Matabar

There were no flashes of torches or the light cast by lamps in the darkness. To orc eyes, the light of the full moon was enough to see as clearly as if it were daytime.

And as for Ardan...

He could see the outlines of their unusual steeds, one and a half times the size of the ones the humans rode. He saw their reins and spurs, the glint of their fangs and the gleam of their guns and axe blades.

The hunter’s heart started beating faster. Somewhere on his chest, the symbol left by Ergar glowed like red-hot metal.

There, in the night, his father’s killer was rushing toward him. One who had crossed the hunting paths of his people.

A knife appeared in Ardan’s hands all by itself, and menacing fangs showed from beneath his upper lip as he grinned fiercely.

He gripped his horse’s flanks so tightly with his legs that it gave a pitiful grunt in response, but it dared not move, sensing that its rider was no longer a man, but had turned into a wild beast.

A low growl escaped from the hunter’s throat, and he was ready to leap down the hill. Tonight, he would bring peace to his father’s spirit, and with a bloody harvest, wash his path clean.

The scent of blood hit his nostrils.

And that scent, for a moment, cleared the fog of his rage. Ardan looked down at the body of Tevona lying still, and his reason caught him just in time, forcing him to press down against his horse’s neck. A bullet whizzed past, right where his head had been a second before, vanishing into the night.

Part of him screamed that he should charge into the thick of the galloping horde, while the other half whispered Ergar’s lessons to him.

It was hard to say which part belonged to the man and which to the snow leopard.

“Ahgrat,” Ardan swore in the Fae tongue, casting one last glance at the approaching riders before turning and galloping back toward the camp.

“Orcs!” He shouted, yanking the reins and zigzagging as bullets whizzed past him, some even brushing the edges of his clothes. “Orcs! Riders! Orcs! Get to cover!”

The camp erupted into chaos.

Terrified mothers grabbed their confused children, who, like animals, caught the fear radiating from their parents. Men gripped weapons with shaking hands, though it was clear most had no idea what to do with them.

The situation was teetering on the edge of total collapse when someone began harnessing horses to a wagon, clearly planning to flee. But they were swiftly kicked to the ground by Yonatan, who had returned with most of the Cloaks and marshals.

“You won’t make it,” he hissed before turning to Ardan as he rode up. “How many, kid?”

Ardan recalled the moonlit steppe and the encroaching orcs.

“Around forty-five, maybe more,” his words made those standing nearby pale, and a few marked themselves with the sacred sign of the Face of Light. “They’ve got military rifles. They shot Tevona with one.”

“Motherfuckers,” Marshal Kal’dron growled, one hand gripping his reins, the other his revolver.

Yonatan exchanged a glance with Cassara and immediately began barking orders.

“Leave the wagons and carriages!” He shouted in a commanding tone. “Forget your belongings! Grab the children and get to the hill! Any man with guts — take up positions and form a perimeter behind cover! Your families are behind you!”

The settlers, stunned for a moment, snapped out of it when Cassara fired a revolver into the air.

“Move faster, mortals,” she said calmly, but it was as if a cloud of darkness spilled out from her lips, spreading its wings wide, covering the borders of the hill and the camp beneath it.

It was as if a wall of black mist rose around them.

Even Ardan’s sight, far keener than that of ordinary humans, couldn’t pierce this veil.

The gunfire from beyond suddenly stopped. It seemed even the orcs couldn’t see what was happening on this side of it.

But what was happening was still a mess. Women carried crying children up the hill, some screaming and reaching for their fathers. The fathers, laying out their rifles and ammo, climbed onto the wagon roofs or crouched under the carriages, trying to steady their trembling hands, which struggled to line up the sights of their weapons.

Ardan didn’t blame them.

He, too, if not for the image of the past gnawing at his mind, might have tried to hide as far and as deep as possible.

Steppe orcs — bandits — were the last thing any traveler in these lands wanted to encounter. And the deadliest.

“Well, now we know who wounded the Wanderer,” Yonatan spat and turned to Andrew. “Take your men, old man, and get up the hill. If they break through the barricades — shoot them. And if things get bad, shoot the women first.”

Marshal Kal’dron nearly choked.

“These are the Shanti’Ra,” Yonatan growled. “And you know as well as I do what they do to human women. Cattle have it better.”

Andrew swore foully, then turned and led his men toward the barricades of wagons.

“Katerina.”

“Yes, Captain,” the young woman nodded and followed the marshals.

“Don’t spare the ammo!” Yonatan called after her.

