Matabar

In the hearth, a little flame danced with a playful, cheerful spirit. Like a red-haired, mischievous boy, it tossed itself around in complex leaps, cracking the dry wood as it moved. With each bow, it tipped an invisible hat, tossing its orange mane of sparks across the hearth, and with the toe of an unseen boot, sent blackened ashes falling to the ground. And in a strange, mesmerizing way, flecks of snow would sometimes rise around it, only to settle back down again as a crisp carpet of ashen frost. Dozens of delighted spectators, stretching out in long shadows, watched the dance.

Ardi sat and stared at the letters lying on the floor before him. He'd waited for so long to find all of it out, to hear the words of his father and great-grandfather, but now… Now he wasn't sure if he had the strength to pick up the envelopes and break their seals.

Outside, the wind howled. Like a persistent hound, it scraped at the window, leaving behind long scratches of white frost that blended into vague silhouettes and shapes.

Ardan closed his eyes, trying to calm his wildly beating heart. It didn't work. For a moment, he felt as though he couldn't breathe, and nearly blamed the fireplace, but it was only puffing gently into the wide chimney without spilling a trace of smoke into the room.

"It's like ripping off a bandage," he tried to reassure himself. "Just… quick and…"

And then what? What if in there…

No. It was too late now. And honestly, when had it not been too late? Tess had said that Ardan was lucky, that he was free to choose his own fate, but the two envelopes on the floor before him seemed to suggest otherwise.

The first letter he took into his hands was his grandfather's.

It smelled of snow and an oak, an oak that had once been strong and sturdy, but was now bent and weathered. It hadn't given in to the weight of beetles or storms, but the relentless march of time, that tireless judge that decided the fates of mountains and seas alike.

Ardan was pretty certain that one of Atta'nha's poems had spoken of time like this. The Fae loved poems and music, and had gained such mastery over these arts that it was a match for their skill in magic.

"Don't get distracted," muttered Ardi, snapping the wax seal.

It crumbled into small, amber fragments. Inside was a single page, written in tiny, tight script nearly identical to Ardan's own. Only the letters were more ornate, crafted with a flawless calligraphic elegance.

"Hello, great-grandson.

You were born today. It's a good winter's day. The wind is blowing from the eastern peaks of our mountains. The sun is a bit grumpy, ducking behind the clouds every so often. I'm sitting in the shade and writing this letter to you.

I don't know when you'll see it — or if you'll see it at all. But your father, mother, and I agreed that there are… many things you don't need to know. A lot of it is about your family and those raising you. Why torment you like that? And yet, Hector and I wanted to leave these letters, just in case you ever decide to know the truth. Though the truth itself is a fickle thing. Like a dockside girl and… yes, never mind, you little rascal.

The moment I saw you, saw your funny, amber eyes with that spark in them, I knew — this one would be a rascal. And, forgive me, I loved you from your very first breath. You are such a tiny thing. A little kitten, small enough to fit in my hand.

I love you, you little rascal. And so, forgive me…"

…Here the letter bore smudges from tears, and Ardi tried to hold back his own…

"…for not being able to tell you everything I wanted. Forgive the fact that I could never teach you how to hear the song of the winds, to see what lies in the shadows of snow and clouds; forgive me for the fact that you don't know how to tell one herb from another, or how to whisper the words that'll carry you over lakes and rivers.

But I'll tell you stories. Stories that might teach you to at least Hear. I'll start making them up today. Maybe one day, they'll help you, should you ever meet a certain feisty she-wolf.

Forgive me for not being able to tell you more. If you're reading this, perhaps you already know that bargains made with the people of the City on the Hill cannot be broken. I am sadly no exception. That's why you won't learn from me the art of the Aean'Hane or Star Magic, though I'm no great master of it. But I hope you'll one day use the key to find my good friend's book.

Nicholas may ramble, and he hadn't been practicing Star Magic long when we met, but… it's something, at least.

