Nayden frowned as he heard his boots crunch on the frozen snow. From the valley below, the sound of drums and drunken shouts echoed on the wind like an echo from another world. He stopped at the edge of a hill. The village below was shrouded in thick, gray smoke, pressing the roofs to the ground. Shadows cast by dying fires moved between the cottages. He saw no people, only the flickering points of fire dotted along the streets. The wind whipped across his face, carrying the scent of baking bread and burning herbs—a scent too sweet to ignore on an empty stomach.

  “Move, Nayden,” Lovro nudged him, balancing on the icy path. He was smiling broadly. “If we’re late, we’ll miss out on the free mulled wine.”

  They descended between the buildings, sinking into the mist that lingered low on the ground. Fires threw sparks upward, momentarily illuminating the darkness, only to return the street to shadows.

  "Passage for the Order of the Sun!" Nayden called, trying to inject authority into his young voice.

  A powerful, bearded man, reeking of digested mead, turned abruptly. His mug struck Nayden's breastplate, and the dark liquid splashed onto the golden corps. "Watch where you're going, boy!" the man growled, nudging Nayden with his shoulder.

  "I'm a Soldier of the Order—" he began, but the man burst out laughing, cutting him off mid-sentence.

  "You're a masquerader in gilded plate," he cackled, turning to his companions. "In the name of the Order, you can refill my glass, sweetie," he muttered to his companion, turning his back to the guard.

  The crowd burst into laughter. No one backed away. No bows, no fear. Nayden gritted his teeth so hard the hinges of his jaw ached. His hand twitched toward the hilt of his sword, but Lovro tugged on his arm.

  "Leave it." His smile remained, but his eyes were cold. "The alcohol is talking through him. Come on, let's wash this off before it starts to stick."

  He pulled him aside, against the wall of the nearest hut. He scooped a handful of hard, grainy snow from the windowsill and rubbed it unceremoniously onto his friend's breastplate, scrubbing the metal until the sticky stain disappeared under a layer of melting snow. "Yeah. It shines like a dog's balls," he said, wiping his wet hand on his own cloak. "Just don't slouch," he added, tugging on his shoulder pad to straighten it.

  Nayden slapped his hand away in irritation, but Lovro didn't let up. He blocked his path with his arm, forcing him to look into his eyes. His smile faltered for a split second, revealing the same exhaustion Nayden felt.

  "You think I don't see how this is eating at you?" he muttered, his voice barely perceptible over the din of the drums. "I know it's shit. I know you'd rather be anywhere else. But for now, we're part of the scenery." He adjusted Nayden's collar with a quick, decisive movement. "So put on a good face, stand straight, and don't let anyone provoke you. Another moment and we're gone."

  Nayden exhaled through his nose. His neck was stinging, but he nodded.

  The crowd thickened, pressing in from all sides. Nayden had to shoulder his way through, but Lovro simply squeezed into gaps no one else could see. He moved with irritating ease. His hand flashed by a stall, then by the girl's tray of bread. A quick smile, an even quicker flick of his wrist, and the captured apple landed on Nayden's sleeve. Lovro wiped the peel on the only clean spot in the sty.

  "Relax," he said over his shoulder, biting into the apple with a loud crunch. "We have free food, prime show seats, and zero responsibility. What more could you want?"

  "Respect?" Nayden muttered, looking at the damp smudge left by the apple on his arm. "Something to stop us looking like clowns?"

  "Respect is overrated. I prefer a full stomach."

  The bustle and loud, festive songs drifted from the cobblestone streets. The people of Volshev, dressed in colorful rags and masks made of bark or animal skulls, were dancing wildly. Some spun in trances, others twitched uncoordinated, tripping over their own feet. Their cheeks were smeared with charcoal and clay—a measure meant to ward off evil spirits, though Nayden suspected the thick mead fumes hovering over the crowds were a sufficient barrier for any demon. Young boys jostled each other at the stalls, and girls squealed, telling their fortunes with wax poured into cold water. At the edge of the square, several men shot arrows at targets, betting on their last copper coins. Children, dressed as ghosts, ran between the legs of adults, stealing sweets and screeching away. Even the Forefathers—adults dressed in rags symbolizing the spirits of their ancestors—joined in the fun, frightening people and demanding donations for their "peace of mind."

  Nayden's gaze swept the swaying crowd. "They're drinking like there's no tomorrow."

  "Because for them, it's the only night they can forget they're knee-deep in muck. The Szczodre Gody. The boundary of worlds is breaking, magic hangs in the air... and all that mystical crap." He nudged him with his shoulder, hard, to break him from his reverie. "What's the harm? Two months. Sixty days, and that's no longer our problem."