Without turning around, she raised her hand in an obscene gesture and disappeared behind the barricades.

All this time, Ardan’s eyes had been glued to the wall of darkness. He and Tevona had been standing watch a kilometer from the camp. She had been shot from about seven hundred meters away…Ardan didn’t even want to think about the possibility that there was a marksman as deadly as Katerina among the orcs, but that seemed to be the case. By now, more than half a minute had passed since the conversation had begun.

The orcs should have been here already. But the steppe, aside from the cries of children, was silent.

“Kid,” Yonatan snapped him out of his thoughts. “Dismount, grab your staff and book from Mart, and get up the hill. I don’t want to see or hear you. If shit goes south, run.”

Ardan thought he had misheard him at first, and when he didn’t react, Yonatan slapped him and grabbed him by the collar.

The Cloak, nearly yanking him out of his saddle, pulled him close. As Ardan looked into Yonatan’s eyes, he saw his pupils narrowing and elongating, becoming less and less human.

“Do as I say,” Yonatan growled, sounding much like a snow leopard himself.

“I can hel-”

“Don’t argue with me!” Yonatan barked. “Do you think this is a game? Every single person here is responsible for your safety, you fool! Their lives and their families’ lives hang in the balance!”

And in that moment, the realization hit Ardan — the puzzle pieces that had never quite fit before finally snapped into place. Why Yonatan had worked so hard to ensure his prisoner’s family was safe, why he had been willing to sell out Gleb so easily, why he had been ready to kill the marshals for him.

The answer was simple.

Ardan really was a valuable asset. So valuable, in fact, that the Second Chancery was willing to trade several of their own lives for his.

Nodding, Ardan turned his horse and rode toward Mart’s wagon.

“Kid,” Yonatan called after him. Ardan didn’t look back. “Watch your balls.”

By the time Ardan reached Mart’s wagon, a familiar voice rang out from the other side of the black veil, a voice he could never have forgotten even if he’d wanted to.

It was rough and heavy, like the growl of a wolf claiming its rightful prey. A wild, powerful voice, almost basking in the certainty of its own strength.

“Lawman,” roared the leader of the Shanti’Ra.

Dismounting beside Mart’s wagon, Ardan peered inside and found the mage huddled in a corner, a revolver resting in his hand.

Mart wasn’t shaking. He had pressed himself against the side of the wagon, watching through a small gap in the canvas. When he saw Ardan, he gestured to where his staff and book were, then motioned for him to lie down and keep quiet.

Ardan, still clutching his knife, strapped his grimoire to his belt, grabbed his staff, and lay down across from Mart. The mage’s boots were near his chest, and Ardan had to suppress a cough — the man clearly hadn’t washed in a while.

“Orc,” Yonatan’s deep voice boomed as he rode up to the edge of the dark veil.

“Shall we talk?”

Ardan pressed his face against the damp wood, eyes locked on the Cloak.

“What do I have to talk about with you, orc?” Yonatan spun his revolvers on his index fingers, as if he were showing off rather than negotiating with one of the most dangerous beings in the steppe. “You killed one of our people. There’s blood between us, orc. And I have someone who’s more than happy to collect that debt.”

“You mean the one who walks through the night?” The orc asked, speaking those last words in Fae. “My shaman assures me he can deal with her.”

“Well, let’s find out!” Yonatan laughed. “What’s the point in stalling? Or do you think I don’t know you’re surrounding us as we speak?”

Laughter erupted from the other side as well. Not just from the leader, but from the other orcs as well, a cacophony of barking that made them sound like a bunch of hungry wolves, sending a chill down Ardan’s spine. He clutched his knife harder, feeling its solid grip as if it were anchoring him to this moment, grounding him against the fear swirling all around him.

“And there’s nothing you can do about it, mutant,” the orc leader growled. “How many warriors do you have? Fifteen? I have nearly five dozen with me. Or do you think those travelers, hiding behind their wagons, can do us much harm?”

“They might take out a couple of you,” Yonatan smirked, clearly unfazed.

“And we’ll sing songs of their great hunt as we send them to the Sleeping Spirits!” The orc leader howled like a wolf, and soon, the other orcs joined in, their howls blending into a chaotic symphony that chilled the night air. Even from here, Ardan could feel the terror seeping into the camp, paralyzing the women and children on the hill. Some of the men, too, stood frozen with fear, the guns trembling in their hands.

“Alright, enough with the foreplay,” Yonatan barked, his grin vanishing. “Let’s get down to business.”

