[GK]Moby Dick - chapter 5

Note: This chapter took a while because I 1) visited a reindeer park, 2) read up on birch bark canoes and Tunguska mentality, and 3) had an unexpected dental crisis. I planned the first two but you can't really expect the firsthand experience of not being able to open your jaw. So valuable.
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The noise from last night had fallen into the stillness, saved for the snoring figures on the riverbank. They had drunk too much vodka at the feast and slept where they fell. Until a prolonged steam whistle tore through the silence, and their slumber was shattered.

A young man in a crumpled uniform thrashed on the ground like a beached fish, unable to rise. Next to him, a much more seasoned sailor sat up easily, yawned, and glanced at the young man with amusement. He then stood up, unbuckling his belt as he walked toward the reeds.

The sailor relieved himself while recalling the fun from the night and began to whistle. He squinted across the river, assessing the difficulty of navigating in such weather.

The grand river chilled from the night was now releasing a vapor that thickened into a mist, covering the bank and the steamships in the harbor. Only a few reeds reached up from its depth, shivering and whispering as the water fluttered without a wind. No one could see beyond the veil, let alone reach the far shore. Past the paleness, it looked less like the real world, but a realm bowing to the unholy sovereign.

Then, out of nowhere, a faint noise joined in. Couldn't really tell where it came from, except from deep within the mist. The sailor cleared his throat but found himself unable to continue.

"Nipper?" he called out, but his companion ignored him. The sound grew closer, and gradually, a vague shape emerged, massive, silent, wading through the void, closing the distance.

"Nipper!" he shouted, louder this time.

It was a mistake. The shadow seemed to have pinpointed his location and quickened its pace. The sailor stared at the approaching figure, unable to make sense of it. The hulking form simply had far too many limbs to belong to any natural creature.

Worse still, even across the mist, he could smell an awful, bloody stench.

"Nipper!!" This time, he abandoned all dignity, not even bothering to pull up his pants as he fled. His falling trousers tangled his steps, tripping him over. He heard the stark sound of something solid meeting the ground. The man struggled, writhed, hoping to rise before the creature reached him, but his alcohol-sodden body betrayed him.

Then came the terrifying footsteps.

He groped around with trembling hands, desperate for a rock. Blindly, he hurled it behind him, hoping some angel might guide his aim despite his vices. The stone struck solid flesh, followed by a sharp screech—unpleasant, yet strangely familiar.

The sailor twisted his neck toward the sound. From the fog, a shape emerged, glaring at him as its tail flicked in irritation.

"What now?" asked a voice from the bank. His young shipmate shuffled over, rubbing his eyes drowsily. But when he saw the creature, he perked up. "Where did she come from?"

The young sailor ignored his companion on the ground and went straight to attend the horse. He scratched her neck and offered a biscuit from his pocket, but she only tossed her head and snorted uneasily. That was when he noticed what was strapped across her back.

Seeing this, the older man cursed under his breath. The monster was nothing more than two unconscious men bound tightly across the horse's back. "God damn it," he grumbled, hauling himself upright and hitching up his trousers as he watched the younger man struggle with the rough ropes. "These two idiots nearly scared me straight to the devil!"

They hauled the two heavy bodies down. One was stripped to the waist, and if it wasn't already summer he would already have been frozen to death. The other… the old sailor frowned, finally understanding where that thick smell was coming from. The man's face was all but obliterated, caked in a bloody paste of sand.

"Good god!" he heard the young man exclaim. "Isn't this one of our passengers? The guy drew for the mate! You recall? Big butt?"

He gestured wildly, and the other sailor remembered then. It was the soldier from yesterday, the one ordered by the mate to sketch a woman with ample curves. Prudish fellow, but playing ball. Looking at this bloodied wreck, he was barely recognizable.

The old sailor shook his head and planted his hands on his hips. "So what are we supposed to do now?" He gestured toward the horse and the soldier's gear. They could easily scavenge them, leave them here to their fate, and no one would ever know.

But seeing the young man's eyes light up, he sighed. Arguing with the kid would give him a headache.