If, by the time you read this letter, you know my story with the Dark Lord, then… that's how it was. Yes, I know, it sounds dreadful.

But that's how it was.

It's far from what one might wish to hear, but I can't change anything about it, rascal.

That's how it was.

It just so happened that I helped Jacob (I hope it's no secret to you who the Lord was under that guise). It just so happened that I taught him a skill, and for that, I paid the price of never again being able to teach the secrets of the Aean'Hane. It just so happened that I made him first a hero to the whole Empire, and then guided him to the worst of fates, for which I paid a higher price than anyone else.

It just so happened that I killed for him, and then I killed him, too. But it was too late by then. And it was far too pointless.

For centuries, I chased after things that didn't matter, for those who cared for nothing.

But… that's how it was…

My hands are stained with blood, rascal. And the night you were born, I tried all night to wash them clean in the river, but it seems I failed.

That's how it was…

Most of my life can be summed up with those words:

That's how it was…

Live in such a way, you little rascal, that when you write to your great-grandson one day, you don't have to tell him, "That's how it was." Live in such a way that you can lift your own little rascal onto your shoulders with pride and, as you show him the Alcade, you can also tell him how to listen to the wind, speak with forests, and run among the birds and snow leopards.

I love you with all my dark, cursed heart, you little rascal.

Your great-grandfather… though that's a bit long, isn't it?

Let's keep it simple:

Grandpa."

P.S. Forgive me for not being able to tell you this in person, but… that's how it was…"

Ardan read the letter several times, then set it aside. He leaned back, resting his head on the edge of the sofa, and stretched his legs out on the carpet, almost touching the stinging sparks.

The firelight flickered across the ceiling. Ardi looked at it, seeing nothing. Salty tears clouded his vision, refusing to fall down his cheeks.

Such a short letter. And yet, there was so much pain and regret there. Ardan didn't care in the slightest about this Nicholas his great-grandfather had mentioned — the Stranger to him — nor about his bargains with the Fae.

His grandpa had revealed almost nothing in his letter, and yet in that silence, he had said more than any words or tales could. He hadn't been able to speak of things that now so troubled Ardi. Which meant something had kept him silent.

Something…

Ardan raised a hand and wiped his wet eyes.

It didn't matter. It was insignificant. He held in his hands the first words his grandfather had ever spoken to him, but by fate's will, they'd also become the last. And now Ardi was left only with the made-up tales where that old Aean'Hane had hidden echoes of his craft — or maybe, at some point, he had simply come to love telling them to an eager child forever looking toward the horizon.

"Grandpa…" Ardi whispered. "I love you too."

And his words, slipping from his lips, were carried up by sparks and through the chimney, flying along with the cold wind toward those familiar mountains.

Ardan was already opening the second envelope. Unlike his grandfather's, this one contained far more pages, all of them written in that fine, tight handwriting. Evidently, it was an inherited trait.

"Hello, son.

Today, I became a father for the first time. The moment you cried out as the winter air cut your lungs and the moment you began to wail, clutching at my hair and your mother's with your tiny hands, I understood something important. Something very important. But if you asked me to say what it was exactly, I couldn't tell you.

It's just that life, once drab and meaningless, suddenly became so vivid, so full of importance. And all the burdens I'd once carried simply stepped aside.

I wanted to hold you, but… I couldn't. Instead, I went with your great-grandfather to the river, to wash our hands. That's when we agreed to write you these letters. And may the Eternal Angels, the Sleeping Spirits, or even the Old Gods hear my wish: I would be happy if you never had to read them.

But if life has taught me anything, son, it's that for every evil deed we commit, we must pay the price sooner or later. Maybe it's because wrongdoings attract one another like iron to a magnet; maybe it's the reckoning of those we've harmed or slain, or perhaps it's just coincidence.

I don't know.

But what I do know for certain is that someday, you'll want to know the story of our family, from us, not from those who might try to tell it to you.