For a moment, there was only silence.

“You have something that belongs to us,” the orc’s voice rumbled through the veil of darkness. “My pack wounded the Wanderer. It is our rightful prey. You stole it.”

“That Wanderer, as I recall, was alive when we found him,” Yonatan adjusted his hat with the barrel of his revolver. “But I get what you’re saying, orc. If you wait a few minutes, I’ll bring you everything we took from the beast.”

“And then we’ll go our separate ways?”

“Exactly.”

The orc laughed again, deep and guttural.

“And what about that marshal girl?” The orc sneered.

“Let’s not dwell on the past,” Yonatan replied, spreading his arms out as if this were a simple negotiation.

The barking laughter came again, louder this time. And then a low, dangerous growl followed.

“I can smell you, son of a snow leopard,” the orc leader’s voice boomed, switching to a different language. A language Ardan had only heard from his grandfather. The language of the Matabar people. “I know you’re here.”

“Speak Imperial, you bastard!” Yonatan yelled, but the orc ignored him.

“Do you remember me?” The orc’s voice penetrated Ardan’s mind, each word hammering it harder than the last, speeding up his heartbeat as if it were a tribal drum. “I remember you watching that night. I remember how my hands took your father’s spirit. Do you remember how he cried like a female and called for you? And where were you, cub? Hiding...”

Yonatan raised his revolver, aiming toward the sound of the voice.

“This is your last warning!” He shouted.

“…just like you’re hiding now. Where is your courage? Where is your pride as a hunter, cub? Or are you weak? A coward? Pathetic? Is this the son of Hector Egobar? Is this the last of the mountain hunters? You have no hono-”

A gunshot rang out.

But the puff of smoke didn’t rise from Yonatan’s revolver. It came from Mart’s wagon.

And then the world erupted into chaos.

Yonatan, in one fluid motion, emptied both his revolvers into the veil of darkness, then drew his saber. Kicking off from his horse’s back, he leaped straight into the black wall. But before he even made contact with it, the veil erupted into violet flames and dissolved, revealing dozens of orcs.

Massive and powerful, none of them stood under two meters tall. Their bulging muscles looked like boulders. Some had green skin, others brown. But they all had one thing in common: their bare torsos and faces were adorned with white war paint. Some wore crossed ammo belts over their hairy chests, but most, like the leader with the burn scar on his face that was shaped like a child’s hand, wielded small axes.

Ardan, who had just pulled the trigger moments earlier, was no longer himself.

He leaped to the ground, tearing at the second skin someone had dressed him in. He raised his hand — no, his paw — and ripped it off, exposing his ragged fur to the winds of the steppe. His side throbbed from the wound that had yet to fully heal from his last hunt, but it didn’t matter.

He sniffed the wind. The air reeked of terrified beasts trampling the earth, frightened humans screaming behind him, and the smell of hunters who had come to claim his life.

But they were wrong.

It was he who would claim their lives.

That was the law of the hunt.

He dug his claws into the earth and bared his fangs.

He cared nothing for what was happening around him.

He didn’t notice Cassara, who was locked in battle with the only orc dressed in robes. Wielding a staff made of bone, the orc shaman muttered incantations, shaking strings of beads made from skulls, both animal and human. Each word seemed to pull at forces that had no place in this reality. Spectral figures and flashes of violet fire surrounded Cassara, but her expressionless face didn’t change as she ran her hand along the edge of her blade. Her black blood touched the weapon, and it ignited with dark flames.

The hunter also didn’t see how the orc leader tossed Yonatan aside as if he were nothing, sending him tumbling into a horde of orcs, where he fought in a frenzy, difficult to distinguish from his enemies.

The hunter paid no attention to the gunfire, the bullets releasing steel and death into the night. He didn’t even smell the gunpowder.

He only crouched lower to the ground, calling on it to aid him in the hunt, his eyes fixed on the neck of his prey — the one who’d dared to defile his father’s name.

“I will tear out your still-beating heart!” He roared.

The orc leader spread his arms wide, axes in each hand, and smiled as if this was what he had been waiting for all these years.

“Orak Han-da!” The orc bellowed back.

The hunter lunged, pushing off the ground with his hind legs. His body felt light and strong. The winters of fear were gone — those times when he had been young and weak, when his claws and fangs couldn’t pierce flesh.