Though delayed a bit, the steamship finally set off. The sun came out, and the thick fog began to dissipate, finally revealing itself if someone was looking down from space. The Angara made even the massive steel ship appear like a toy boat, and the people on board would be barely visible, bustling about like ants on their nest.

In the deepest part of the lair, in a small, lamp-less room, a body twitched.

Vasily didn't know where he was. He could not see, could not hear, and could not steady himself in the roaring, rolling darkness. It was as if he had grown wings and was gliding through an eternal void. He did not know why he was there, only a vague sense of something left undone. And so, even with newfound wings, he remained earthbound. He couldn't really fly away and be free.

Then he remembered what it was, and immediately started to struggle. But he couldn't do anything except reach out and flail around. He touched something, and grabbed a handful to confirm it was another body.

Yet his panic didn't subside. The body lay utterly motionless, its skin cold as ice beneath his touch. He fumbled for the wrist, desperate to feel a pulse, though how couldn't he mistake the accelerated thuds in his own veins for another's? He waited, he prayed. Yet what he found was not a pulse, but a peculiar scent.

At first, Vasily didn't understand, thinking it might be some incense lit in the room. But he soon realized the fragrance was emanating from nowhere but the body beside him. He crawled towards it on all fours, letting his nose lead the way, lowering his head to locate its source. The smell was seeping from underneath the skin, warmed by the body and released into the air.

Vasily took a deep breath, catching its salty base note, yet the rest of its character, he couldn't find any worldly comparison.

Instantly, he knew who the body belonged to. It couldn't have been anyone else, even though he hadn't really known what the man should have smelled like. This one was still warm and sweating, and he had been careful not to break it beyond repair. The last thing he struggled to do before passing out was to secure his fallen prize, binding it tightly to himself, worried he would wake up and find it gone.

He woke up to this. So things hadn't gone that badly.

A smile escaped him—and then, a searing pain stabbed through him.

It was only then that Vasily vaguely remembered the severe blow he had suffered. He felt something shift on his face, dark, sticky liquid slid down his cheek and landed gently on the skin spread beneath him. His first reaction was not to cover the wound, but to wipe the stain away. He kept wiping, but the motion only rubbed the gore deeper into the skin. What's worse, the dripping quickened, until he heard a different sound of something solid coming loose and falling. His breath hitched and his vision blurred with the sharp pain, and his body gave out, reaching its limit.

Vasily collapsed face down, but the pain never let him truly rest. He was suspended in a half-dreaming, half-waking limbo.

He could feel the steamship's relentless sway, yet his own consciousness remained utterly out of control. At times, he would surface, struggling to check the positions of his guns and sketch kit before collapsing again at the foot of the bunk. Moments later he would find himself slip back in another world, back in his village at harvest season. They piled the straw into tall mounds, and his father lift him onto the top and dare him to climb down all by himself. When he took the challenge and leaped, he was back in the cramped room where a stranger was cleaning his wound with a wet cloth, warning him not to cry out. The sting of salt threw him once more into oblivion—and this time, he found himself somewhere unknown.

As he glanced around, he found once more that figure who had shadowed him across Eurasia. There the man stood, atop a nearby peak, white hood over his head, smiling at him before turning and leaping off the cliff.

Vasily had no choice left. He spurred himself toward the cliff at full speed. He jumped, falling and searching, but the canyon rushing up to meet him was utterly empty.

Then he began to scream—

"Don't move!" a voice shouted above him, edged with alarm. "What are you waiting for? Hold him down!"

Another pair of hands reached in and pressed hard on the patient's shoulder. "No, no—on his head! The wound's full of grit—I've got to clean it out somehow."

A younger voice came in, "Use your legs!"

And Vasily's head was pushed down against the ground, and a pair of thighs came closer and firmly pinned him in place on either side of his head, immobilizing him completely.

"Much better," the speaker sounded pleased.

With a sharp metallic click, a pair of tongs came into view. Vasily tried to watch from the corner of his vision. The instrument spread its jaws, prying open the torn flesh of his cheek. Then a swab soaked in antiseptic slid in and began to turn gently.