Let's start with your great-grandfather. He was one of the greatest Aean'Hane (you probably already know what that means) not only of our tribe, but of all the Firstborn over the past few thousand years. No one knows exactly how many names he possesses, but, unfortunately, he hasn't been able to use them in a long time. Partly because he grew old and weak, and partly because he made deals that cost him dearly.

This is my first piece of advice to you, son: never agree to pay a cost you can't afford.

Your great-grandmother was a simple Matabar. A gatherer, one of the disciples of Lenos and his sons. These days, no spirits remain in the Alcade except the Guardians themselves, so these words won't mean anything to you. And I hope you never come to know the beastly paths and, if you're lucky, you grow up to be an accountant. Your grandfather was good with numbers, and your great-grandfather had a keen mind.

I'm not talking about my own blood here, but your mother's blood.

So, why don't I want you to know the paths?

Let's take it step by step.

Your great-grandfather and great-grandmother had a daughter — my mother. This happened nearly a century after your great-grandfather went off to war with Gales. Yes, those days were long past, but it is what it is.

Ectassus, as you know, lost that war. But we'll set your great-grandfather's story aside here. That's not mine to tell.

Your grandmother joined with a simple hunter from a neighboring tribe, one we… raided and conquered. Yes, don't fool yourself, son. The peaceful people made up of gatherers and hunters could never have subdued the mountain range that stretches across the continent on their own.

We seized the Alcade not because it was fated to us by the Sleeping Spirits, but because the Matabar were ruthless and merciless to those they fought. We are strong, swift, and cunning. Our Listeners hear the voice of nature, and sometimes, our shamans leave the City on the Hill to teach the tribe new wisdom.

That's how it used to be.

Our tribe grew and expanded its lands until it controlled all the mountains from the west to the east. We settled. We divided into clans. Different tribes. And we feuded with each other, Ardan. Don't be mistaken about this, either. There has never been peace between the Matabar of different tribes. Just like there has never been peace among elves from different forests, dwarves from different mountains, orcs from different steppes, or any other Firstborn.

In this, we are not so different from humans. Or perhaps they are not so different from us… By the laws of our people, the tribe's name belongs to the victor, and the Egobar tribe has always been known for its warriors. Generation after generation, we learned from Ergar and his sons and, on rare occasions, from Guta and his sons as well.

That's how we claimed the largest territories. In their center now stands the house where Shaia, your mother, gave birth to you.

My father, your grandfather, died in one of the raids on a neighboring tribe before I was even two years old. I barely remember him.

As for my mother…

When the time came, son, a shaman from the City on the Hill arrived and conducted the ritual to choose my teacher. I was chosen by Skusty and Ergar — it is a great honor to learn from the Guardians, not merely their sons. Only the best of the Matabar children are given this chance. A Guardian can only teach one child every six years, so imagine my pride when I saw two at once wanting to teach me…

In the end, I went with Ergar. I learned to be a warrior and a hunter. Fierce and merciless. I learned to kill with a single blow. To endure pain. To battle against cold and hunger. My hands became claws, my teeth fangs. I learned to don the skin of a snow leopard and walk among them as an equal. I fought many predators of the Alcade and knew no defeat. My skin bore scars from the claws, fangs and tusks of nearly every creature that walked the hunters' paths.

After all, I am an Egobar. A warrior from the fiercest of the Matabar tribes. I am the grandson of a powerful Aean'Hane, who made me toys in my childhood and told me of the paths.

Then he vanished.

And in the meantime, humans came to the mountains. With their cannons, rifles, cavalries, and Star Mages. And our scattered tribes, united only once under the banners of the Dark Lord, were shattered and crushed.

That day, while I was still not yet finished with my training, I heard my mother's scream. And it reminded me that I was not a snow leopard, but a Matabar. It reminded me of that too soon.

Ergar didn't want to let me go early — it went against the ways. We fought, and I won. But I didn't take the life of the Spirit Guardian. In return, he gave me his fang as a testament to my victory and promised to grant me one wish.

