The tension between them hung almost tangible, like a drawn bowstring ready to snap at the slightest movement. The air around them thickened, grew heavy. The aul dwellers gathered at the square's edge froze—some stopped breathing, some gripped their blade hilts tighter, ready to intervene should the basy command it. The order's archers exchanged glances, fingers sliding to bowstrings, but none dared draw them. The knights standing behind Thorgrim leant forward—barely noticeably, but the movement didn't escape Kaisar. Scabbards tilted slightly, gleamed in the torchlight.

  "You may want, but you cannot command me," Thorgrim said coldly.

  Kaisar's grin widened. His fangs bared completely.

  "Step out from behind these lads," he nodded towards the tense, moustached spearmen gripping their shafts with fingers whitened from strain. "And we'll settle who can do what to whom."

  Behind the basy came a rustle—one of the aul's warriors shouted approval, someone stepped closer, supporting their chief. The wind died, as though nature held its breath, awaiting who would break first. Snow no longer whispered on the slopes. Even the horses left in the camp stopped stamping their hooves and jerking their halters.

  "Easy to throw words about when you know your opponent's hands are tied," Thorgrim responded coldly, changing neither tone nor stance. "Easy to flare your nostrils and bare your fangs when facing a man who cannot violate his order's code. Isn't that so, basy?"

  The words came evenly, measured, as though the knight were reciting a prayer. No mockery in his voice, no fear—only cold statement of fact. He didn't even stir, stood like a stone statue, arms still folded across his chest, chin slightly raised.

  Gazes locked—the orc's green eyes blazing with fury against the knight's grey eyes, calm and hard as steel. Neither blinked. Neither looked away first. Between them seemed to stretch an invisible thread, drawn to its limit, trembling with tension.

  Blood pounded in Kaisar's temples; the beats echoed in his ears with a dull drumming. Heat rose from within, spreading in waves across his chest, across his broad shoulders, flowing down his arms to clenched fists, demanding immediate action, a forward lunge, a strike that would resolve everything in one movement.

  "Your choice, dog," Kaisar snarled through clenched teeth, baring his fangs again in a predatory grin. "But I'm not leaving without answers. You can hide behind your code till winter's end—I don't care. Sooner or later I'll get what's mine."

  Ulrik stepped aside, moved closer to Thorgrim—not ahead, but beside him, at arm's length. His hand settled on his sword hilt but didn't grip—simply rested, ready to fly into action at any moment. The other knights repeated his movement, forming a semicircle round the decarch. The aul dwellers responded in kind—ranks closed tighter, those who'd occupied the rooftops raised their bows slightly higher, arrows already nocked on strings.

  "And you got them. As I said, two of my knights brawled right inside the temple. Besides, a message came from the master—we're ordered to return. So by tomorrow evening we'll be gone from your aul."

  Kaisar took another step forward, closing the distance between himself and the decarch by another body length. The frozen earth crunched beneath his heavy sole; the sound carried in the tense silence like the crack of breaking bones. The icy crust beneath his boot fractured in a web of cracks; shards of ice sprayed to the sides. Breath escaped in clouds of vapour; his chest heaved steadily and heavily, like a blacksmith's bellows.

  "What's this, dog?" Kaisar snarled, and his voice sounded lower, more dangerous, filled with barely restrained fury. "Tucked your tail and decided to run? Simply leave me like nothing happened?"

  The basy was working himself up in earnest—heat rose from within in waves, flooded his chest and shoulders, spread through his veins like molten metal. The pounding in his temples grew louder; a red haze began creeping across his vision. His hands reached for his weapon of their own accord; his muscles demanded action, release of this tension that had been building since the conversation began.

  The knights' fingers on their sword hilts tensed; tendons stood out beneath their skin. One of the young spearmen licked his lips—nervously, hastily. Another swallowed; his Adam's apple jerked up and down. Behind the basy, one of the aul's warriors drew his sabre; metal rang out.

  "We can settle our differences at another time. Don't forget—you gave your word to Zhanbolat."

  Hearing this, Kaisar clenched his jaws so hard the grinding of teeth was audible to all around. The veins on his neck swelled; muscles tensed to their limit. Breath tore through his nose—sharp, hot, vapour in the frosty air. His fingers clenched into fists; blood flooded his eyes. But, mastering himself, he still forced out the question through gritted teeth:

  "The priest stays?"

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  "He leaves with us," Thorgrim pronounced, and his voice sounded level, without hesitation. "The bishop is recalling him. Father Werden is too valuable to the Twelve to remain in this backwater."

  The decarch spoke the final word with particular emphasis; arrogance oozed from every syllable. The corners of his mouth twitched upward—barely noticeably, but Kaisar caught the mockery, the contemptuous hint at the aul's insignificance, that Aksu was merely a speck on the map, unworthy of the order's attention. Backwater. Like a spit in the face.

  Something snapped inside Kaisar.

  A snarl tore from his chest before he could stop it—low, bestial, coming from somewhere deep in his guts. His fists clenched till his knuckles cracked; his nails dug into his palms. Blood flooded his eyes; the world tinted crimson. Every muscle tensed, ready to lunge forward, to seize this arrogant son of a bitch, tear him apart, shatter him, trample him to dust. His jaw cramped; his teeth ground against each other; his fangs bared completely.

