Kaisar's courtyard seethed like an anthill. The aul's inhabitants bustled to and fro, hauling sacks, baskets, bundles. Some carried smoked meat, some dried flatbreads, some bundles of arrows. Women brought warm kaftans and sheepskin coats, elders—flasks of koumiss and pouches of herbs.

  Ayan stood in the midst of this chaos, motionless as a stone idol. People approached him—held out supplies. He touched them, and the items vanished. Without sound, without flash. Simply dissolved into air. One of the children stood beside him the entire time and had already ceased to marvel at how many things this strange, sullen orc could fit in his ring. A woman tugged him by the sleeve, hissed something about rudeness when he began pestering the lad with questions.

  To one side, by the house entrance, Orgatai stood surrounded by a ring of aksakals and adult men who'd remained in the aul. Voices merged into a hum—insistent, anxious.

  "Oroke, you can see for yourself—you're barely standing on your feet!" One of the elders, hunched, with a sparse grey beard, jabbed a bony finger towards Orgatai. "The road will kill you before you see Ainur!"

  "Let it kill me," Orgatai cut back. His voice sounded hollow but firm. "There or here—I don't care where anymore."

  "Foolishness!" Another man, younger, with a broad face and short braids, tried to step between Orgatai and the elders. "Stay! You're needed here! If the ogres raid, who'll lead us?!"

  "There'll be someone; you weren't even counting on me before." Orgatai pushed him aside—not roughly, but decisively. "I have only one granddaughter. Only one. Understand?! No one else! And I'm going to save her. Will save her. Whatever the cost."

  Nearby, by the pen, Kairat was waging his own battle. His four mothers surrounded him in a tight ring. The youngest, his birth mother, a thin woman with a sharp nose, clutched his sleeve.

  "Don't you dare!" She hissed, clinging to his sleeve with both hands. Her fingers dug into the fabric so hard her knuckles whitened. "Your father's already gone! You're the eldest son! You stay!"

  "Let go, Mother," Kairat tried to wrench his arm free, but the movement came out irresolute, weak—he didn't want to hurt her. But his second mother, a stout woman with a broad face furrowed with wrinkles, had already seized his other arm, gripping his wrist with unexpected strength.

  "They'll manage without you!" His third mother's voice rang piercingly, the youngest of all. Her black braids were untouched by grey yet, and her face was flushed from unshed tears. "Your father has enough warriors! How many went?! Fifty?! You'll definitely be useless there! And who'll stay here to defend our home?! Bekzat?! He's still a child! Or do you think your sisters will manage alone?!"

  "Yes!" Kairat snarled, jerking harder and nearly breaking free. His voice cracked into a shout. "And that's enough! My father may need my help! He's going to war, do you understand that or not?!"

  But his mothers didn't let go. They held on tight, desperately, as though fearing he'd vanish right now—dissolve into air like those supplies in the hands of that strange silent lad who stood nearby, continuing to calmly store bundles in his ring.

  His fourth mother, the baibyshe, silent till now, finally spoke—quietly but weightily. "If you leave, Kairat, we'll be here alone. Completely alone."

  But the young orc wouldn't relent—and so strong, so burning was his desire to fight side by side with his father, to save his brother, to tear him from the clutches of darkness and death, that he dared argue even with her—with the baibyshe, whose word in the family was law, whose voice could stop quarrels with a single look.

  "He needs me!" He cried out, and his voice wavered on the final word.

  "Don't be so arrogant!" The baibyshe cut back, and steel rang in her voice. She stepped closer; her gaze darkened, became heavy, almost reproachful. "Do you really think your father can't manage without you? That he's so weak he needs help from a greenhorn who only yesterday learnt to hold a spear?"

  Kairat jerked as though struck. His mothers' hands still held him firmly, but he no longer tried to break free. He only looked away, jaw clenched so tight his cheekbones worked.

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  "Yernazar needs me!" He cried out in desperation, and his voice broke into a shout, into a crack that sliced the air sharper than any blade.

  The baibyshe froze. His other mothers fell silent too. All three exchanged quick glances—wordless but eloquent.

  "Oh, son..." The baibyshe sighed heavily, deeply, and her voice softened, became almost tender—the way she spoke to children when they woke at night from nightmares, tormented by evil spirits. Only now did she understand all the feelings overwhelming the lad, all the storm raging in his chest and tearing to get out.