I returned home, Ardan. I returned as a hunter who had earned the greatest honor — overcoming his own teacher in a fair fight. I had defeated the Spirit Guardian, but…

Our lair was burning. Everyone was dead. My mother, torn apart by an artillery shell, lay by a dry stream.

Your great-grandfather never returned from the City on the Hill to help us. And whatever motives he might've had and reasons he gives, I, no matter how hard I try, will never be able to forgive him for that.

A fierce rage seized me then, Ardan. Terrible and scorching. It was so intense that it drove me up the Mountain of Memory, where, like our ancestors more than a century ago, I painted my body with the colors of war.

I declared a hunt on the human tribe and descended the mountain to avenge my people.

But I didn't know human paths and ways, and I nearly died on my first hunt. I was captured by marshals and taken, like some exotic animal, to be sold. That would have been the end of our tribe's story if not for the band of orcs from the Shanti'Ra.

They destroyed those marshals and took me in. They healed my wounds — both of the body and of the soul. They gave me purpose in my dark, hopeless life. The purpose of the hunt.

For many years, I traveled with them. Wore their clothes. Sang their songs and spoke their language. I even became blood brothers with the chieftain's son. We mixed our blood and spoke words by the fire of the Sleeping Spirits.

I killed, Ardan. I killed as many humans as I could find. And I'm a good hunter. As Ergar once said: I was the best in many centuries of him teaching hunters. So, I found many.

Old, young, weak, strong, healthy, sick. It made no difference to me, Ardan. My claws, fangs, and knife always found prey, and as I reveled in the blood, I sought an answer to my question: who am I, and what should I do now? I was the last of the Matabar…

Yes, I thought I was the last. I didn't know there were other survivors in the Alcade. And by the time I learned of them, it was already too late. They had descended from the mountains and blended in with the human tribes. And then I truly became the last. And who knows where those years of banditry would have led if not for one incident.

We learned that poachers from Delpas had been hired to escort a caravan of settlers. We set out after them. We tracked them down and killed them.

We showed no mercy, doing things so terrible that if there really are Eternal Angels out there, the ones your mother speaks of, they wept. They wept for the humans we slaughtered and for us as well.

There is no forgiveness for me, Ardan. Unfortunately, I realized that too late. And I realized it thanks to your great-grandfather.

That night, I burst into one of the carriages. I'd been shot by a revolver, but I didn't care. I tore that man apart and was about to do the same to his daughter when my eyes fell on the book in her hands.

"Legends and Myths of the Indigenous People of the Alcade. Stories of the Matabar."

I don't know why, but I didn't even touch her. I only took the book and read the legends and myths that the older hunters of our tribe had once told me. I was astonished. Why would the Empire print such literature when they themselves exterminated us?

The girl lay unconscious, and I searched the entire carriage. I finally found a notebook belonging to Alexander Taakov. That was your great-grandfather on your mother's side. The man I killed with my own two hands.

Most of his journal had burned away in the fire, but the page that changed my life… I am giving it to you."

Ardan, pale-faced and with trembling hands, gingerly lifted the yellowed, slightly worn page taken from the travel journal.

"Day 316 of the investigation. Entry by Senior Investigator of the Second Chancery, Captain Alexander Taakov.

Today, I finally managed to secure enough funding at the Black House to equip an expedition to the Alcade Mountains. Unfortunately, my dear wife has passed from consumption, so I will go with my daughter. I have no one to leave her with. My colleagues have advised against it, but I cannot do otherwise.

While sorting through the archives, I came across discrepancies in the records of 'Operation Mountain Predator.' It was just a few mismatches in the expenditures, but still enough to make me wonder. Again, entry complete.

Day 358 of the investigation. Entry by… ande…"

The ink was faded, making some parts nearly impossible to read.