The hunter didn’t know that he still looked mostly the same as before: lean, tall, with wiry muscles, but still not a true mountain hunter. He looked human, except he was wrapped in dense, blue smoke that swirled around the burning ground beneath his feet. He didn’t see how the smoke shaped itself into the form of a snow leopard. Nor did he notice the shift in his eyes as they went from amber to deep blue.

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The smoke-clad figure of the hunter darted across the moonlit steppe, every muscle in his body exploding with latent power. Dust clouds rose with each movement he made, catching the pale light and creating the illusion of a great cat running across mountain ridges. The white and black stripes on his “fur” shimmered, blending with the starry sky overhead.

In his path stood the orc, steady on his feet and immovable, like a stone. The twin axes in his powerful hands gleamed like curved fangs, their edges promising death. The orc flared his nostrils, watching the swift predator circling him with calm focus.

Finally, with a guttural roar, the snow leopard leaped, aiming for the orc’s unprotected side. But with surprising agility for his size, the orc parried with the flat of his axe, deflecting the swipe of the hunter’s claws. The resulting shockwave from the impact ruffled the “fur” of the leopard, who bounded away, only to prepare for another strike.

The hunt had only just begun.

The hunter’s attacks flashed like bursts of blue light, each swipe leaving tiny ice crystals in the air, which quickly evaporated amid the flames burning beneath his feet.

His strikes came relentlessly: slashes aimed at the legs, feints toward the throat, swift dashes to position him behind the enemy. Every movement, every step, every blow was calculated with such precision that dodging them seemed impossible.

But the prey didn’t dodge.

The greenish-brown blood of the orc slowly trickled down his flesh, intoxicating the hunter with its metallic sweetness.

And yet, the orc seemed unfazed. If anything, his grin widened, and a fire danced in his yellow eyes. His axes moved in tandem — one always attacking, the other defending. With a roar, the orc launched a low, sweeping strike, forcing the hunter to leap back, and his second blade sliced across the snow leopard’s haunch, the resulting blood joining the splashes of vitality painting the fiery night.

They tore and slashed at each other, becoming a whirlwind of flesh and steel. The hunter snarled and lashed out, trying to sink his fangs or claws into his opponent. The orc swung his axes, always finding the right moment to defend himself and the gap he needed to strike back.

But as the hunter, drenched in sweat and blood, lunged toward him once again, the orc’s sharp eyes caught a tremor in the leopard’s movements. The old wound on the hunter’s right side was bleeding heavily now, soaking his waist and legs.

Seizing the opportunity, the orc growled, and his axes briefly glowed with a faint light. The air around them condensed, forming a sphere that shot out toward the attacking hunter.

The sphere slammed into the snow leopard’s chest, sending him flying backwards and crashing into the ground with a sickening thud, blood pooling around him.

The hunter had felt a flash of searing pain but couldn’t understand what had hit him. He staggered to his feet, his flanks heaving, but his eyes remained locked on his prey. Even as burning pain surged through his body, the hunter’s spirit remained unyielding. With a deafening roar, he charged again.

Despite the wound, the snow leopard managed to land several more strikes. His sharp claws carved deep gashes into the orc’s arms and face. The orc’s hot, thick blood oozed from the fresh wounds, sizzling as it dripped onto the fiery ground beneath them.

But the orc’s ferocity only grew in response. With a guttural roar, he lunged forward, using his sheer size and brute strength to force Ardan on the defensive.

The roles in this deadly dance of flesh and steel had shifted.

The hunter had become the hunted.

Their shadows, elongated by the pale moonlight, flickered across the steppe in intricate patterns of life and death. The sounds of their battle — roars, grunts, the clash of lethal weapons — were drowned out by the surrounding chaos, but for the two of them, the rest of the world had vanished.

The snow leopard, sensing the growing danger, tried to retreat, looking for a gap, a moment to turn the tide in his favor. But the orc gave no quarter. He became a storm of steel and muscle, his axes spinning with relentless precision. With a powerful sweep, the orc knocked the hunter off his feet with the shaft of one axe, sending him sprawling to the ground.

In an instant, the orc was upon him, and the sharp blade of his second axe pressed against the snow leopard’s throat, pinning him to the ground.

Time seemed to slow.

The cold steel at Ardan’s throat, the orc’s labored breathing, the distant echoes of the battle — all of it fused into a single moment of intense struggle.

The hunter’s heart, which had been pounding like tribal drums just moments before, slowed, weakening under the weight of his pain and exhaustion. The symbol on his chest no longer burned. It had grown cold. The strength that had surged through his body was fading, giving way to the biting reality of his injuries. His body was covered in slashes, long and jagged, crisscrossing his torso and limbs. He felt their sting now more than ever.

