yet fought with reckless abandon, as if drugged. They hurled themselves onto spears, batted aside glaives without looking — as though the weapons couldn’t harm them — and shrieked curses in mangled Kortuansk and some guttural, alien tongue I didn’t know.

The battle grew fierce. Despite the enemy’s mindless ferocity — no caution, no tactical maneuvering — we struggled.

«When you strike — »

A swing, a lunge, a strike!

The knowledge of their right-sided hearts proved rarely useful — a glaive slashes and cleaves, shearing off limbs and heads, not stabbing precisely. Dragonferry, as I’d dubbed the ancient glaive in my hands, danced effortlessly. And I — it turned out — had grown deeply fond of polearms. Or perhaps I’d always loved them, always known how to wield them.

The nel-du fought viciously. They fell, but not without claiming lives from our ranks. Yet somehow, we pressed forward, inching toward the castle courtyard. It struck me as odd. Had Ergesennalo truly chosen to indulge himself, holding his forces back?

I scarcely believed it — but the mages’ prediction came true.

He emerged. Passed through the fortress gates, loomed before us. Another detachment preceded him, armored like his warriors but richer, lacquered in intricate black designs. A spiked crown adorned his helm — crude yet unmistakable. I am power here. His face wasn’t hidden by a visor — just a simple nasal guard — yet for some reason, I couldn’t make out his features.

A haze seemed to coil before the mad conqueror’s face — the one who’d inexplicably summoned a demon from the Void.

Or was it my vision swimming?

A dull ache throbbed in my skull — not sharp, but lingering, vile, like a spiked rod twisting inside my cranium. I rubbed my eyes. The world trembled — as air shudders over a wildfire. I squeezed my eyelids shut, begging Ayulan: Grant me strength. I can’t afford weakness now!