Ardi ran so fast that at times it seemed like his feet weren’t touching the snowy ground. Only his barely noticeable footprints were acting as proof that the gray flash streaking through the trees was not merely a vision or an illusion created by the cold wind. Birds sang overhead, accompanying the hunter. The celestial wanderers flitted nearby, braving the frost and blizzard. They seemed to be trying to tell their comrade something, but he wasn’t listening to them. Nor was he listening to the branches of tall trees reaching down, shedding their snowy blankets, and waking up in a season when the spirits had decreed that they should sleep and dream of the future and the past. Nor did Ardi hear the moaning of the weary earth. Hidden beneath the ice, it could only mournfully watch as the strong, swift legs of the one who had given this land the breath of magic for the last six cycles carried him farther away.

Maybe Ardi didn’t notice all of it, or didn’t want to notice it, but the forest behind him was changing. The elusive feeling that had reigned here before was disappearing. It was a sense of something mysterious and sacred, yet familiar and simple. Like a tale told to a child, like a story sung by bards. The forests and rivers, the mountains and hills were being covered by a blizzard, which was hiding invisible paths and old magic, turning the Alcade and its forests into something still beautiful, but now all too mundane.

The hunter tried to calm his heart, which now sought to leap from his chest, not from fear or excitement, but because it was trying to outrun its owner and reach Hawk’s Cliff as quickly as possible. He felt as if something was waiting for him there. Something that could answer even the most difficult question. The question that had always been postponed for tomorrow and its complex thoughts. The question:

“Who am I?” Ardi whispered, and the wind carried the uttered words and lulled them into the sky.

The hunter was not even disturbed by the storm rising over the mountains. Black clouds covered the sky, which shone with cold stars that were indifferent to this small interlude in the endless dance of the Spirits of the Day and Night. Why would they, the eternal companions of the gods, care about the paths of mortals?

Lightning flashed, brushing against the high peaks of the Alcade, and thunder rumbled in the valley. In that dark hour, as the last of the Matabar ran to a place known only to him, and a giant snow leopard followed his apprentice’s trail, the townspeople below, on the edge of the vast prairies and steppes, hid their children, closed their windows, and locked their doors. The Church had denied the existence of other gods and powers besides the Face of Light, and even his Eternal Angels were no more than embodiments of the will of the Light Essence, as the pastors sometimes called their “King of Kings.”

image [https://i.imgur.com/MSf9FGA.png]

But the farther one got from the Metropolis and the holiest of holies, the more people and Firstborn remembered and honored the old ways. And here, on the western borders of the Empire, people could sometimes feel the breath of those whom some considered legends and others thought were merely sleeping remnants of the past. And this night, terrifying and enchanting at the same time, was making the people look at something else, not the sacred writings of the Face of Light.

No, no. Right then, they did not care about that book and its black cover with the sun emblazoned upon it.

They looked instead at the amulets hanging over their thresholds and the runes that their great-grandmothers had carved into the window frames.

And in all of Evergale, which had been rebuilt and restored after the Shanti’Ra’s raid, only one old man stepped out into a courtyard. He was hunched over, half-blind, with trembling hands gripping a simple carved staff, and he seemed to be feeling neither the piercing cold nor the whipping gusts of wind. They made the houses creak, caused the poles to sway, and even snapped some of the wires that carried the “Ley sparks” — the fashionable invention of the learned mages of the Metropolis.

How much had changed in these past six years...

But not for the old man. Even here, in the valley, far away from his homeland, he still felt enough strength within him. Groaning, he straightened up and raised his staff above his head, then thrust it forcefully into the ground beneath his feet.

“You can do it,” he said heavily, as if a few more years had just fallen onto his shoulders. “Ardan…”

And the wind that swirled around the Old and New Alcade caught these words and carried them over the ridges, through the pass, and around the cliff.

Where the hunter stood.

Amazingly, he had never noticed this before. Here, on the farthest bend of the Alcade Ridge, beyond the wide forest pass, another mountain range could be seen. These were mountains that resembled the Alcade as much as a younger brother resembled an older one.