"We have finally reached the foothills of the Alcade. Eternal Angels, how beautiful it is here. How freely my lungs fill with air. How clearly my mind thinks. And there, ahead, I see the majestic peaks of the mountains. They're getting closer and closer to us. And perhaps among them, I'll find the answer to why the tragedy happened. I am increasingly convinced that under the Black House's very nose, a conspiracy has been woven, one that took advantage of the Dark Lord's uprising. The question is: what is it? Maybe in the Alcade, I'll find a clue? I need to find any surviving Matabar descendants. Without their testimonies, my investigation, already at an impasse, cannot proceed. Entry complete.

Day 373... Entry by Senior Investigator of the Second Chancery, Captain Alexander Taakov.

On our way from Delpas, we encountered a patrol. By sheer luck, the patrol contained the grandson of one of the Matabar. He possessed a military token of the Sixth Division, Separate Reconnaissance Corps, Third Army, which had been taken from a dead soldier by his grandfather. What was the vanguard from the Fatian border doing during 'Operation Mountain Predator?' Why were they sent to the western frontier, across the entire country, instead of reinforcing the east? This division is renowned for its impeccable work and high efficiency in enemy territory, but even so, that was not enough to justify this. In any case, this is my first lead, other than the accounting records, after more than a year. But I haven't lost hope. I must drain this festering wound. And when I uncover who stands behind the extermination of our mountain brothers and sisters, we will destroy the conspirators, subjecting them to the most terrible tortures. This is our duty as descendants of the warband of the Kings of the Past. Sounds a bit grandiose, doesn't it? The prairies and the sight of the ever-growing mountains make me think lofty thoughts. I often contemplate the unity of the Empire. I must restore justice. Entry complete.

Day 375. Taakov.

We've been attacked by the Shanti'Ra orcs. Writing under fire. I don't think I'll survive. I've hidden my daughter in a chest. Whoever finds this diary — send it to the Black House. The Second Chancery must complete my investigation! For the glory of the Imp…"

The last words were obscured by an old bloodstain, long since turned gray with age.

Ardan felt like he had forgotten how to breathe. Everything blurred before his eyes. His ears rang, and his head throbbed. He no longer understood what was happening. He had no idea where the truth lay, and where the lies ended.

All he could do was set the journal page aside and pick up his father's letter again.

"This is the truth, son. With my own two hands, I ended the life of the one who could have restored justice. I killed a man who called us brothers and sisters. A man who wanted nothing more than to bring peace and solace to the souls who had walked the paths of the Sleeping Spirits. Without even knowing it, I killed a man who might have been my guide to redemption.

And in that moment, something changed. Something broke within me, Ardan. I looked at that girl in the chest, clutching a book of our tales. And… I could no longer see her as prey. I saw a child. A little girl. Helpless and fragile. Just like the dozens I'd…

There's no justification for what I've done, son. There isn't, wasn't, and never will be. None of those who fell by my claws deserved such a fate. Their hands bore not a drop of our blood. Their feet did not trample our sacred lands, nor did they desecrate our shrines and temples. In my agony, I had become the very thing I despised.

I don't even remember taking the girl, her book, and running. Who knows how long my feet carried me through days and nights of the prairies? I only came to my senses in Kavest. There, I left the child — your grandmother, Shaia's mother — in the care of the Church of the Face of Light. But that's another story.

I studied Alexander's journal day and night, trying to find the answers to my questions. Or rather, one single question. Who was behind 'Operation Mountain Predator?' And whose heart, not the hearts of dozens of innocent people, should have been ripped out by my claws?

But I found no answer. I was never known for my intelligence, son. My body is sturdier than oak, my fangs sharper than steel, but my mind… My mind is ordinary and unremarkable. But I am a hunter. I was trained to follow a trail.

With the money I'd accumulated from years of looting and banditry, I paid some smugglers for forged documents. That's how I became a soldier in the Empire's army. Within a year, I found myself on the Fatian border, in the very division your great-grandfather mentioned in his investigation.