  Behind him came a rustle—the aul dwellers jerked forward, ready to charge after the basy. Hands gripped drawn blades tighter; bowstrings drew to their limit. Someone cursed under his breath. Someone spat at his own feet.

  Ulrik stepped forward; his sword flashed, tearing from its scabbard. The other knights followed his example—steel rang in the frosty air; spearmen levelled their shafts. The order's archers drew their strings; arrows aimed straight at Kaisar's chest.

  The earth beneath the basy's feet cracked—he stepped back, then again, again. Breath tore free as vapour; his heart hammered against his ribs. His entire body hummed, demanding blood, battle, retribution. His hands jerked towards the dagger at his belt.

  But he stopped.

  Froze in place, as though he'd taken root in the frozen earth. Breath tore through clenched teeth; his chest heaved; muscles trembled from the strain. The word given to Zhanbolat hung over him like a heavy yoke. A promise. An oath. An obligation to the mynbasy.

  He wheeled sharply, no longer looking at Thorgrim. His shoulders were tense, his back straight, his gait rigid. His legs carried him back to his own; each step echoed in his head. Behind him he heard the order men exhale—with relief, with wariness. Someone amongst them lowered his weapon.

  "The cordon stays!" Kaisar barked, addressing the aul's warriors.

  His voice cut the air, sharp as a whip's crack. Faces before him turned towards him—tense, expectant. Some nodded, some clenched their jaws. They understood. They shared his fury.

  "The rest—all able-bodied adults—be ready by dawn. Full kit, supplies for two months. Check your weapons, tighten your harnesses. Anyone who's late—you've only yourselves to blame!"

  The words fell heavily, clipped. The men around exchanged glances; someone opened his mouth, about to ask a question, but Kaisar cut him off with a look.

  "Be in full readiness by dawn! Temyr, Tyleu and Ybrai, see to it. We'll escort these dogs all the way to the city. Every last mile. And if any of them decide along the way that the code no longer binds them..."

  He left the phrase unfinished. A snarl stretched across his face—vicious, promising. The aul dwellers understood without words. Some smirked in response, some struck fist against palm. Yes. They'd go. They'd escort. They'd wait. And if even one of Kaisar's blood enemies made a mistake—the order's code wouldn't save him.

  Dawn crept slowly, reluctantly. The sky above the aul changed colour—from inky darkness to grey, then to pale pink in the east. The cold intensified before sunrise; frost bit at cheeks, crept beneath clothing. Snow crunched underfoot; the icy crust crackled. Smoke from the yurts rose in columns, froze in the air as white clouds.

  Kaisar stood on the roof of Ybrai's house, arms crossed on his chest. Green eyes tracked every movement of the order men in their camp. The aul's warriors surrounded them in a loose ring—close enough to see everything, far enough not to provoke.

  Knights saddled horses, tightened girths, checked harnesses. Infantry struck tents, rolled canvas, tied bundles. Movements crisp, practised—military training showed. No one spoke loudly; commands were issued briefly, executed swiftly.

  Kaisar's gaze caught on two knights sitting in their saddles apart from the rest. Hands bound behind their backs, ropes drawn tight. Faces sullen, shoulders slumped. Humiliated. One glanced towards the basy but quickly looked away. The other stared at the ground, jaw clenched.

  By the sledge several infantrymen bustled. Kaisar peered closer. Father Werden lay inside, motionless. Blankets piled round him in a mountain—furs, pillows, woollen rugs. Wrapped like an infant. The priest's face was white, his lips bloodless. Asleep? Or unconscious?

  The basy narrowed his eyes. Something was wrong with the priest. Yesterday he'd still been holding up, preaching, visiting homes. And now he lay like the dead. Illness? Or something else? He'd need to keep his eye on him.

  One of the infantrymen adjusted the furs, covered Werden to the chin. Another checked the sledge's fastenings, tugged at the traces. The horses snorted, tossed their heads.

  Thorgrim appeared from round the temple's corner. He walked quickly, confidently. Ulrik beside him, the other knights following. The decarch surveyed the preparations, nodded. All the knights swung into their saddles.

  The command sounded quietly, but all heard it. "Move out."

  The column formed up. Ten knights at the front—two with bound hands in the middle of the formation. Then ten mounted spearmen, then infantry—thirty men, exactly, two abreast. The sledges, one of them with Werden in the centre, under guard. They unfurled the order's banner—twelve stars in a circle on a black field. The fabric fluttered in the wind.

  The first knight moved off. The second followed, then the third. Hooves drummed on the frozen earth. The infantrymen marched in step; boots struck in unison. The sledge creaked; runners slid across the snow.

  Kaisar watched the column move past. Thorgrim rode by without looking his way. His back straight, his chin raised.

  "Arrogant son of a bitch, he'll preen to the very last." The orc thought before leaping from the roof.

  Landing on the ground, he surveyed the waiting warriors—about fifty of the best. All mounted, full kit. Bows on shoulders, sabres at hips, spears in hands. Faces grim, ready. Behind them they led pack horses—rolled yurts, bundled provisions, supplies of arrows, fodder, everything they'd need on the road.

  "We move out," Kaisar tossed out, settling into his saddle.

  He waved his hand. The warriors surged forward. The animals moved after the order's column.