  Nayden froze, stopping mid-stride. "Two months..." he repeated quietly. The words carried a strange weight. They sounded unreal.

  "Exactly. Five years of service checked off. The contract expires in the spring." Lovro stretched until his joints cracked. "Remember when they recruited us?" We were fifteen years old, full of milk and full of straw. We thought they'd give us golden armor and make us immortal.”

  "And we ended up as scarecrows," Nayden finished bitterly.

  "But we're alive," Lovro tossed the core into the snowdrift. "Most of the guys our age are deadbeats. And us? We have a choice. I'm out. Father wrote they need hands in the forge. No monsters, no guards in the freezing cold. Just a warm fire and... a miller's daughter." He winked knowingly.

  Nayden snorted with laughter, shaking his head in disbelief. "Mila? Come on. In five years, she's probably married, raised two children, and forgotten your name."

  “I beg your pardon,” Lovro bristled, adjusting his belt with feigned dignity. “She promised she’d wait.”

  “Yeah, right. Remember Bojan from the Third Company? He went on like that about his Danica too. And what happened? When he came back on leave, her husband chased him with a pitchfork. Turns out Danica prefers a fat local cooper to a hero in letters.”

  “Bojan had a face like a mashed potato, whereas I have this... natural charm,” Lovro replied, running a hand through his hair. “Besides, Mila has a thing for smiths. She likes strong hands.”

  “More like empty heads,” Nayden retorted, dodging a jab. “But suit yourself.”

  Lovro stopped grinning. He kicked a chunk of ice, looking down at his feet. “And you? Have you thought about it? Extending the contract or coming back with me?”

  Nayden ran his thumb over the sun emblem on his chest. The gilding had worn off long ago, revealing grey, pitted iron.

  “I don’t know,” he muttered. “My family probably doesn’t miss me. Five years is a long time. Maybe... maybe I’ll stay. Someone has to keep order, even if it’s just making sure revelers don’t hurt themselves.”

  “You’re a masochist, man,” Lovro laughed. “But hey, maybe a fortune will tell you? Look, those girls over there are reading peels. Maybe they’ll read whether you become Grand Master or rot in a gutter.”

  “Give it a rest. I don’t need peels to know I’ll wake up tomorrow with a splitting headache and frostbitten fingers.”

  Lovro leaned against a post, watching the crowd. The smile vanished from his face as if wiped away with a rag. “Remember our first patrol? We were shitting our pants because every shadow looked like a striga.”

  “I remember. And then they sent us to the Viper Fens. Three days in black sludge up to the waist. No fire, no grub, praying that the slippery thing brushing against our legs was just an eel, not a Drowner.”

  "Mirko wasn't so lucky. He only went a short distance to take a leak. He didn't even scream. Just a splash and... that silence afterward. The swamp simply swallowed him. To this day, I hear that sound when I close my eyes.”

  Nayden patted him hard on his shoulder. "But we crawled out. We survived the Fens and we survived Sergeant Wojtek's kitchen." He winced at the memory. "I swear, that stew tried to escape from the plate. We're like cockroaches. Hard to kill. These 'shadows' here?" He gestured to the costumed people. "This is a vacation."

  Finally, they reached the center of the square. The music shifted to a slower, heavier rhythm. The crowd parted reluctantly. The village elder stood before them, swaying slightly on his heels. His face was red from frost and wine, and in his hands, he held a tray with bread and salt.

  "Welcome," he began hesitantly, fighting a slight hiccup before taking on a solemn, official tone. "The Solar Order honors us with... well, its presence. May Perun favor you in these holy days.”

  Lovro performed a theatrical bow, balancing on the edge of a muddy puddle with the grace of a dancer. He tore off a chunk of bread, sprinkled it with salt, and tossed it into his mouth. “May the gods bless Volshev, and especially the local brewery!” he winked at Nayden, chewing. “Your bread is hard, but your hearts are warm.”

  Nayden rolled his eyes, taking his piece just to be polite.

  “People of Volshev!” Lovro, without missing a beat, hopped onto some empty ale casks, spreading his arms wide. “Feast! Eat and drink while the night is young! Tomorrow our heads will throb, but tonight we are masters of our fate!”

  The crowd roared with laughter, raising tankards and clay mugs high.

  “To Szczodre Gody!” someone shouted from the back.

  “And to not getting eaten by winter!” another voice chimed in, drawing a round of approving laughter.