The orc’s face, twisted into a grin of savage satisfaction, loomed over him.

“Hello there,” the orc rumbled, his yellow eyes gleaming in the moonlight. “Finally awake?”

Ardan tried to push the axe away, but his arms were too weak. The blade didn’t budge. He reached for his belt, searching desperately for his revolver or his grimoire. But both were gone.

Overwhelmed by a creeping sense of despair, he grabbed the orc’s wrist instead, his hands trembling as they encircled the orc’s thick arm. It took all his strength just to hold on.

“Long time, little hunter,” the orc rasped, his breath hot and foul. Despite the blood running down his chest and face, he showed no signs of fatigue. “How many years has it been? Twelve?”

“Eleven,” Ardan croaked, turning his head to avoid the orc’s gaze.

He couldn’t bear to look into the eyes of the one who had killed his father — the one he had sworn to kill in return. But what he saw was even worse: the camp was burning.

Most of the wagons and carriages were being consumed by fire, crackling and hissing like ravenous beasts. People screamed, some of them fighting, some dying. Orcs busted through the barricades with terrifying ease, pulling people from their hiding places and tearing them apart. The violence was savage, chaotic.

Ardan saw Anton Tavskiy get lifted off the ground by one of the larger orcs. The orc, grinning wildly, grabbed him by an arm and a leg and, with a brutal pull, tore the man in half. Blood sprayed through the air, and the orc raised his face toward it, laughing maniacally as he let it rain down on him.

Gunfire echoed from the hill where the marshals and the settlers were making their last stand. The bullets occasionally dropped an orc, but most either missed or grazed the massive creatures, who pressed on undeterred. Every now and then, a booming rifle shot from Katerina would take an orc’s head clean off, but even she couldn’t stop the tide.

Yonatan was still fighting, though he was now surrounded by fewer enemies. His body was covered in blood, his right arm hanging limply at his side as he swung a broken saber with his left.

Cassara was on her knees, bound by glowing green chains, facing the orc shaman. The shaman himself was missing half of his left arm and an eye, but it was clear that he had won their magical duel.

More orcs were climbing the hill, and though they were being shot at from the hilltop, it was only a matter of time before they reached the women and children.

“You think we’re monsters?” The orc growled in his face, leaning in so close that Ardan could feel his stinking breath.

“What else are you?”

The monster pressed down on his axe, nearly plunging the blade into the young man’s throat.

“You are mistaken, hunter,” the orc hissed. “We are the masters of this land. We are not the ones who came to pillage and ravage it. It was not we who trampled the sacred shrines, destroyed the temples of the gods, and called those who’d heard the first songs ‘abominations.’”

Ardan watched in silence as the orcs killed the men and cackled as they climbed the hill, ignoring the hail of lead that rained down on their bodies.

He didn’t notice the hot streams of moisture running down his cheeks. He wasn’t crying for himself, but for the weak and defenseless standing on the hill. The children… They’d been so funny and kind, playing with Cassara and never showing any fear of Ardan’s fangs.

“You pity them, hunter?!” The orc snarled, leaning in, his face inches from Ardan’s own. “The ones who butchered your people?! The ones who slaughtered every last mountain hunter?! You pity these usurpers and oppressors?!”

Ardan remained silent. He didn’t know what to say to this creature that reeked of pain and rage. Half of him belonged to the Matabar tribe, but only half. The other... The blood of his mother, Shaia, a descendant of the Kingdom of Gales, also flowed through his veins. And so it would always be.

Suddenly, the pressure of the axe eased and Ardan was able to breathe. Confused, he looked at the orc who had stepped away from him.

A few breaths were enough to clear his mind and he tried to listen to the wind and the fire, to hear their names.

“You’re just like your father,” the orc spat and stared into Ardan’s confused eyes. “You know nothing.” The orc laughed bitterly, harshly. “Nothing at all…”

The orc stepped over Ardan’s body, crossing his arms as he watched the burning camp.

“How do you think your father survived when the lawmen butchered the last of the Matabar?” The orc rumbled. “Do you think he survived on his own? No! My tribe, the Shanti’Ra, took him in. Ten winters he spent with us, learning to survive in the steppe. Learning our laws and customs. My father, the chieftain, accepted him as a son. And I… I accepted him as my blood brother.”