Ardi approached their base and looked up. There, between the clouds and the blizzard, he saw a cliff that resembled a hawk’s head, and the mountain itself was like its sharp wings piercing the clouds.

“Hawk’s Cliff...”

And the hunter, acting as if there wasn’t a storm raging around him, like he was in the middle of a bright summer day, gripped the rocks with his fingers. He could have gone around the cliff, found a mountain path and climbed up quietly, but that would have meant losing half the night, maybe even a few days. Ardi’s heart wouldn’t allow him such a wasteful luxury.

Enduring the blasts of the wind and ignoring the sting of the ice needles, listening to the thunder all the while, Ardi climbed the rocks as his teacher had once taught him. The flashes of lightning, to him, became the rays of the eye of the Spirit of the Day. With each new flash, he distinguished the shadows of ledges, the hollows of narrow crevices, and the slopes of cracks. The hunter clung to them, thrusting his body forward, pressing his torso against the rocks, and climbing higher and higher.

Sometimes, he would almost slip, but even then, he didn’t so much as feel that foul breath and those cold claws. Fear, seemingly frightened away by the fierce storm, had whimpered and tucked its tail between its legs, leaving the hunter alone with the winter storm.

One mistake, one moment of inattention, one miscalculation of strength, one finger slipping off a particularly thin ledge, and the dark abyss below would devour his flesh and grind his bones, but just like his teacher, Ardi made no mistakes.

His fingers were stronger than the claws of a mountain lion — any ledge, even one as thick as a raven’s bone, was more reliable to him than a wide plateau. The hunter’s breath did not falter, and his lungs expanded like bellows, like those of a young bear climbing the rocks to the top of a waterfall. Ardi’s eyes saw as clearly as an eagle’s, noticing even the farthest ledges and holds. And his ears, like those of a squirrel searching for a hole, caught even the faintest, barely audible whistles as the wind got tangled up in the cracks, fissures, and crevices.

Less than three hours had passed before the hunter managed to climb to the top of the cliff. And there, on a broad ledge that resembled a tongue, lay a pitted stone with a small strip in the middle that divided it into two halves.

Ardi approached it, ran his hand over it, and smiled — it really did look like a butt. And if not an ogre’s, then certainly a troll’s.

The hunter turned and looked to the south. Everything was covered in snow, hiding the landmarks, paths, and trees. But Ardi didn’t need to know where he needed to go in order to feel the right direction. He stopped running and began to descend quietly. The stone stayed behind and Ardi walked through the clearing. Despite the dense, crunchy cover of snow, he could feel the taste of fresh grass, the cold moisture of streams, and the honeyed scent of meadows full of flowers.

As he passed through the clearing, Ardi brushed the snow away from an old, hurricane-damaged spruce. There, on the trunk, where the bark had been clumsily cut, was an inscription in an unfamiliar or... all too familiar language. The hunter frowned and looked closer. At first, the letters hid their meaning from him, but then he managed to read:

“Strictly... north... Three... clearings... Ogre ass.”

And each time his fingers touched the letters, the hunter felt the warmth emanating from them. It wasn’t like Atta’nha’s, but different. Completely different. It made him smile involuntarily, and Ardi went on. He pushed through the snow-covered bushes and broken trees and came to the bank of a narrow river. When it came time for the Queens to swap places, it would widen and become a turbulent mountain stream, capable of lifting heavy boulders and carrying them down into the canyons of the forest.

But that would come later. Not now.

Now, locked in an icy embrace, it slept, awaiting the hour of its awakening.

The hunter followed its course. Vague visions filled his mind. Visions whose meaning he could neither understand nor grasp. As soon as they appeared in his mind, they disappeared, forgotten and shrouded in mist.

It was a strange feeling, remembering something and not remembering it at the same time.

Usually, Ardi would brush it off and say, as his teacher had taught him to do, that these were thoughts for tomorrow, but not now. Now, for some reason, his heart wanted to hold on to the visions, not let them go, but his mind couldn’t give in.

And then it all disappeared. It all became unimportant.