  Nayden leaned against a post, waiting for the inevitable. Any moment now, someone in the crowd would pluck up the courage to start whining about taxes or wolf packs. Lovro didn’t give them the chance. He jumped off the barrel and grabbed Nayden, dragging him toward a rickety tent.

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  “Move it!” He had that specific, manic glint in his eye that usually ended in lost wages. “I’ve got a few coins. Let’s see what’s inside.”

  “Lovro, for fuck’s sake.” Nayden dug his boots into the mud. “This smells like a scam. And old wax.”

  “It’s tradition, you killjoy.” Lovro shoved him in the back, pushing him straight into the darkness.

  The interior of the tent was shrouded in semi-darkness and choked with smoke. Sage and wormwood. In the center, at a table covered in worn velvet, sat a woman. She didn't resemble the witch from folk tales. She was of indeterminate age, with a face that had seen too many winters and too little sun. Her eyes, lined with charcoal, swept them with professional precision.

  “Payment up front. Silver, not copper. The spirits are exceptionally picky today.”

  Lovro flicked a coin. The silver disc chimed against the tabletop, but the woman’s hand snatched it faster than the eye could follow. It vanished as if she had absorbed it.

  “Tell us, Lady Fate... what awaits us? Fame? Fortune? Or perhaps a glorious return?” he asked, leaning against the edge of the table.

  The fortune teller latched onto Lovro’s hand. She didn’t even glance at his life line. Her gaze slid over the lad’s face, then fell upon his calloused skin.

  “I sense... a rift,” she began, closing her eyes and tilting her head back, as if listening to a distant whisper. “Your hands are rough from steel. They remember blood. But the heart...” She cracked one eye open, checking his reaction. “The heart has already fled. You are shedding your armor. Something that was suffocating you.”

  Lovro leaned his elbows on the table “The service.” He blurted it out immediately, as if he’d been waiting for this his whole life. “We’re done in two months.”

  The corner of the woman’s mouth twitched upward for a split second before returning to a look of inspired solemnity. “Yes... the fog is lifting. The images are sharpening. I see you casting aside the steel. You are returning to your roots.” She began tracing circles on his palm with her finger. “But you are not returning to an empty home. Someone waits there. I see... a figure by the water. Flowing water, the sound of rushing...”

  “A mill!” Lovro blurted out. “Her father has a mill by the river!”

  “Water and grain… yes, that’s a very powerful image,” she nodded quickly, grasping the detail. “That woman… a bright aura surrounds her. I see the color of the sun, the color of ripe wheat…”

  “Mila! She’s blonde, the fairest in the entire village!”

  The fortune teller exhaled, leaning back in her chair. “Her thoughts are turning to you. She’s waiting. But…” She stopped his wrist and squeezed it suddenly, harder than before. She leaned over the candle, the shadows lengthening on her face. “I see shadows by this light. Iron and fire. What gives you strength can hurt you. Beware of sparks that don’t come from your hearth. Avoid blades on… even-numbered days.”

  Lovro grinned and withdrew his hand as if he'd won the lottery. "Avoid the blades. As a blacksmith. Good! I'll be careful shoeing on Tuesdays." He elbowed Nayden so hard that he had to take a step sideways. "Did you hear that? She's waiting by the water! Just like I said!" He turned to his friend, beaming. "Your turn, gloomy one."

  Nayden sighed, but reached into his purse. He dug out a silver coin and tossed it onto the counter. The coin clinked cleanly, spinning for a moment before a greedy hand extinguished its movement.

  This time, she didn't ask for his hand. Her gaze—cold, calculating—ran over him like a butcher assessing a cut of meat. Arms crossed. Lips pressed into a thin line. Right hand hanging an inch from the hilt of her sword. She reached for her waist. The cards were dirty, the edges frayed from a thousand shuffles. The rustling of paper sounded like the shifting of dry leaves.

  "You're not looking for hope." Her voice was soft, stripped of the theatrics Lovro had dished out. "You're as tense as a string. Even here, on a holiday, you're looking for a target."

  Nayden snorted. "I'm paid to look for targets. It's called guard duty."

  "No," she disagreed, laying the first card on the table. The Inverted Tower. A stone consumed by fire. "It's something deeper. You feel like you wear this armor even when you take it off. That you give blood and in return you get sand in your eyes. You feel cheated, don't you? By those to whom you pledged allegiance."

  Nayden flinched. A muscle in his jaw tensed involuntarily. "That describes anyone who wears that sigil," he replied coldly, pointing to the sun on his chest. "You don't have to be a prophet to know that. Just look at our shoes."

