The

  old shaman Erlik fled in haste from the Gorge of Forgotten Bones,

  where wandering spirits make themselves felt in the dampness of the

  dark caves, where the sun becomes impenetrable.

  He had seen his own weakness and the power of the dark substances,

  which did not even respect his Kügür-Terek, the Singing Tree,

  passed down through generations with the purpose of defending those

  who tended it.

  When he emerged, night had already fallen.

  A firmament scattered with showers of stars twisted into nebulas

  of eternal smoke and dissolved into delicate clusters of stars,

  intermittently crossed by wandering comets searching for their place

  in the drifting universe.

  The bones embedded in the walls had spoken.

  Still shaken, he hurried away from the K?g?n Kuln?, the

  Vigilant Sky Pass.

  Cold crept into the night.

  As he moved, his long kaftan seemed to come alive under the faint

  light falling on the threads of dull red, ivory, and ochre silk, on

  which the Süyek-K?g B?rü had been embroidered—the sole

  protective creature whose bird-like head, curved beak, and oblique

  eyes rested on the long, silent body of a feline.

  And when he was finally finding a moment of peace, he entered the

  Forest of White Faces, so called for the images that formed on the

  pale, almost luminous bark of the white birches, which gathered in

  protective clusters on the steepest slopes.

  Their knots, like eyes, seemed to watch everyone passing nearby.

  Their branches swayed, letting the small triangular, serrated leaves

  distort the light that filtered through their bright green in spring

  and summer, turning pale yellow in autumn.

  It was then that Erlik stopped.

  Among the trees, one stood out for its unnatural stillness. The

  wind stirred everything around it, yet that birch remained

  motionless. On its bark, a dark mark ran from one of the knots to the

  base, like an open fissure. It was neither a lightning wound nor a

  mark of frost. The shaman recognized the sign with an ancient shiver:

  a rupture in the lineage.

  The pattern on the bark was too precise to be accidental. A young

  face seemed to emerge from the whiteness, with a high forehead and

  firm expression, pierced by the crack that ran from eye to throat.

  Erlik looked away. It was not a vision he had asked for. It was a

  warning.

  He expected to hear a neigh, a response from the invisible world

  of the herds. Nothing came. No spirit horse answered the forest’s

  whisper.

  That silence was more eloquent than a shout.

  He understood then that not only the life of Prince Chinggis Yud

  was threatened, but the very continuity of the clan that, until that

  moment, had held supremacy and recognition among the other clans: the

  Lords of the Herds, forgers of armies and breeders of the horses that

  had given their line its name and power. If the face fell, the herds

  would scatter. And without herds, there would be nothing left to

  defend in the infinite celestial plains.

  Reflections danced across the rocks. An owl, far away, whispered

  its presence. The eagle and the hawk slept in the high larches, which

  also cast shadows that protected the growth of vast shrubs formed by

  Daursian rhododendrons and sturdy Siberian junipers.

  Erlik was too hurried, too fearful, to stop and gather leaves used

  for shamanic incense, nor even to notice the patches of color on the

  rhododendron that seemed to watch him.

  He only wanted to flee. To leave that place.

  As dawn painted the high peaks of the Golden Mountains, he spotted

  the silhouette of the yurts that formed the Khorza clan, which had

  earlier announced themselves in the distance with vertical threads of

  smoke rising from their chimneys.

  The smell of warm milk and dry dung hit him as forcefully as a

  memory. His sister had laughed here. He had sung through long winters

  here. And here she had died, bleeding, bringing into the world the

  heir who now slept under furs, ignorant of the weight already

  demanded by his name.

  Erlik gripped the amulet beneath his kaftan before approaching the

  clan leader. He did not come only as a shaman. He came as guardian of

  a fate the forest had already seen, but which might still be twisted.

  Stolen novel; please report.

  He paused for a moment longer as the weight of the vision pressed

  on his chest. Beneath the kaftan, at the center of the leather collar

  blackened by years, the Tengri-Süyek, the Bone of the Sky, throbbed

  with a dull, almost imperceptible vibration, like a heart beating in

  a body that was not its own.

  It was ancient. Older than the name of the clan. Carved from

  celestial bone fallen from above, given to the first Lords of the

  Herds when borders and written oaths did not yet exist. As long as

  the Tengri-Süyek remained in worthy hands, the clan would be

  protected: the mares would foal strong, the colts would not fall ill,

  and the armies would advance without breaking.

  But Erlik knew—because he had seen it before—that the Bone of

  the Sky did not protect blindly. It did not correct arrogance. It did

  not mend errors made from fear, ambition, or silence. Sometimes, when

  the bearer doubted or failed in reading the signs, its power receded,

  not as punishment, but as warning.

  That night, the Tengri-Süyek neither burned nor remained still.

  It pulsed with a contained, unstable energy, as if the sky itself

  were holding its breath.

