A moment later, the old man exhaled, allowing his fingers to relax slightly around the saadak. There was no danger. No dust from hooves, no black shadows of enemies on the horizon. The valley lay before him quiet, bathed in sunlight, only the wind bending the grass in waves that ran towards the mountain foothills. The sky stretched cloudless, so deep and clear it seemed if he reached out, his fingers would drown in the blueness.

  Orgatai immediately noted that this time trouble had passed their aul by. The general hubbub and noise had been caused not by an enemy raid nor, heaven forbid, ogres, but by something else entirely.

  All this commotion, all the noise that had burst into their quiet yurt, originated somewhere closer—from the aul's inhabitants. Voices carried from the direction of the central square, where people usually gathered for celebrations. Children's laughter sliced through the air with sharp notes of joy. Somewhere a horse whinnied, and someone answered with a loud cry—not threatening but cheerful, almost playful.

  He listened more attentively: laughter, exclamations, the sound of running feet, distant snatches of speech. Someone was shouting something about arriving guests. It seemed a festive event was planned in the aul. Orgatai involuntarily smiled. His heart, still clenched with anxiety, gradually thawed, though a dull heaviness remained in his chest—the memory of fear that had flared so easily, so instantly.

  "Eh, old fool," he muttered, returning the cover over the bowstring to the shaft. His fingers moved in a familiar gesture, perfected over decades. "Still waiting for misfortune to justify your thoughts?"

  The saadak, warmed by his palm's touch, seemed like a reproach. Years of peace hadn't erased the habit of reaching for weapons at the first suspicious sound. Perhaps this was for the best—a warrior's instinct doesn't die, even when the body refuses to serve.

  Turning and intending to return to his interrupted task, he encountered his granddaughter, who was running from their dwelling already with bow in hand. Only unlike his saadak, she kept her weapon always ready for use—string taut, arrow ready in her fingers. Her bow's shaft was lighter, younger, but carved and glued with the same care. After all, it was she who had to somehow support their household.

  Three times a week she invariably set out hunting in the settlement's surroundings, returning with hares, partridges, badgers and once even a young deer.

  Her eyes burned with anxiety, whilst a flush appeared on her cheeks—not from embarrassment but from readiness to act. Her braids, plaited that morning, had come loose, escaping from beneath her headscarf.

  "Ata, what's happening?"

  He raised his hand, stopping her impulse.

  "Nothing terrible, kyzym. Some celebration. Guests have arrived."

  The rider appeared unexpectedly—in a whirl of dust and thunder of hooves. The horse flew at full gallop, and the youth's voice cut through the air long before he drew near.

  "Aksakal! Aksakal! Suiynshi! Suiynshi!"

  Orgatai squinted, peering at the galloping messenger. Human. Young, judging by his voice and seat. The horse ran beneath him without a saddle, only a bridle and a bold rider, but the lad held himself confidently, as though he'd grown into the mount's back.

  Orgatai and Ainur's yurt stood at the very edge of the aul, where pastures gave way to settled dwellers' stone houses. There was nowhere further to ride—only grassy valley and sparse thickets of bushes at the hills' foothills. Orgatai and his granddaughter were the only ones living in a felt home. The old man had never owned a dwelling in the aul. The occupation to which he'd dedicated his life didn't imply settlement. Why would a warrior need a solid house? A yurt, horse and weapons were sufficient.

  The rider sharply reined in his horse right at the threshold. The animal whinnied, rearing up, but the lad dismounted in one smooth movement, as though diving from a wave's crest. Without losing an instant, he pressed his right hand to the left side of his chest and bowed low.

  "Aksakal! A baksy is coming to our aul!"

  Orgatai slowly straightened, leaning on his bow. Something stirred inside—not from joy, rather from bewilderment.

  "What noisy boy is this? Does one ask suiynshi for such news? Since when did a baksy's visit to an aul begin counting as good tidings?"

  Baksy came when spirits demanded it. When the earth ailed. When it was necessary to conduct a rite or dispel a curse. There was little joyful in that.

  Aloud he spoke calmly, somewhat hoarsely:

  "I fear my health won't allow me to meet the esteemed Zhalgaztur. So you'll have to escort Ainur yourself, so at least she can express respect from our family."

  The old man knew no other baksy besides the mentioned Zhalgaztur. Not counting various charlatans and deceivers, but those don't live long—orcs don't forgive games with spirits.

  Azamat—for that was the lad's name—broke into a smile, and Orgatai instantly understood everything. The boy looked at Ainur as though she were not an orc maiden but light in the steppe night. His eyes lit up when he cast a quick glance at the girl, who still gripped her bow.

  "With pleasure, aksakal!"

  Orgatai sighed. A puppy in love. And a human at that. In the world of Seratis this held no significance—here racial prejudice didn't exist. Just as in reality.

  Religious prejudices were also not observed. Faith was unified for all in the Ether, not only Seratis: the twelve gods of the pantheon, and worship of one implied belief in all the rest. People in reality had long forgotten the word "God", but in-game they gave themselves to faith with all their ardour, sometimes transferring game deities to Earth as well.