  The woman looked up. There was no resentment in her eyes, only cold calculation. "But not everyone cracks inside." She tapped the Tower card with a dirty fingernail. "Your friend sees the end and is already settling into his life in a warm bed. You're on the brink."

  "Why would I hesitate to return?" The question hung in the stifling air.

  "Because you know you don't belong there anymore," she whispered, leaning over the counter. "You're afraid that when you sit down at the family table, the silence will be louder than the battle. That what you saw has burned a hole in you that neither beer nor any stove can fill. You're a stranger in your own skin."

  The words caught in his throat. She had put to words the mess that kept him awake at night. "Enough of this digging in my head," he cut in, straightening. – “Talk about the future or give back the silver.”

  The woman didn't take her eyes off him. The second card. The Hanged Man. A man dangling over a chasm. "I see change." Her tone changed, becoming harsh. "Violent. Like a blow from a hammer. Something you considered solid, a foundation... will rot."

  "Foundation?" Nayden raised an eyebrow. "You mean the Solar Order?"

  She shook her head as if swatting a fly. Her fingers above the table began to tremble. "I'm talking about the ground, boy. I see a great pit. A void opening beneath my boots."

  "Pit?" Nayden frowned.

  "Abyss," she corrected herself. The candle's shadows lengthened on her face, turning her features into a mask. "The Hanged Man is a loss of ground. Literally. You'll fall into it if you don't watch your step. Or if you trust the wrong hand."

  She fell silent abruptly, as if someone had snuffed out the flame of her inspiration. She slumped back in her chair.

  "That's it. The vision's over." The fortune teller waved her hand as if shooing away a dog. "Leave. You're blocking the flow of cash… I mean, magic."

  Lovro opened his mouth, but the woman stood abruptly. She had a surprising amount of strength in those thin arms. She pushed them toward the exit. "The séance is over! Extra questions for extra silver. No more? Then goodbye!" she roared above their heads. "Next!"

  They tumbled outside, almost landing in the mud. The frosty air hit like a wet rag, chilling the sweat on the back of their necks. The stuffy scent of herbs vanished, replaced by the stench of roasting sausage.

  Nayden brushed off his coat, though there was nothing on it. "The earth is collapsing, and avoid the iron," he snorted. "Brilliant. She might as well have warned a fish away from the water."

  "She knew about the blonde." "Lovro was unsinkable." He grinned, adjusting his belt. "And about you too. You were just whining about coming back. Maybe she saw something in those greasy cards after all."

  "She saw two idiots with coins." Nayden spat, but the word "fundamentals" lingered in the back of his mind like a splinter. It sounded too close to the truth about the Order. "Let's go. I'm hungry from all this gibberish."

  "And that's the point." Lovro waved at a passing merchant. Two copper coins changed hands, and slices of bread dripping with lard landed in their hands. He pressed one to his friend. "Eat that. Its simple, fatty and it’ll keep you alive. Don't look for bottom where there isn't one. Sometimes a hole in the ground is just a hole, not a gateway to hell."

  They moved into the crowd, elbowing their way through. Nayden bit into the bread, lard sticking to the roof of his mouth. It was real. Palpable. The tense muscles in his neck slowly gave way. If the "prophet" was selling them such generalities, it meant she didn't see any catastrophe. No end of the world. Just bread, frost, and sixty days until they could go home.

  Then someone bumped into him.

  The impact came out of nowhere. Nayden collided with the granite. The bread fell from his hand, splattering in the mud. "Hey, watch how..." The words died in his throat.

  A mask. Black cloth wrapped around his face, disappearing beneath the collar. Strands of white hair escaped from beneath the hood. But it was the eyes that struck most powerfully. Blue. But not the usual blue of sky or water. They were brilliant, gleaming with an unnatural, inner light, as if someone had inserted two pieces of electrified sapphire into their sockets.

  The gaze lasted a split second, but it was enough. Nayden's skull exploded with pain. An invisible vise clamped around his temples, crushing the bone. A high, piercing screech drowned out the drums. The world faded to gray, its contours blurred. Nayden staggered. He instinctively reached for his sword, but his hand refused to obey. His fingers stiffened, and his hand began to tremble, as if he'd suddenly plunged it into icy water. Cold radiated from the man—not the frost of the wind, but a dead, vacuum-like chill that sucked heat from the air and froze the breath in the lungs even before it was exhaled.

  Something warm ran down his lip. The taste of copper and salt. He looked down. A drop of dark, thick blood splashed against his boot. Then another.

  The white-haired man didn't even slow down. He swept the shivering guard with an emotionless gaze, as if looking at a cracked paving slab.