The river continued downstream, winding between rocks and hills, but Ardi was more interested in a stream that branched off of it. It meandered, twisting along the gentle banks of a once wide tributary, then, at the foot of a snow-covered slope, opened its arms again to the river channel. And Ardi followed its enticing call through the forest comprised of various kinds of trees, through the brambles, and finally, to the edge of a wide clearing.

Right now, it was hidden under a cover of snow, like everything else, but in summer, and especially in spring, it would turn into a colorful canvas, one where it was so much fun to catch grasshoppers and crickets. Ardi knew this for sure.

He walked through the snow, sometimes pausing to vaguely make out the outlines of incomprehensible silhouettes in the swirling snow dust. And ahead, at the bend of the river, near the rock formation from which two spruces had broken free — one tall and stately, the other still quite young... Or it had been young, and was now also a bit grown up.

And so, there was a...

“ Home?” Ardi said uncertainly.

And this word suddenly meant much more to him than just a building — it meant much more than the hut of Atta’nha, but essentially, it should’ve been the same. No, the word “home” meant something else entirely…

Ardi approached the... veranda. Yes, that’s what these steps were called, now rotten and crumbling under the weight of nature and time. They led to a broad platform. Once, the hunter had simply known this place, and there’d been a rocking chair here, and someone had always sat in it, telling Ardi stories. The chair was gone, as was most of the canopy, and now the sky could be seen through it, where clouds were fighting each other in waves.

The hunter climbed up to the door. It had never been padlocked or bolted. But now, there were both. A wide plank, affixed there with thick nails, was securing the door and its frame, and several brackets held a deceptively rusty lock with a chain so thick that even Guta would have had trouble breaking it.

Ardi went back down and looked at the leaning wall of the house and the tightly boarded windows leading inside it. Without much thought, he jumped, grabbed the eaves, and in a few swift movements, he climbed to the second floor, where he elbowed a plank out of a boarded-up frame and slipped inside. It always creaked when the weather turned bad.

The young hunter knew this too, or perhaps he’d simply remembered it.

He lowered himself carefully onto his toes, as Shali had taught him, trying his best to not make a single sound, then lowered his feet, the right one to the right side, the left one to the left side, and when his heels touched the ground, Ardi crouched. Bending his knees and straightening his back, he sniffed. This place smelled like the swamps after the season of flowers and animal coupling. It was musty and damp.

The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

Mold had already taken over most of the walls and was slowly creeping down. It was black and foul-smelling. As he walked past it, Ardi held his breath to keep from catching a cold. Thanks to the she-wolf, he knew how to cure it fairly easily and quickly, but why risk it if he could protect himself in advance?

When he reached the stairs, the young hunter looked down. Half of them had collapsed, and the other half didn’t look reliable enough to jump on, so the descent took some time.

Once he got down, Ardi shuddered for a moment. He could clearly hear voices — a man and a woman. They were calling to someone. Someone who looked like that same barely discernible silhouette from before, and was now rushing past the hunter.

He followed this trail, past a spacious room... A kitchen, it seemed like. He saw broken cabinets and fallen doors, some of which had managed to hang on to an unyielding hinge. There was also a cracked sink where rust had done its work. And Ardi knew for a fact that there should have been a long table here. But it wasn’t there, and only a wide patch of a slightly thinner coating of dust and four dark squares on the floor indicated where it had once stood.

Ardi also saw silhouettes in the kitchen. One was very strange, and the other resembled Okta. But she was taller and more graceful. The silhouettes said something, then blinked and disappeared.

The hunter moved on.

He went past a cupboard that had become home to a family of spiders, who were hiding from the bad weather and hunting the occasional fly that flew in. Past one of the dressers, which was leaning to one side and missing half of its shelves due to being eaten away at by bugs and soaked by dampness. Then he went up to the second staircase, which was a little better preserved than the first. A few minutes later, Ardi was standing at the threshold of a room.

For some reason, he shifted from foot to foot, hesitating to push the door open.

Yes, it was all nonsense. Maybe he’d drunk the wrong sort of concoction, or it was all a cruel joke of the Keeper. Why had he even come here? It would be better to return quickly before his teacher noticed. After visiting the she-wolf, he would always return to the cave for a few hours before heading out into the forest. And so...