His father? Hector Egobar? The Imperial Ranger? He had spent ten years with the Shanti’Ra? Robbing, killing…?

No. Ardan couldn’t believe it. He refused to believe it.

The orc’s words shook him so deeply that the growing whispers of the fire in his mind faded away.

“You think I’m lying to you?” The orc snorted. “Your father’s teacher was Ergar, the Storm of the Mountain Peaks. And your name — Ardan — was chosen because that’s what your father wanted to name his first son. It means ‘Strong Roots’ in your people’s tongue.”

Ardan’s vision swam. He couldn’t breathe.

It was all lies.

The orc was lying.

He had to be.

“One day, we came across a caravan,” the orc continued, his voice distant and hollow. “They were hunting the last of the Storm Birds — a grave sin. We did what any true masters of their land would do when invaders come to desecrate it. We killed them all. Every last one. Men, women, children, and even their horses. We burned their bodies and buried their ashes in foul pits, so no memory of the defilers would remain.”

Ardan’s mind was blank. He lay there, staring numbly at the chaos before him.

“And your father… he was one of the fiercest warriors of the Shanti’Ra, Ardan,” the orc said, tracing a few scars on his chest with his fingers. “No man could escape Hector’s claws and fangs. But that day… he saved a child. Ran away with him. We never saw him again, until forty years later, when we learned that he had returned to the mountains. My tribe wanted to exact a blood price for his betrayal, but I…”

The orc fell silent. At that moment, one of the orcs climbing up the hill grabbed Andrew’s horse and snapped its neck, sending the marshal crashing to the ground. With a single kick, the orc crushed Marshal Kal’dron’s chest, killing him instantly.

The orcs were closing in on the remaining survivors, dragging women from their hiding places, hoisting children onto their shoulders, and laughing wildly as they ignored their pleas for mercy.

“Please…” Ardan whispered, his voice cracking. “Please spare them…”

“We asked for that once, Ardan,” the orc replied firmly. “When we were burned, killed. When they made necklaces out of our fangs. But no one listened to our pleas.”

Ardan’s gaze fell on Mart’s wagon, but the mage was gone. The wagon was empty.

“Why did you kill my father-” Ardan began, but was cut off.

“I killed him?” The orc whirled around, his yellow eyes burning with fury. “You dare desecrate your father’s memory, boy? Killing is something that is done sneakily, stealthily, from around corners. Without honor! Your father and I fought a duel! I gave your father a chance to walk away from the fight! But Hector chose the path of the warrior! He traded his life for the lives of human children! Orak Han-da!” The orc struck his chest twice with a fist, the impact resounding like a drumbeat. “Songs of your father’s honor and bravery will be sung as long as my tribe lives!”

Ardan’s gaze shifted to the children huddled on the hill, children he had laughed and played with for the last few weeks. He could hear their voices, filled with fear, and the sight of their small, innocent faces tightened the knot in his chest.

“Then take my life instead…” Ardan choked out.

The orc’s eyes flashed as he raised his axe again, this time hovering over Ardan’s throat.

“Do not tempt me, boy,” the orc growled. “I have waited for this moment. I thought that I would get to face a warrior, or at least a hunter worthy of the Egobar name. But what do I see before me? A kitten who does not even know who he is. And while I would gladly end your pitiful existence here and now, half-blood,” the orc spat the last word like a curse. “But when we saw the Wanderer, the spirits spoke to my shaman. They told him that a time would come when we would meet for a third time. That it would be a time of Great Songs.”

The orc drew a long knife with a handle made of ancient maple, its blade sharp and sturdy enough to cleave stone.

Ardan recognized that knife well.

It had belonged to his father.

“I no longer believe in the spirits or the shamans, Ardan,” the orc said, examining the blade before hurling it into the ground beside Ardan’s head. The blade sank deep into the earth, its handle pointing toward the sky. “Their words have led us to where we are now. But perhaps I am too old, or too weak-willed, to take the life of my sworn brother’s son. So, I give you one last chance.”

The orc stepped over Ardan and strode into the dark expanse of the steppe, leaving him lying there, the knife just within reach. It called to him, the worn handle of his father’s blade just an arm’s length away. He could grab it, leap to his feet, and stab the orc in the back.

But he didn’t.

“Not gonna strike me from behind? Maybe there’s something of the mountain hunters in you after all, Ardan, son of Hector,” the orc said, glancing back over his shoulder. “As before, the last of the Matabar, I will wait for you. If you prove strong and worthy, I will give you my name and my life.” With those final words, the orc raised his hands to his mouth and howled like a wolf.