But an ordinary soldier could never gain access to the archives, nor, more importantly, to the last living witnesses of the operation. And so, I served. Faithfully and truly. I hoped that every shot I fired, every stab of my knife, every life taken from a Fatian trying to harm the Empire, would quiet the weeping I heard night after night.

But it didn't. It never quieted. And to this day, son, every night, I see the faces and hear the cries of those I killed. They are waiting for me... to witness how I am going to be taken to hell. I know that. But I am not afraid. After seeing you, so small and helpless, I lost that fear that had haunted me since that night…

During my service, Ardan, I encountered elven artillerymen, orc scouts, dwarf engineers, giant shock troops, and even a few goblin sappers in a neighboring unit who saved my skin once.

My grandfather, your great-grandfather, often told me about Ectassus, where the Firstborn lived together. And what I saw on the border, among the mud, blood, and screams — Firstborn and humans fighting side by side for their homeland… It was as though I had found myself in Ectassus. Only in a version of Ectassus that had not enslaved the human tribe. And I suddenly realized that my tribe had once controlled only a part of the Alcade, but now… Now it could, along with its brothers and sisters — the elves, orcs, dwarves, and humans — lay claim to one sixth of all the world's land… But that's not the point.

And before I knew it, decades of my service had passed. Then there was an incident at an old, abandoned castle on the 43rd Height.

There, we had to rescue a cavalry unit that had fallen into an ambush. During our defense against the Fatians, one of the signalmen assigned to us, an old scoundrel, let slip that, in his youth, he had been in a similar scrape in the Alcade Mountains.

After we saved the cavalrymen, I managed to pry everything I could out of that old man. Over my years of service, I'd become a decent torturer, Ardan. I'm not proud of it, but in war, the same as during the hunt, you don't shun any methods.

The old man told me that the order sent to the General Staff lacked the Defense Minister's signature, but the Chief of Staff approved it anyway.

That's all I was able to uncover. It's not much, but enough to confirm your great-grandfather's theory. A conspiracy had taken root in the Empire, perhaps one that is still in place, and for some reason, it required the annihilation of our people.

I don't know why. I don't know who hides in the shadows. The trail ended there, Ardan. The Chief of Staff, Duke-General Ephrem, has long since fed the worms. Maybe there are some traces to be found in the Black House or the Upper Chamber, but… there's no path for me to follow there. I'm no longer young. And the weight I carry is too heavy.

During the next raid, I arranged things so that the army would believe me to be dead. That was the end of Hec Abar's story. And I, Hector Egobar, set out back home. Along the way, I visited Kavest to see how the girl was faring (by then, she should have had a family of her own) and, at the same time, to obtain new documents — luckily, smuggling tends to be a family trade, and the son of the man who'd made my last set of papers took care of my request.

That's how I became a ranger under my true name, with my own modest parcel of land, which, by the way, no one needed. The Alcade's riches lie beneath the earth, not in the inhospitable, unwelcoming mountain climate.

Unfortunately, I must have attracted unwanted attention during my time in Kavest, because shortly after I left, one of the Shanti'Ra bands raided it and burned the place down. They had intended to settle scores with me for my betrayal, and I… I no longer had the strength or willpower needed to argue or explain anything to them.

I ran.

And by chance, the local priest and the daughter of that girl — your mother, Shaia — escaped with me. Her mother and father, an accountant, remained behind in the town. I accompanied the survivors to Evergale, where the girl's fate was repeated. The priest even changed her surname back to Taakov to hide her from her pursuers. He believed the attack on Kavest was connected to rumors that Shaia's ancestor had once worked for the Second Chancery… Damn those talkative smugglers…

I climbed the mountain and, upon the ruins of our settlement, built a house. One day, on the doorstep, I met your great-grandfather.

Who knows what kind of strength it took for me not to leap at his throat. But instead, we began living under one roof. On the land of our tribe. The Egobar tribe.