A fresh wave of dizziness and searing pain washed over him. This time, he didn't fall unconscious, but had to clench his eyes and teeth to endure it, only to realize one of his molars had already cracked and no longer fit against the one above.

The other voice sounded anxious, "Feldsher, that's a huge hole over there—can it even heal?"

The other man replied with resignation. "We can only take it one step at a time. Compared to the infection, disfigurement is the least of his troubles." His hands continued steadily cleaning the debris from the wound, but he tilted his head toward the side. "Go check on that other guy. It's hard to say if he'll even make it through the night..."

Vasily's eyelids snapped open. His head was still locked between a stranger's legs, but he could follow with his gaze.

"Still burning up, eye's leaking… looking bad, man," came the report.

From above, the feldsher sighed, a sound that made Vasily want to leap to his feet. "Ah, poor devil. Get him some water."

A clatter of sounds followed as he fetched the cup, poured water, and propped up the patient. This was followed by a fierce struggle with the unconscious but stubborn patient. Even though he was critically ill, he fought back fiercely and fought off the well-meaning helper with flailing limbs. He moaned incomprehensible words, but his tone alone made their meaning all too clear, all threats and curses.

After a breathless fight, the young sailor finally pinched the patient's nose and poured the water in. But the man refused to swallow, choking on the liquid and thrashing with renewed frenzy.

The feldsher clicked his tongue in frustration and stuck a rolled-up cloth into Vasily's mouth before turning to the more troublesome case.

Left lying where he was, his mouth forced open around the cloth, Vasily could only listen to the caretakers wrestle with the patient and stare at the ceiling. He had no way of knowing what was happening, but he could see that this place was strange. It lacked the basic operating table of the border doctor's clinic, but more like someone's local house.

His eyes were drawn to the conical roof, where a small opening let in a shaft of natural light. The walls were sheathed in thin tree bark, each piece the size of a sheet of paper and layered neatly over a skeleton of wooden poles. An assortment of trinkets hung from the frame: bulging fur pouches, flint strikers, and bells tied with colorful cords. A fur-wrapped ski stood propped against the wall, and over a nearby bunk hung a halved deer antler, about to be crafted into a handicraft.

Occasionally, shadows passed outside the chum. First came a huge, slow-moving beast, followed by a pack of chasing, laughing children. A curious head poked through the flap to stare down wide-eyed at Vasily on the ground. The stranger mumbled something, but a vigorous shake of the Feldsher's head sent him away.

The young sailor just shrugged. The older man, however, was furious. He left his other patient, hauled Vasily up from the floor, and studied him intently to find the soldier's mind was clearer now.

"What on earth did you do? How have you not died yet?" the Feldsher snapped, as if the wound were Vasily's own fault. But even as he scolded, his hands were already busy preparing for the operation.

He ordered Vasily not to move, his face set in a grim mask as he guided the needle through the torn flesh. Under that stern gaze, Vasily clenched his fists and made no sound, letting sweat trickle from his neck down his spine. But his courage earned him no praise. When it was over, the Feldsher merely snorted.

"I've got nothing to spare here—morphine, bandages… Hmph! Don't even think about it."

He gave Vasily a firm slap on the back, a clear gesture for him to get up and get the hell out.

"Don't touch the wound. Don't eat anything. Got it?"

Vasily nodded blankly, not yet grasping the gravity of those words. When he stood, his vision swam into blackness. He staggered, throwing a hand out against the wall and nearly toppling the whole tent in the process.

Though the sailor was pleased to see the strength had returned to their patient. It was only then that Vasily noticed that though the man spoke fluent Russian and had blueish eyes, his features were soft, and his hair was braided in the style of other tribesmen.

"Almost had to call on the grand cousin for real!" he kept joking, only earning a scowl from the feldsher, who clearly didn't find it funny.

Vasily didn't understand the meaning, but seeing the doctor's face darken, he quickly ducked out of the tent. He cast one last glance at the bare foot of the man lying on the cot, then stepped out into the open.