  He wasn't the natural son of her husband—no, he was the son of his late elder brother, Bolat, who'd departed this world accompanying Kaisar's mother on pilgrimage. But Kaisar had never made distinctions between him and his own eldest son—Yernazar. Never. He had no stepsons—only sons, all equal before their father's eyes. For this Kairat was grateful to his father—grateful so deeply he couldn't find words to express the feeling directly, and poured all his feelings, all his love and devotion onto his younger brother.

  Though this had never stopped him from chasing Nazar round the yard, teasing him, staging playful scuffles in which the elder always won whilst the younger always laughed, even if a fist landed in his ribs. And their father encouraged any such formative processes—provided they flowed from elder to younger, provided they tempered rather than broke.

  "What happened isn't your fault..." The baibyshe spoke quietly but weightily, and each of her words settled in the soul like stone upon stone. "Trust your father and Orgatai—they'll manage. They'll bring him back. And you have your own responsibility, son. Right now you answer for all of us, for everyone your father left here, trusting in you. He believes in you. Don't fail him."

  Kairat froze. His breathing faltered; a lump rose in his throat. He clenched his fists so hard his nails dug into his palms, leaving red crescents on his skin.

  Not wanting to show his tears, not wanting anyone to see how they burnt his eyes and clouded his vision, he turned sharply away from his mothers and looked aside—towards where stood the young orc who'd come with old Orgatai. That very silent wanderer who stored supplies in his ring as though it were the most ordinary thing.

  Ayan meanwhile had finished his work. The final bundle—a thick woollen blanket, coarsely woven by local craftswomen—vanished in his palms as though it had never existed. He straightened, ran his palm down his face, wiping away invisible weariness, then slowly turned and swept his gaze across the courtyard.

  The crowd still hummed. Some sorted equipment, some argued in hushed tones, women bustled by the fence. The air was thick with breath, with the smell of leather, metal and cold. Ayan regarded it all with detachment, as though seeing not people but a mechanism in which each part had to work smoothly—or break.

  Then he headed for Orgatai.

  His steps were inaudible in the general hum of voices and crunch of snow, but the old man, as though sensing something by instinct, felt the approach and turned round. His wrinkled face was impassive, but something like readiness flickered in his eyes—readiness to hear what he already knew himself.

  "We can stand about here another two or three days," Ayan said calmly, as though discussing not life and death but the weather or the harvest. "But better to prepare the ambush in advance. Whilst there's time."

  Orgatai straightened—as far as his broken back allowed. His gaze became sharp as a spear point.

  "We leave immediately!" His voice rang out as a command, sharp and brooking no objection.

  He swept his gaze across the crowd, lingered on the aksakals standing solemnly before him, then shifted his attention to the youth clustering at the yard's edge. They immediately stirred, hearing his words, straightened, ready to tear off this very instant.

  "Only the two of us!" He added, and his voice became even harsher, like a hammer blow on an anvil. "Do you hear? The two of us!"

  Azamat stepped forward, shouldering aside two lads standing nearby. He opened his mouth, ready to say something—to object, to suggest, to demand—but Orgatai raised his hand, stopping him with this gesture alone.

  "No," the old man cut back. "If I take anyone else from the aul when the best have already left with Kaisar, I'll doom everyone else to death. Ogres can raid at any moment. Every man's needed here. Every one! Understood?"

  The youth froze. Azamat clenched his fists till his knuckles whitened; his lips trembled, but he remained silent. Didn't argue. Knew it was useless.

  "The sooner we begin, the sooner we finish," Ayan said, retrieving from his ring a thin scroll and holding it out to Orgatai.

  The old man took the parchment with both hands—carefully, as though holding not simply paper but something living, fragile. His fingers trembled barely noticeably, but his gaze remained firm. He knew too well what this was. He'd seen such scrolls more than once—in the hands of merchants, military commanders, but never in his own. A costly thing. Rare. Capable of transporting an entire detachment to any place in Seratis in one instant.

  He closed his eyes, inhaled deeply and slowly began visualising the place where they had to go. A familiar place—he'd passed there more than once, as there was no other road. Back then his back had been straight, his stride firm. That was precisely where the order's caravan would pass. Precisely where it could be stopped.

  The image surfaced in his head gradually—at first blurred, like a memory in a dream, then ever clearer, ever sharper. Steppe covered with snow. A narrow gorge. Cold eating into the bones. Orgatai saw it all so distinctly, as though he already stood there, felt beneath his feet the snow's crust and heard the whistle of wind.

  When the image had finally fixed itself in his consciousness, he broke the wax seal with one sharp movement and unrolled the parchment.

  The air before him trembled.