The howls of the remaining orcs echoed his call, their voices rising as they tossed the women and children they had grabbed back onto the ground. Laughing and jeering, they hurled the wreckage aside, mockingly prodding at the men who had managed to survive. They snatched up the fur, claws, and teeth of the Wanderer, taking the flasks filled with its blood as well.

Then, with their fallen comrades and spoils in hand, they mounted their enormous steeds and vanished into the night. Within minutes, the camp was empty of orcs. Only their eerie howls lingered in the air, carried across the steppe by the wind.

Ardan lay in the dirt, blood pooling beneath him, staring blankly up at the sky. The full moon hung there, serene and indifferent to the carnage below.

“Become stronger. For your mother. For your brother. For yourself.” His father’s words echoed in his mind.

The handle of his father’s knife was now firmly in his grasp.

***

Ardan awoke at dawn, as the sky was set ablaze by the pink and orange hues of a new day. The colors were so bright, so vibrant that, for a moment, he thought he was still lying in the scorched ruins of the campfire. But it wasn’t the fire that had roused him.

Spitting out ash and soot, Ardan dragged himself away from the mound of debris, dust, and soil that had piled up on top of him. Gritting his teeth against the pain of his still-healing wounds — most of which had already started to close with fresh, pink skin by the end of the night, though they hurt no less for it — he clutched his right side, where the stitches from his old wound had been torn apart during the battle, leaving behind what would no doubt become a gruesome scar.

He walked toward the camp, or what was left of it.

Out of the two dozen wagons and carriages, only about a quarter remained. Three wagons and two carriages stood intact, and as Ardan moved through the camp, he saw the bodies of Marshal Kal’dron and the other marshals, the bodies of most of the Cloaks, and he even spotted the daughter of Anton Tavskiy, who was kneeling silently in tearless grief over her father’s remains. Ertas Govlov, along with his wife and surviving children, was weeping beside the body of his eldest son.

Dozens of bodies had been laid out in rows amid the ashes. Some of the surviving children had called out for their parents, only to be taken in by other families, though it was clear that the burden was heavy on them. How could they be blamed, when many of the women had lost their husbands in the raid and now faced the grim reality of traveling to Presny without help?

Ardan heard sobbing and murmurs in the distance. The tears had dried overnight, evaporating along with the smoke of the extinguished fires, and only the raw pain of those who had been left behind remained. It was a pain so intense, so palpable, that it seemed to crunch between Ardan’s teeth as he walked through the camp. He could feel it as surely as he felt the wind scattering the ashes.

Suddenly, Ardi felt like something... something was wrong. Like there was something lurking in that wind. Something...

Ardan stopped, reaching out to feel this ‘something’. Then, out of nowhere, Mart’s wagon appeared at the base of the hill, pristine and untouched, as if nothing had happened. And Mart himself was there, sitting beside it, looking completely unscathed.

No scratches. No burns.

Ardan didn’t know what came over him, but before he realized it, he had crossed the camp and seized Mart by the collar, lifting him off the ground.

“Why?!” Ardan shouted in the mage’s face. “Why didn’t you help?! You could have! You’re a mage!”

Mart’s eyes held no fear, only quiet regret.

“They were ordinary people, Ardi,” Mart said in a soft but matter-of-fact tone. “There are nearly four hundred million of them in the Empire. We mages have to prioritize…”

“Ordinary people,” Ardan whispered, his voice draining of emotion as he let Mart go.

He remembered the words of the orc, looking at Mart with a hollow gaze as the mage collapsed onto the ground.

“Ordinary people.”

Ardan laughed then. This was wild, uncontrollable laughter that racked his body so hard he nearly doubled over, clutching his stomach. He laughed and cried at the same time, unsure of which emotion was overtaking him.

He couldn’t stop.

Not until a cold hand was placed on his shoulder, silencing him.

“Come on, kid,” Cassara’s calm, lifeless tone came from behind him. “Let’s go.”

She went somewhere up the hill, where Ardan noticed that the surviving men, along with the remnants of the Cloaks and Yonatan, who was leaning on a crutch, were digging.

Ardan climbed into Mart’s wagon, retrieved his book and staff, and followed the vampire. Cassara, save for a few odd black streaks across her face and chest, looked better than the others.

“Don’t go with her, big guy,” Mart called out after him, a tremor in his voice as he nervously tugged at the edge of his coat. “You’re a mage. And you need to think like a mage. If you follow her… Don’t go.”