Stepping outside, he still couldn't quite see things clearly. For a moment he thought it was the sun, but it was just a phantom glare behind his own eyelids. He was simply drained of too much blood and energy.

He was no front-line soldier. His way was to fire and ride off at once. Even when he was hit, it was always from a distance. But this raw, gaping pain was something new. He couldn't even understand it. He didn't know how he could still be alive. He didn't know how anyone could live with it.

Was this what it felt like?

The light was fading, and with the evening wind came a sudden shiver that racked his whole body. Vasily crept toward a fire, raising a sleeve to hide his face, hoping they wouldn't cast him off.

Around the fire sat a family of reindeer herders. Two teenagers were gnawing hungrily on leftover holiday bones, while a smaller one was lost in delight over a piece of chocolate traded from a fur merchant. Theor father and mother sat sewing a folded large sheet of tree bark by the firelight, their eyes following their uninvited guests. They didn't speak.

Finally, the man offered a leather pouch filled with a drink. Vasily remembered the doctor's warning and quickly shook his head, though his lips were cracked and dry.

"Please," the man said slowly, "it's good. Warm." He glanced at his wife, then added, "From our own reindeer."

Vasily shook his head again, but to refuse further would seem rude. So he moved his hand away a little, letting them see the condition he was hiding.

The man's gaze fixed on his crudely stitched face, and the woman drew a sharp breath. Worst of all, the youngest one finally looked up and noticed the strange guest. The treat slipped from his hand and tumbled out of sight. The next moment, the air was split by a desperate wail from a mouth smeared with brown syrup, though no one could tell whether it was fear for the stranger or grief over the lost sweet.

Vasily sprang to his feet at once—it was clear coming here had been a mistake. He had broken into the family's small circle of comfort and peace. He turned and strode off before the hosts could recover enough to either insist he stay or demand that he leave.

He walked around and found the whole camp was composed of chums and bound by kinship. They had come down from the mountains to the river to trade pelts and antlers for salt, tools, or a bit of gunpowder before the snow returned. Each household had its own fire. Around every blaze, people sat close, the glow spilling across their faces. As Vasily passed, heads turned toward him—curious, cautious, but not unkind. The fires looked so warm, so steady in the falling dusk, yet he couldn't bear the thought of his presence disturbing that calm. Instinctively, he lengthened his stride, fleeing away from the fire.

Vasily circled the outskirts of the camp for quite some time. He couldn't possibly abandon his prize here and walk away—and truth be told, he couldn't walk far at all, without a sense of direction nor the strength in his limbs. Then he remembered that just before he'd passed out, he had called Napolyeon out of the woods, driven her to the canoe, and somehow carried another man's weight aboard.

Where had she gone?

At the thought, a faint tension stirred in him, and he began searching for the place where they kept their livestock.

From a distance he spotted a cluster of large beasts, basking in the last warmth of the setting sun, their legs tucked neatly beneath their shaggy bodies, drowsy in peaceful contentment. The herder tasked with their watch had long since nodded off beside them, his chin resting on his chest. Vasily's approach went barely unnoticed.

As he drew near, the distant herd of plump muscles with magnificent antlers resolving into individuals. His gaze travelled over their coats. While most were a creamy yellow, he picked out shades of peat-brown, iron-grey, and one whose head was a stark black, blazed with a white muzzle. The one thing they shared was the magnificent, heavy mantle of white hair that fell like a royal robe almost to the ground—clean, glossy, and smooth under meticulously care.

Then, he was drawn to the crowns of their antlers. Some were slender and straight as branches; others curled in elegant loops. Some spread like wide, flat palms, while some were fine and intricate as the skeletons of a bird's wings. Most arresting of all was the realization that on any single reindeer, no two antlers were ever true mirrors of one another. He could not find a single pair that was perfectly symmetrical.

Thinking of sharing a bit of their warmth, his gaze drifted over the herd. He could have chosen any gentle beast, but he fixed on a creature in the corner. It was just as massive as any lead stag, yet something was off—one of its antlers had snapped clean away, and the other, though still stubbornly attached, dragged its heavy head askew to one side. Vasily lowered himself beside it and laid a hand on its neck, guiding the animal's tilted head onto his knee. The animal seemed to have lost all will to struggle, and even when the fingers sank into the thick fur, seeking a bit of warmth, it stayed rigid and still.