As Ardi was about to turn and leave, the wind suddenly blew into the hut and whirled snowflakes around, the sound of which the hunter could hear:

“You can do it… Ardan…”

“What?” The hunter turned around.

But he was still standing alone in this rotten and nearly collapsed building. And his hand, now shaking involuntarily, pushed the door open, and the hunter found himself in a room. There was a bare bed there, stripped of its mattress and blankets. He also found strange words, the meaning of which Ardi now knew.

He approached the bed and ran his fingers along the notches in the wooden bars. Someone had once marked how far they could reach.

Ardi smiled. This bed would fit him perfectly now. It would be long enough that his legs wouldn’t hang off it, but not big enough for him to build pillow castles on.

The hunter looked up and saw a long, narrow shelf. He touched that, too. Here, as in the kitchen, there were a few stains that indicated that someone had once kept small items on it.

Apart from the bed, there was nothing else in the room. No wardrobe, no chest of drawers, not even a bedside table. Just stains on the walls where they had once been. It seemed that someone had taken these belongings, but hadn’t bothered with the bulkier furniture.

Furniture — what a funny word.

Ardi approached the far wall where the ventilation grate had split in half. He bent down toward it, but his gaze caught a gap between the boards of the window frame. The hunter straightened and came closer.

When he peered through, he saw nothing but darkness, but when the lightning flashed, he saw tall stones on the other side of the river. For some reason, there was one more stone than there should’ve been.

Ardi didn’t know why he thought this. But he knew that he should go there.

Without much thought, the hunter got out the same way he’d gotten in. Jumping down the steep slope into the snow, he was momentarily distracted by a small shed a short distance away. At first, Ardi didn’t understand what had attracted his attention, then he noticed it. Unlike the one on the house, the lock on this small structure wasn’t rusted, and the boards hadn’t been touched by mold or bugs.

How strange and-

Another flash of lightning came, then a deafening peal of thunder, and Ardi was already crossing the frozen river to the other side. There, he walked along well-maintained paths toward the tall, heavy stones arranged in a complex and intricate manner. This was a path that could not have been created by landslides or floods. The letters on the stones had clearly not been made by nature, either.

Ardi walked along, reading, until he stopped at the last stone.

“Hec... tor... Egobar. Son... Husband... Father... Hunter. 442-512 F.o.E.”

Ardi didn’t know what those numbers meant or what “F.o.E.” was, but he did know the name. Hector Egobar. For some unknown reason, it resonated in Ardi’s heart with something both pleasant and painful. It resonated so strongly that the hunter clutched at his chest, grabbing his fur, and was left barely able to breathe. It was as if someone invisible and powerful had struck him right in the middle of his breastbone, knocking all the breath out of him.

The hunter turned away.

He didn’t know why, but it hurt to look at the stone and so... And so he looked at something else. Down below, farther down the river, at the bottom of the slope, lights were burning. Hundreds of lights. And it wasn’t like when lightning would strike the forest and cause forest fires. Rather, they reminded him a bit of the lights that followed the eye of the Spirit of the Night, serving as its companions — the stars. Only these were shining not in the sky, but on the ground.

Ardi came closer. He strode through the clearing and the woods until he was standing at the edge of the cliff. He bent down and shoveled the snow off of a rock. If you didn’t look closely, you wouldn’t notice it. But Ardi looked closely, because he knew.

He found a small, red handprint. A bloody handprint that the rain hadn’t washed away, the wind hadn’t eroded, the grass hadn’t covered. And even the stone, which had been chipped away in places and had even partially turned to dust, hadn’t touched this pattern.

Ardi raised his hand over it.

Somewhere behind him, far away, his teacher’s roar echoed, but it was too late.

The hunter lowered his hand, covering the bloody pattern with his own palm, and memories flooded him. Scenes from the past rushed into his mind, tearing at the icy chains that had once bound his heart. They tore them to pieces, and each new break brought with it a storm of what he had previously thought were just dreams of dreams. And so it went, until finally, the last knot melted away and Ardi saw the town burning and an orc’s firm hold crushing his... his...

***

“Father...” The words fell from the boy’s lips, tears burning his cheeks. “Mother... Brother... Grandfather...”