  On the other hand, class and caste prejudices flourished here. From another perspective, having obtained certain status, anyone could count on protection from their craft or guild. Players, moreover, could join clans.

  Ainur nodded silently, returning the arrow to her quiver. Her gaze slid across Azamat—not coldly, but without particular interest either.

  Darting into the yurt, Ainur returned the bow to its proper place. Her hands glided across her hair, tucking wayward strands beneath her headscarf. Her fingers worked quickly, practised—no time to replait the braid, but at least she could make herself presentable. A final tug, the knot tightened, and she ran outside.

  In one fluid movement she leapt onto Zhuldyz's back. The skirt's folds smoothed themselves and seemed to cover the mare entirely—the young orc maiden sat astride the unsaddled horse, gripping the animal with both legs. Everyone around rode that way, not only men or warriors. Such a seat wouldn't surprise the Torki. Her grandfather, despite many prohibitions, approved of this.

  Leaning from the horse, she kissed the old man's cheek and said:

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  "Thank you, ata, I won't be long, I promise."

  Urging Zhuldyz with her legs, she galloped towards the aul, where all the other inhabitants had already begun gathering. Azamat had no intention of falling behind and caught up with her within a minute. The lad was happy simply from the thought that he rode knee-to-knee with Ainur. The wind tore at their hair, the horse beneath him breathed evenly, and the girl beside him—what else did he need?

  The latter regretted that she hadn't had time to put on her beloved silver earrings, which had come to her from her deceased mother. Semi-circular, with droplet-shaped pendants. Simple but elegant. Mother had worn them always—even when going for water, even when kneading dough. Ainur kept them in a felt pouch, hidden in the bedding's folds. She couldn't afford to miss such an event, but to meet the baksy without a single ornament seemed disrespectful.

  "Never mind," she thought, pressing her lips together. "The baksy sees the heart, not the ears."

  The aul spread before them—stone houses roofed with turf or tiles, narrow lanes winding between them. Smoke rose from chimneys, the smell of fresh bread mingling with the aroma of boiled meat. Somewhere a dog barked, somewhere children shouted. The square in the centre was already filling with inhabitants—men, women, elders. Some led children by the hand, some simply walked with hands folded behind their backs.

  Mainly orcs could be encountered here, but humans, land-dwellers and representatives of other species were present in abundance. The aul was settled, after all, nothing surprising. Now in the steppe it was a different matter—there, apart from orcs, you wouldn't find anyone with a light in daytime, except perhaps humans. The latter would take root anywhere, if not them, then their descendants.

  Ainur pulled on the reins, slowing Zhuldyz. The mare snorted but obeyed, slowing her run to an even trot. Azamat beside her did the same, but his gaze darted between her and the crowd ahead.

  "Do you really think it's Zhalgaztur?" Ainur asked without turning her head.

  "Who else? I don't know any other baksy."

  "Neither do I."

  She peered ahead, where the edge of the square was already visible. People stood in a circle, leaving an empty space in the centre. No one was there yet, but all looked in one direction—towards the road leading from the valley into the mountains.

  "There!" Azamat pointed ahead. "Look!"

  Ainur squinted. In the distance, where the road wound between stones, a figure appeared. Tall, massive, moving with measured step. A cloak billowed in the wind, and in hand could be seen a staff—long, topped with something that fluttered in the wind and gleamed in the sunlight.

  The young people dismounted, throwing their reins over the nearest fence. The wood creaked under the weight of the leather straps but held. The horses snorted, shaking themselves after the gallop, but remained in place—well-trained, accustomed to commotion.

  Ainur and Azamat hurried towards the crowd, pushing through the wall of backs and shoulders. The smell of sweat, leather and smoke enveloped them. Someone nudged with an elbow, someone stepped aside, letting them through. The youth had clustered in a separate group slightly apart from the adults—excited, noisy, conversing in short phrases.

  "Is it really him?"

  "Baksy don't walk about for no reason!"

  "Perhaps the rukhs commanded him?"

  "Maybe war's begun?"

  "Would he care about wars?"

  Ainur wedged herself into their circle, looking around. Azamat positioned himself nearby, craning his neck to get a better look at the figure on the road. The baksy approached unhurriedly, as though time flowed differently for him. The staff swayed behind his back in measured rhythm—one, two, three. The cloak glided across the grass, leaving an invisible trail behind.

  "Does anyone know why he's come?" someone muttered to the left.

  No one answered.

  Their conversation hadn't gained momentum before everyone suddenly fell silent. The baksy materialised right before them—he hadn't approached, hadn't emerged from around a corner, but simply appeared where a second ago there'd been only air and dust. The staff that found itself in his hand struck the ground, and that sound rolled across the square like a drumbeat.

  Zhalgaztur stood enormous, broad-shouldered, with a long ginger braid thrown over his shoulder. Tattoos wound across his arms and neck, showing through his skin in clear lines. His eyes—blue as a mountain lake—slid across those gathered, lingering on no one.