  Erlik closed his fingers around the amulet. He understood that the

  forest had shown the wound, but that the Bone had not yet decided

  whether to seal it… or leave it open.

  Erlik stopped in front of the yurt of the great chief Alysh. He

  did not want to enter. He crouched by the felt and let out a low

  whistle, long and broken at the end, like the call of an owl that

  does not summon the hunt, but the meeting.

  He whistled once.

  Then again.

  And a third time, shorter.

  Inside, the air stirred.

  Alysh woke with a start, torn from a shapeless, heavy sleep. It

  took him a few moments to recognize the dim interior of his own yurt,

  the smell of tanned leather and sour milk, and the steady murmur of

  Chinggis Yud’s breathing as he slept wrapped in sheepskin and goat

  furs, unaware of the weight already pressing on his name. Beside him,

  his sister Saaraí clung to the edge of sleep like a fragile

  talisman.

  Alysh responded to the whistle with a barely visible gesture.

  Erlik entered silently, as if the ground itself recognized him.

  They sat across from each other near the nearly extinguished fire.

  Neither spoke; they only looked at each other for a time. It was

  unnecessary. Shared blood and recent loss had woven a silence more

  eloquent than any word.

  Erlik, too restless to contain himself, spoke first, in a low

  voice.

  —The Gorge of Forgotten Bones.

  —The caves where the sun

  does not enter.

  —The bones that still remember.

  He described the black substances, thick as living tar, devouring

  blue breaths, extinguishing the light that sustains men while they

  still believe in balance. It was not an isolated vision, he said. It

  was movement. A slow tide.

  —It is forming —he whispered—. Not as a storm, but as fog.

  And it advances without sound.

  Alysh clenched his fists.

  Erlik then spoke of the forest, of the White Faces, of the crack

  in the bark that was neither a lightning wound nor frost. He did not

  speak the prince’s name. It was unnecessary.

  —Evil does not attack head-on —he continued—. It slips in.

  It disguises itself as good. It feeds on small mistakes, on silence,

  on decisions made in fear.

  The fire crackled weakly.

  —It is not just your son —he finally said—. It is the

  succession. It is the clan’s name. It is what we have been to the

  other clans. The battle that approaches is not of men against men,

  Alysh. It is older. Infinity fights itself. And we are in the middle.

  Alysh closed his eyes. Unwittingly, he saw the face of his dead

  wife, pale and serene, her final breath given in exchange for life.

  He understood that no sacrifice is complete if it does not claim

  something more.

  —Can it be avoided? —he asked finally, barely a thread of a

  voice.

  Erlik placed his hand on his chest. The Tengri-Süyek pulsed

  beneath the leather, uncertain.

  —It can be twisted —he replied—. But it has a price. The

  question is whether you are willing to pay it.

  Both remained silent. The young ones continued sleeping, unaware.

  Outside, in the dawn of the Golden Mountains, an owl answered the

  first, as if the sky itself had heard.

  And the dawn promised no peace, only witnesses.

  Erlik rose carefully. The fire was about to die, and the yurt

  breathed in a slow, ancient rhythm. He stepped toward the bed where

  Chinggis Yud slept, without touching him.

  Then it happened.

  The Tengri-Süyek, hidden beneath the kaftan, stopped pulsing. For

  an impossible instant, it remained motionless, as if the sky had

  closed its eyes.

  Erlik felt the void before the pain. Then a sudden vibration ran

  through the bone, sharp, like a warning. The shaman clenched his

  teeth to keep from making a sound.

  A faint light, barely a bluish reflection, filtered through the

  fibers of the collar and spread across the yurt’s interior. It did

  not illuminate the prince’s face, only his breath. Each exhalation

  of Chinggis Yud left a trace of pale blue in the air, brief, fragile…

  and threatened.

  At the same instant, a dark shadow crossed the light, as if

  something invisible tried to devour it.

  The Tengri-Süyek vibrated one last time. Not in protection, but

  in recognition.

  Alysh held his breath.

  Erlik understood with a clarity that froze his blood: the Bone of

  the Sky was not rejecting the prince. Nor was it claiming him. It was

  marking him.

  The light went out. The amulet became inert again against the

  shaman’s chest, heavier than ever before.

  Chinggis Yud kept sleeping.

  Saaraí moved slightly, murmuring

  something incomprehensible, then returned to silence.

  Erlik stepped back.

  —He has been recognized —he whispered—. From above… and

  below.

  Alysh closed his eyes. For the first time since his wife’s

  death, he understood that his son would inherit not only a name or

  herds, but a battle he had not chosen.

  Outside, the wind changed direction.

  And the Tengri-Süyek did not pulse again.

  The Infinity War, of which the ancestors had spoken so often,

  would truly materialize under his rule.

  Horror froze his gaze as he caressed the long hair of his heir and

  child: the Prince of the Herds.