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.
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.