He lay there on the stones, the cold wind piercing his body — thin furs like his could not hold back the gusts of frost caused by the cold of Old Alcade — and Ardi shivered. It was so cold that he could barely feel his own ears and fingers, but he paid it no mind.

Again and again, he saw the blood streaming from his father’s mouth and eyes, heard his mother scream as a giant snow leopard carried him away, and watched his grandfather age right before his eyes after performing the ancient Aean’Hane ritual.

Tears streamed from the boy’s eyes. His heart would not beat. He lay on his back, staring at the raging darkness in the sky, screaming at it, but what was a twelve-year-old boy’s cry to the storm?

“Was it worth it, Ardan?”

The words snaked their way into Ardi’s mind, trying to ensnare it, penetrate it, but the boy wouldn’t let them. As Atta’nha and Skusty had taught him, he strengthened his consciousness and directed his will against the intruder.

“You have no power over me, Ergar,” the boy whispered the words of the ancient Matabar blood rite as he rose to his feet. “No more.”

Six years ago, on this very ledge, a small wooden figure of a beast had stood next to him, and now a real snow leopard, gigantic and with too many tails to count, was here instead. He breathed out ice, and his fur blazed with a mountain storm. The same one that was currently slamming itself against the peaks of the Alcade. And only now, in its fury, did Ardi hear the name. The name of the Mountain Storm.

The snow leopard opened his maw and his roar joined the thunderclap.

“Is this how you repay me, Ardan?” Icy sparks fell from his eyes, and where they landed on the ground, spikes of ice shot up. “Come to your senses, Ardan! Come back with me! A hunt awaits us and-”

“No,” the boy shook his head, not allowing the words of his former mentor to enter his mind and penetrate his heart. “No... Six years have passed... I have returned... to myself.”

“Yourself?” The snow leopard roared. “Do not deceive yourself, Ardan! If not for Skusty weakening my words, you wouldn’t have even remembered the other Guardian Spirits!”

“No... You have no power over me, Ergar...” The boy repeated the words of the rite, eyes closed and fists clenched. “You are no longer my Master. And I am no longer your apprentice. Guard your land, and I will guard mine, and if our paths should cross, we will know that we are of the same tribe.”

And once again, lightning, roaring thunder, and the wrath of the storm all came together in a furious cacophony.

“Without Atta’nha’s teachings, you would not have survived even a third winter in the mountains, half-blood!” Ergar lashed his tails to his sides and paced the edge of the cliff. “Hear my voice, Ardan! Listen to me, your teacher! We are leaving here, and going back! Back home, Ardan!”

Ergar’s words thundered down onto the boy like a raging river, and he almost succumbed, but then he heard Atta’nha’s voice. Only he should choose his path. Only he…

“You have no power over me, Ergar, Storm of the Mountain Peaks,” Ardi didn’t give up. “For six winters, I have walked the paths of the snow leopards. For six winters, I wore the skin of the mountain and forest beasts. I have chosen my path, and my path leads me back to my kin.”

Ergar leaped forward, his fangs snapping inches from the boy’s head.

“Do you think you can manage without me, Ardan?” The storm roared. “Will you refuse my gifts? Will you suffer as humans suffer? Do you think you can endure? Look at how you tremble! Our Queen is not yet at full power, and you’re already about to freeze! Do you think you can outrun the wind now? Climb the mountain? Are you ready to give it all up, Ardan?”

The boy opened his eyes. He looked straight ahead, into the center of his former teacher’s vertical pupils. They burned with rage, but even more, they burned with sadness.

“I will always remember you, teacher,” Ardi whispered, hugging the snow leopard’s neck and burying his face in his soft, snowy fur. “I will remember all your lessons. I will remember your kind words. I will remember your care. How you protected me and guided me. How you shielded me and taught me. You are more than my friend. You are my second brother and my second father.”

Ergar went limp and lowered his head to the boy’s shoulder.

“Don’t, Ardi,” he whispered, barely audible. “For what... For them?” He nodded toward the lights of Evergale. “You don’t even know-”

“I do know.”