A noise made Vasily glance up. The herder had got up and was now standing nearby, hands on his hips, watching them curiously. He looked Vasily over, pursed his lips, but showed neither surprise nor alarm. His eyes went back to the reindeer.

The man muttered, fishing a roll of tobacco from his pocket and chewing it thoughtfully. "Lost a fight, that one. And hold a grudge about it. Won't even let anyone saw the other one off—just making himself more miserable!"

He gave Vasily another brief look, shrugged, and tucked the tobacco away. After a moment he came back carrying a small wooden pail, scooped out a handful of mixed roasted soybeans and dried moss before the wounded reindeer muzzle. But the great buck didn't so much as twitch, resting its head against Vasily's thigh as if fast asleep.

"When no one's looking, he'll sneak a bite," the man said at last, tossing the pail down in front of Vasily before sauntering off.

Vasily nestled close to the warm body, scratching the reindeer's furry neck, thinking how utterly overdramatic the creature was. By next spring, its antlers would grow back. But perhaps even animals, too, had pride, and its injury just as unbearable. Maybe only by putting the one that had broken him in the same situation could the reindeer forgive.

If only eyes could grow back like antlers, then perhaps there would be room for forgiveness. But that has never been a human ability, so justice has always been met with an eye for an eye.

He lifted his hand and gently pressed on the stitched seam—one stitch after another, perfectly even. Could this ever be enough?

He collapsed against the reindeer, feeling some relief from the cold, though his stomach still twisted. He was even longing for the roasted beans, yet chewing something so hard was out of the question.

He tried to open his mouth, but just beyond the width of a finger, a stabbing pain shot deep into his gums, forcing him to snap his mouth shut immediately.

He probed carefully with the tip of his tongue. The inside wound had barely been treated at all, but it was no less agonizing than the outside. His two upper wisdom teeth had once grown in strong and straight, silencing his army comrades who'd warned him to have them pulled early just in case. Now, though, he realized he'd been too optimistic, as not only were those prized wisdom teeth gone, but so were some missing molars and gum tissues on the side.

He mourned silently about all the foods he'd never be able to eat again, and wondered just how strictly he'd have to follow the doctor's fasting orders.

As he pondered, a crisp chewing sound broke the silence, almost as if mocking his helplessness. He lifted his head, ready to catch a thief, only to find his own horse rummaging greedily through the food bucket.

This could have been a happy reunion, but he needed to address her impolite manner. But the sound that came from his barely opened mouth was agonizingly undignified. "Humph!"

The mare barely retracted her head from the bucket, still chewing slowly as she cast an indifferent glance his way. Her stomach was already bulging from a day of carefree grazing, yet she was still unsatisfied. Noticing Vasily cuddling against the wounded buck, she took small, deliberate steps closer. He didn't really want to leave the warmth, but he supposed that the horse could still recognize him. Before he could untangle himself, the mare had reached them. She cast a cold glance down and, for no reason at all, kicked the reindeer.

The kick startled the buck into an agonized wail. As he staggered to his full height, so too did the entire herd rise.

Watching the dark, massed forms of the large animals approach discontentedly, their eyes glinting in the newly fallen dusk, Vasily felt a shiver run down his spine. Napolyeon, completely unaware of any wrongdoing, continued to use her slightly taller stature to press down on the buck that had stolen the attention of her companion. Seeing no other choice, Vasily scrambled onto the horse's back. He tugged hard on the reins, managing to find a gap and steer her through just before the encircling herd closed completely.

He rode on, unsure of where to go. They were in a sizable meadow, ringed by woods whose boundary lay within sight. A glance back revealed only two or three reindeer still following sluggishly, so he slowed their pace, turned the horse around, and began to amble towards the setting sun.