Years passed. I hunted. And your grandfather… he rarely left the house, and if he did, it was only to sit by the graves.

I took pelts to Evergale. The girl apprenticed to the tailor, Shaia, always handled them. She grew up. We talked. She showed me the prairies, I showed her the mountains. And, almost without us noticing, the three of us began to live together in the house.

And soon, you were born.

Your grandfather and I spent the entire night washing our hands. But they cannot be cleansed, Ardan. Our sins cannot be atoned for or erased.

I would like to tell you that you bear the name of the proud and worthy Egobar tribe, but… we are a part of our people, son. We killed our kin for their lands and paths. We spilled blood for a thousand years. One of your great-grandfathers was an ally of the Dark Lord (I have no interest in what happened there), the other was an investigator for the Second Chancery. One of your grandfathers was a hunter, the other an accountant. Your father — a killer.

It might have been easier if you had been born a girl. I would have told her that her mother was a seamstress. That her human grandmother was a brave girl who built her life on her own. And that her Matabar grandmother was a kind, gentle gatherer who could hear the whispers of stones and winds.

But if you think about it more, they were all the wives of a killer, an investigator, an ally of the Dark Lord, and… well, none of that matters.

I don't know what stories we will tell you. But if those stories contain villains, know that you have more in common with them than with the heroes.

I don't know how much longer I can live with what I have done. Your mother often speaks to me of how the Face of Light is ready to forgive any sin if one sincerely repents and seeks redemption.

But no matter how much I repent, son, I still hear their voices. They call out to me. They invite me to face judgment. And selfishly, I hope that someday, I will have a chance to lighten my burden, to pay for the lives I took with lives I save.

I love you, my son.

Ardan Egobar.

Matabar and human.

I love you as you are. Every part of you. And I hope you never read this letter. But if you do…

Decide for yourself.

Decide whether to seek the truth or to move on. This choice — this is my meager and careless legacy to you, my son.

And, as they say in our tribe: may your path always lead you home."

Those final words were written in the language of the Matabar, but using the Galessian alphabet.

Ardan set the letter aside and closed his eyes. He breathed in the scent of burning wood and listened to the beating of his own heart. It was uneven, pausing at times, then speeding up only to slow once more.

"Mr. Egobar!" A familiar, slightly lisping voice shouted. "I'm so glad I managed to find you! The Grand Princess has already begun to worry! First, you were in some kind of darkness where I couldn't trace your path, and then you were moving so quickly… I don't know how to set paths on trains, and now… Mr. Egobar? Are you alright?"

Ardan looked at Poplar. He'd swapped his green autumn tunic for a long, black winter coat, but his snow-white gloves and red boots remained unchanged. And so did his tin medals and Orders, wide belt, scarlet collar, and golden epaulets. Only his pants seemed slightly rumpled, marring the flawless appearance of the warrior from the Warband of Tail and Paws.

"Mr. Egobar… are you crying?"

Ardan shrugged. He honestly didn't know if he was crying. And he didn't care to check. He had no strength left to lift his arms.

He just sat and stared at one spot. The very same spot where the shadows from the carefree red-headed boy that the hearth fire seemed to resemble had converged.

Ardan heard the sound of light footsteps, and then something warm and soft settled in beside him and pressed against his side.

"Does it hurt, sir?"

"Very much," Ardan admitted.

"Do you want to talk about it?"

"No… Yes… I don't know, Poplar… I don't know."

Ardan sat beside the talking cat in his family's home. How ridiculous this all was… Just two floors above, his own brother, mother, half-sister, and stepfather lay. And yet, he couldn't discuss what he had read with any of them.

His brother didn't need this burden. His mother… It would hurt her, and the last thing Ardan wanted was to cause pain to Shaia, who had already suffered enough. And as for Kelly and Kena — they simply didn't need to know.

Boris and Elena… They weren't his actual friends. Just good acquaintances, nothing more. Tess… Ardi didn't understand what role Tess held in his life. And so, in the whole world, there wasn't anyone with whom Ardan could share his thoughts and this searing, burning pain.