“They will never accept you, cub,” Ergar wrapped him in his tails and held him close. “They will chase you away like the wolves did that night. And you are not a warrior, Ardi. You are not even a true hunter...”

“I know.”

“Take them with you, my little friend,” the storm gradually subsided, as did Ergar’s voice. “Here, to the land of your ancestors. Where your winds blow, where your earth sleeps.”

“I can’t,” Ardi shook his head. The words tore at his throat, and he could barely see through his tears. “Grandfather is too old, he won’t survive the journey, and Mother and Brother... this is not their land, Ergar.”

They stood there on the cliff, the storm slowly abating around them, revealing the starry sky beyond.

“Don’t, Ardi,” Ergar repeated. “I won’t be able to help you and protect you anymore. You don’t know all that much yet, and this body you’re walking in… It’s so weak and fragile.”

“Don’t worry, teacher,” the boy managed to smile. “Even if I can’t run among the snow leopards, see with the eyes of an eagle, move like a lynx, and my skin loses the strength of a bear — the lessons of Skusty and Atta’nha will always be with me.”

Then the boy raised his head and was just about to say the last words of the ritual when he felt something pierce his chest. At first, it was so painful that he could barely breathe, but soon, the cold sensation left along with the pain. The boy’s eyes could see in the darkness again, his ears could hear the whispers of the wind, and Ardi’s breathing steadied and calmed.

He looked at his teacher, whose mouth was dripping with silver blood — he had lost his second fang.

“I despise humans and all their deeds, Ardan,” Ergar said, straightening and rising to his full height. “When I met you, small and weak as you were, I saw only a human within you. It was always a mystery to me, what the Sage and the Mistress saw in you, but now...”

Ergar’s fur turned to wood, the light around him dimmed, and his voice faded away gradually.

“Promise me, my little friend, promise me that you will return, and that I will lead your children on the paths of the snowy peaks.”

“I promise,” Ardi nodded, swallowing salty tears.

“Then until we meet again, Ardan, my young friend and Speaker,” the mighty hunter and truly fierce predator — the Storm of the Mountain Peaks — said solemnly. “I will be waiting.”

There was now a large totem of a snow leopard in front of the boy. It stood there, looking somewhere in the direction of the Alcade. And if one followed its gaze, one could see, between the clouds, the hidden peak where his cave slept in the snow.

The last words of the ritual were spoken by Ardi as he embraced the totem.

“Here are my spirits,” Ardi whispered. “Here is my memory. But I go my way, and you go yours. And when they cross, we will not be prey and hunter. We will be brothers.”

And somewhere on the wind echoed those treasured words:

“Thrice heard.”

And nothing else happened. There was no bright light, no flash of lightning, no thunderclap. Ardi had completed the Matabar ritual. Now he was a full-fledged hunter, free to choose the path of his life. How long he had waited for this moment as a cub and... how painful it had been.

Ardi turned and looked to the east, where the eye of the Spirit of the Day... Wait... What was that word again... Ah yes, the sun. He looked to where the sun was rising in the east and flooding the Alcade with light. It illuminated the high, snow-capped mountain peaks, those frozen waves that could argue with time itself over who was older. The forests stretched far, promising to reveal secrets to those brave and attentive enough. And beneath them shone the river meadows and lake surfaces, like precious gems along the crowns of the stern mountains.

Somewhere out there, his friends still lived on. Their games and pranks, their lessons and stories, their songs and kindness.

image [https://i.imgur.com/adzDioq.png]

The boy wiped away his tears with the back of his hand and looked at the blue symbol in the center of his chest. He didn’t know what Ergar had done, or why the essence of the Matabar hadn’t left him with the end of the ritual, which had happened to all other half-breeds. This was why the mountain hunters had eventually been subsumed by the valley dwellers.

“Thank you,” Ardi said, then turned and headed for Evergale.

As before, he didn’t know what awaited him, but the knowledge that he had somewhere to return to warmed his soul.

A bracelet on his wrist, a symbol on his chest, an oak figurine around his neck, and carelessly sewn together furs — these were the belongings with which Ardan Egobar, son of Hector Egobar, set out on his new and most dangerous adventure yet.