  The crowd shrank back. Some crouched, some lowered their gaze. Children froze, burying their faces in their mothers' skirts.

  What followed didn't imprint itself strongly in their heads.

  Ainur and Azamat exchanged glances as the crowd began dispersing. Around them the youth still talked excitedly, pointing fingers in the direction where the baksy had departed in the aul head's company.

  "Did you see how he put him in his place?" Azamat breathed out, his eyes alight. "The priest didn't even manage to open his mouth!"

  "He did," Ainur corrected, pursing her lips. "Only there was no use in it..."

  Nearby, a land-dweller lad, Azamat's friend, chuckled.

  "Of course! Comes with his sermons, as though we understand nothing here. And the baksy just—bam!—put him in his place."

  "That's right," an orc woman older than Ainur chimed in, folding her arms across her chest. "Bet he'll sit quieter than water for a week now."

  Laughter rippled through the group. Someone mimicked the priest, pursing their lips and puffing out their chest, portraying his haughty bearing. Others joined in, and within moments all the youth were enacting a scuffle, jostling with elbows and pulling faces.

  Ainur didn't participate. She looked towards where Zhalgaztur had disappeared—there, where houses pressed closer together, where smoke from chimneys rose thicker. Kaisar's house stood in that direction, massive, stone-built, with a wide yard and a smithy at the back wall.

  "And still, why did the baksy come to us? That priest interrupted him at the most interesting part..."

  The question stuck in her throat, unspoken. Nearby, Azamat continued enthusing, retelling the scene for the third time, as though those around hadn't witnessed it themselves.

  "...and how he looked at him! Did you see his gaze? And his aura? When he released it, the earth, I swear, trembled!"

  "It didn't tremble," a girl to the right muttered. "You're making it up."

  "It trembled! Ask anyone!"

  Ainur turned away, making her way through the crowd to where she'd left Zhuldyz. The mare stood calmly, chewing a tuft of grass pulled from beneath the fence. Ainur ran her hand along the warm neck, listening to the voices behind.

  The youth still laughed, talked, slapped each other on the shoulders. As though they themselves had stood up to the priest. As though their words had made him fall silent and retreat.

  "Fools," she thought, but without malice. "Tomorrow they'll forget, and the day after they'll remember only what suits them."

  Azamat caught up with her, out of breath.

  "Aiym, are you leaving already?"

  "Don't call me that! Ata is waiting."

  "But..." He hesitated, shifting from foot to foot. "Maybe you'll stay? We'll light a bonfire in the evening, talk..."

  She shook her head, vaulting onto Zhuldyz.

  "Another time, Azamat."

  He nodded, hiding disappointment behind a dutiful smile.

  Ainur turned the mare and set off, leaving behind the noise, laughter and proud talk of those who'd done nothing.

  The yurt greeted her with coolness and semi-darkness. Orgatai sat in his former place, handling a bone comb—mending the teeth, smoothing chips. He didn't raise his gaze immediately, waited until she'd adjusted her headscarf and put on her apron.

  "Well?"

  Ainur approached the hearth, crouched and began stirring the coals with a poker. Flames flared, licking the blackened bottom of the pot.

  "Our mol-la decided to show off before the baksy," she tossed out without turning, adding dry firewood. "Started pontificating about the gods, about how the rukhs are heresy. Zhalgaztur shut him down so thoroughly he didn't dare open his mouth again."

  Orgatai chuckled, continuing to scrape the comb.

  "And that's all?"

  "That's all..."

  Waiting for the water to boil, she took out a pouch of grain, poured a handful into the pot, added water from the waterskin. The porridge hissed, bubbled. Ainur stirred with a wooden spoon, breaking up lumps.

  "The baksy went to the basy. Before that he did start saying something about spirits and their message, but the priest interrupted. Now no one knows why he came."

  The old man set aside the comb, rubbed the bridge of his nose.

  "Then we'll find out later."

  The porridge proved bland—not enough salt, but grandfather kept silent, ladling up the thick mass. Orgatai chewed slowly, methodically, washing it down with cold water from a wooden cup. Yesterday's beef, tender with streaks of fat, lay on a wide wooden plate between them.

  "Ata," she began, not lifting her eyes from the pot. "Maybe enough already? You can see I'm not weak. I manage with the bow, with the horse. Give me a chance."

  The old man's fingers froze on a piece of meat.

  "No."

  "Why?"

  "Because no."

  She clenched her teeth, set down the spoon.

  "Ata, I'm not asking you to make me a warrior. Just teach me to defend myself. At least the basics. You said yourself—the world is dangerous."

  "I did." Orgatai tore off a piece of meat with his teeth, chewed, swallowed. "And therefore I don't want you going where danger seeks you out itself."

  "But—"

  "I said no." His voice grew firmer. "I've had enough losses, kyzym. Enough."

  Ainur clenched her fists beneath the table but kept silent. The old song. The same wall.

  She was about to resume their long-standing argument with renewed force, but then they were interrupted...