No one but a forest cat — a Vila half-blood in a silly tunic with fake medals adorning it.

"What happened?" The cat asked after a moment.

"I got answers," Ardan replied after a few seconds of thought, "to questions I've been asking myself for so long. And now I don't know if I really wanted to hear those answers. Or if it only seemed that way at the time. Maybe it would've been better to remain ignorant."

"Ignorance is always easier, sir, but not always better," Poplar tapped him with his paw. "Trust an old drengr."

"Yes… you're probably right… Maybe you're right, Poplar."

They sat quietly for a few more minutes.

"What will you do now?"

Ardan shrugged again.

"I don't know," he repeated for the umpteenth time. "If I stay here, maybe someday I'll become an engineer. And if I return to the Metropolis… I don't know what awaits me there, but it certainly won't be simple or easy."

"Does that frighten you?"

"The terror cuts me to the bone."

"I see…" Poplar murmured, then suddenly leaped to his feet… paws, and gave a ceremonious bow. "I don't know how it is with the two-legged, but in such dire times, we seek support from our friends, sir.

And I happen to be the liaison between you and your friend — the Grand Princess. And what sort of friend would she be if she weren't ready to share your pain and hardships?"

Ardan nearly choked on those words.

"I would never tell a little girl-"

The sharp click of a heel interrupted him.

"Not a little girl, Mr. Egobar, but your friend," Poplar corrected him firmly. "One that has been trapped in a cage since her childhood, and who will one day bear everything that her not-so-simple parents leave behind as her inheritance."

"I'd like to say that I understand your feelings, grandson, but that would be a lie. For hundreds of kilometers in all directions, there is no one who could understand you, Ardi. Perhaps even farther than that…" He recalled his grandfather's words. And his grandfather had been right. In the entire province, there wasn't anyone who could understand the turmoil of Ardan's soul.

And in order to find such a person, he'd had to reach the Metropolis.

Perhaps if Ardan had taken the time to rest and think things over carefully, he wouldn't have even considered sharing his inner struggle in a letter to a thirteen-year-old girl who was also the heir to the throne.

But… he wasn't in the best state of mind just then. And so, he wrote her a letter.

He wrote it and handed it to Poplar.

"I'll return shortly, Mr. Egobar," the cat said with a bow, clicking his heels as he vanished into the darkness.

And Ardan, turning toward the window, gazed at the snowstorm battering the walls and scattering snowflakes everywhere.

Now he knew who he was. Now he knew why his father had done all of those things. He understood why he'd had… such heated conversations with his grandfather. And perhaps his grandfather had done what he'd done for the same reasons as his father.

Hector and Aror. They'd been so different, and yet, in the end, almost the same.

In Ardan's story, there were no more unspoken truths. Only, as Tess had once called it on the rooftop, a once-inconceivable event that had forced him onto a certain path.

Ardi hadn't stepped onto it yet, however.

He merely stood at the crossroads, looking at the fork. On one side lay a clear, simple, wide road across a wheat field. On the other, there was a crooked, rough trail lost in a dark forest.

And just like in the prairies, from one side, Mart waved at him cheerfully, while from the other, Yonatan smiled at him with predatory glee.

Perhaps Ardi had faced this choice long ago, after the attack by the Shanti'Ra bandits. Only he hadn't realized it back then.

"Your letter, Mr. Egobar," Poplar said as he emerged from the darkness, handing over a small note.

On it, written in neat, perfect handwriting, were the words:

"You will always be Ard Egobar, my first friend, to me. Nothing else matters."

Ardan clenched the note and took a deep breath.

He couldn't fool himself.

He had already made this accursed choice.

Back then,

in the prairies.

"Shall I deliver anything to the Grand Princess?"

"Yes, Poplar," Ardan nodded firmly. "Tell her I'll be back in the capital soon."