Ardan didn’t understand what Mart was saying, but he could feel that same sense of unease he’d had when he had faced the choice of letting the troll eat the bear cubs or risking everything to save them.

He looked at Cassara. She stood a few steps ahead, her face impassive as she stared into the distance. She wasn’t waiting for him. She wasn’t calling to him. She didn’t even say a word.

Ardan glanced at Mart one last time, then turned away in disgust.

Leaning heavily on his staff, he trudged up the hill after Cassara.

“This is a foolish choice, kid,” she said quietly as he caught up to her. “With him, you’d have had a simple, bright future.”

Ardan said nothing as he continued climbing.

“But now I can see that you truly are Aror’s great-grandson,” she added, her voice barely above a whisper.

Yonatan looked at him grimly as he approached but said nothing. Instead, he handed Ardan a shovel, and together, they dug graves until nightfall, burying the dead as their families finished saying their final goodbyes. When the last farewell was spoken, they filled in the graves with earth, marking each one with triangular symbols made from rope and charred wood — the sacred sign of the Face of Light.

Ardan forced himself not to think. He would just dig, fill, tie the symbols together. Over and over again. No thoughts. Just the mechanical work of his hands.

When the stars finally appeared in the sky, he didn’t even remember how his day had passed.

He stood there with the others, gazing at the fresh graves, the weight of his thoughts finally catching up to him. He remembered his great-grandfather’s tales.

He recalled the stories Aror had told him about the Matabar. How, after their deaths, the souls of their people would transform into their spirit forms and continue to live in the mountains of the Alcade. How they would become one with the wind, the rivers, the earth, and the stars.

In school, Ardan had learned that in the religion of the Face of Light, souls would turn into light and then be carried by the Eternal Angels back to their Creator.

He pondered this for a while, and then Cassara led him away. There they sat on the ground, along with a lurching Yonatan, who put aside his crutch, and three more Cloaks — that was all that was left of their group.

“Katerina,” Yonatan called out, his voice raspy from exhaustion.

“Yeah?” She answered, perched on a rock, her rifle laid across her lap.

“Tell a joke or something.”

Katerina blinked in surprise, then shrugged. “Alright, fine. So, a human, a dwarf, and an elf walk into a bar-”

“No, stop!” Yonatan interrupted, raising his hand. “I changed my mind.”

The group fell silent again, sitting there in the dark, sharing a rare moment of stillness.

“Cassara,” Yonatan muttered after a while.

“What?”

“Sing.”

“You know I don’t like singing, Ivan,” she replied, turning her gaze toward the stars.

“My father’s name was Ivan, not mine. Sing already, bloodsucker.”

The vampire gazed at the stars and began to sing. And the sound made Ardi’s heart skip a few beats. It was probably true that no human could sing like that. It was as if the wind were tinkling in the mountains, or the rivers were rumbling gently, or perhaps a bird was soaring through the sky, gliding along paths only it could see.

Cassara’s voice could not be described.

Only heard.

And Ardan listened.

I fought for home, for the land that gave me light,

That warmed my soul and filled my heart with pride.

But in the battle, we faced defeat’s cold bite,

And bitter tears can’t wash away that tide.

Now I roam through valleys and through plains,

I serve the one who was my fiercest foe.

But my heart is torn by the lingering pains —

Will I ever see my homeland, ever know?

I’ve seen the seas, the mountains, and the skies,

I’ve heard the whisper of the wind on sand.

But still, the scars of loss linger before my eyes,

My love and home left in a distant land.

Now I roam through valleys and through plains,

I serve the one who was my fiercest foe.

But my heart is torn by the lingering pains —

Will I ever see my homeland, ever know?

I wish that someday I could find my way,

Back to the land where I know they wait for me.

To see those views that took my breath away,

But time moves on, and years run endlessly.

Now I roam through valleys and through plains,

I serve the one who was my fiercest foe.

But my heart is torn by the lingering pains —

Will I ever see my homeland, ever know?

There is no peace, and now my path is long,

I’ll never find the truth I’m longing for.

Yet still, I dream, though hope may soon be gone,

That maybe one day I’ll return once more.

“That was a shitty song, Cassara.”

“I’m sorry, Yonatan.”

The Cloak just waved her off and lay down again. Ardan followed his example — he lay down on the ground and placed his staff beside him, inhaling the scent of the oak that reminded him of home, which now seemed so far away...

A shitty song indeed…

With that thought, the young man fell asleep.

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