  "Pathetic." The word was quiet, but it cut like a scalpel.

  "What..." Nayden stammered, choking on the blood trickling down his throat.

  The stranger passed him smoothly. He stepped into the crowd, and people instinctively moved aside, making room even though they didn't understand it.

  "Nayden?!!" Lovro's voice sounded like it was coming from underwater. A tug on his arm saved him from falling into the mud. "What's wrong with you?"

  His friend's face was a blur, slowly coming into focus. "Did you get hit by your elbow? You're bleeding like a stuck pig. You look like shit.”

  Nayden shook his head, splashing red drops onto the snow. The pain in his skull slowly subsided, leaving a dull throbbing, but an inhuman cold still clung to his bones. "That guy..." He gestured with a trembling hand toward the crowd. There was no trace of his white hair. "Did you see him? A mask."

  Lovro stopped smiling. His hand tightened on his sword hilt, his knuckles turning white. "A mask?" He moved closer. "Half the village has masks, idiot."

  "Not like this." Nayden's voice cracked. "Stiff linen, pitch black. And the eyes..." He swallowed. They tasted of iron. "Like dead sapphires. They glowed." He wiped his nose with his sleeve. "That hurt. He walked past me, and I can barely stand. This isn't normal." It felt like he'd sucked the air out of the street.

  Lovro paled so much that his freckles stood out unnaturally against his chalky skin. "Whisperer," he spat the word. "Fucking hell. They were supposed to be cut off beyond the Pass. What's he doing here?"

  “And the Order claims the border is sealed.” Nayden spat blood. The prophecy about the great pit suddenly stopped being a metaphor. “Apparently, that’s complete bullshit.”

  Lovro scanned the crowd. “If a Whisperer breached the city...” He didn’t finish. “Code Red. We split up. You go south, I take the market. You see him – you give the signal and vanish. No heroics. Understood?”

  “Got it.” Nayden adjusted his belt. His hands were shaking. “But… what about the Solstice truce?”

  “Look around.” Lovro nodded at the gutter where dogs were tearing at a bone. “You think they care? To them, we’re just meat.”

  They split up. Snow crunched under Nayden’s boots. He walked fast, ramming his shoulder into drunken peasants. He was looking for black. Not the wool, washed-out black of the poor, but that dead black that drank the lantern light.

  Dark alley.

  Hood.

  Shadow.

  Nayden closed the distance in three steps. He grabbed the figure, slamming it against the wooden planks of a shed. His hand went to his sword. “Show your face!”

  The crash of glass. A bottle of moonshine shattered on the ice. A squeal. Some girl yanked up her corset, covering her breasts. “Leave him alone! What did he do?!”

  Nayden looked into the boy’s terrified, hazel eyes. Just a peasant. He stank of onions and cheap mash, not ozone. He let him go with disgust.

  “Fuck off,” he hissed. “Now.”

  The couple disappeared into the gloom, cursing at the “sanctimonious grunts.”

  Nayden rested his forehead against the cold planks of the shed. His heart hammered against his ribs like a trapped bird. “Where are you, you sick son of a bitch?” he whispered. The leather of his glove creaked on the hilt.

  A Whisperer isn’t a warrior. It’s poison. The instructor’s words from the dormitory returned like a sledgehammer blow. He doesn’t fight with iron; he steals what’s in your head. That’s why we don’t catch them. That’s why they’re always one step ahead.

  Nayden spat. The saliva froze almost instantly. “Fuck you. And fuck your Veles. You were supposed to rot in the woods, not stroll through our streets.”

  He moved on. The city mocked his fear. The laughter sounded like shattering glass. Every sudden movement in the crowd tightened the muscles in his neck. He reached the Old Oak. The tree looked like the corpse of a giant. Bark peeled off in flakes, revealing pale, sickly wood. Branches clawed the black sky with arthritic fingers. Beneath it, priests were preparing the altar.

  He found Lovro by the railing. His friend looked terrible. Despite the frost, sweat trickled down his temples, and his breath hitched in his lungs.

  “Well?” He didn’t take his eyes off the crowd.

  “Nothing. Shadows and drunks. You?”

  Lovro let out a whistling breath. “Clear. I scoured the market, even looked in the well. Empty.” He looked at Nayden. A pathetic hope smoldered in his eyes. “Listen... maybe it was just some mummer from the village? Maybe you imagined it?”

  Nayden touched the dried crust under his nose with his thumb. “Nosebleeds don’t come from imagination. He’s here.” He looked at the altar under the dead tree. “And he’s waiting for something.”

  That was just the first spark.

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