The sun was already brushing the horizon. After the summer solstice, its glory began to wane, each subsequent day growing paler and weaker. But for now, it remained brilliantly potent, casting a set of dazzling golden beams onto the distant river surface. The light refracted into a transparent, pure shimmer, which then reflected back up over the camp, gathering and concentrating upon a single, vast, pristine white circle.

The circle wasn't suspended in mid-air but was held aloft by a hand. This hand emerged from a sleeve adorned with long, flowing strips of cloth, which was part of a bearskin robe covered with assorted feathers and knotted cords. The figure in the robe also wore a hat crowned with antlers from which hung colorful strips that completely obscured the person's face. They stood motionless in the clearing, holding the white drum high and waiting for something unseen.

Vasily reined in his horse. Like everyone else in the camp, he held his breath, waiting for what would happen next. He couldn't tell who it was—not if they were man or woman, old or young. So obscured by the feathers, fur and antlers, he couldn't even be entirely sure it was a human underneath that at all.

Vasily tethered his horse to the side and then crept closer, ducking behind a chum to peer out. The mysterious figure had barely raised a drumstick, yet withheld the strike, waiting with patience until the sun had fully retreated below the horizon. Its place was taken by the cold moonlight, which now fell from another direction upon the opposite face of the drum.

At that precise moment, the shaman let out a shrill, falcon-like cry, followed by a chorus of cries erupting from every mouth across the campsite.

The sight of the figure lying at his feet sent a painful twinge through Vasily's heart. The face he had conjured so many times from his pencil now lay tightly wrapped on a mat, brows furrowed, body convulsing. Had it not been for the thick blankets swaddling him, the limbs would surely have been thrashing wildly.

The shaman circled the mat, chanting incessantly. The steps began unsteadily, like a toddler learning to walk. Soon, they grew light and brisk like those in the prime of one's happiest youth. A moment later, the figure walked with a hand supporting the lower back, like a woman heavy with child. Then the posture grew increasingly stooped, gradually losing the ability to walk upright, until the shaman crawled on the ground, like an old man on the verge of death.

Someone threw a basin of water onto the fire. In the dimness, thick smoke billowed out, and from within the deep white haze came a rapid, intense beat of the drum. Then, a pair of antlers pierced through the smoke. The shaman, as if reborn through a full cycle of life, emerged from the chaos, letting out a sharp, piercing cry like a newly hatched bird breaking from its shell.

The shaman beat his sleeves, making the cloth strips flutter wildly. The feathers adorning his robe shivered and rustled in tandem. And her true spirit, like a freed bird, pierced through the unworldly morning mist, soaring across the three realms, searching the underworld for the lost soul.

Perhaps he found it, or perhaps he was startled by some ominous vision—their gaping mouths let out one shrill cry after another. Maybe to frighten away evil spirits, or maybe to echo a path home for herself, the frantically leaping figure began to swing her drumstick with renewed frenzy, beating it down upon the pure white drum, stroke after powerful stroke.

In this moment, his physical body left behind in the mortal world seemed to not matter at all, feeling no pain at all. They stepped into the smoldering embers of the extinguished fire without flinching, never breaking from the dance. He even leapt onto a higher platform, having everyone craned their necks upwards. She, too, was now completely blind to the sights of the mundane world. After a few more frenzied movements, she pitched headlong off the platform, plummeting down into the thick, black smoke.

Several younger reindeer herders rose to their feet in concern, trying to locate their beloved grand cousin. But the older ones, as if long accustomed to such spectacles, waited quietly for him to rise again.

But a long time passed, and the shaman remained utterly still. Another long minute later, even those of the grandmothers' age grew anxious. Just about the time, a hand emerged from the black smoke. Another followed, and the shaman slowly crawled out. She clutched her face, shaking her head fiercely and muttering to herself. When their hands finally fell away, their face was revealed—a face still wreathed in tendrils of smoke, marked by vivid, streaming tear trails.

The shaman, now silent except for soft mutters, sat barefoot on the ground. He hugged his knees tightly to his chest like a wronged child, speaking in an incomprehensible tongue even to his own blood. He lifted his head, his bright eyes scanning his surroundings. Then, as if remembering something crucial, he scrambled frantically back towards the thick smoke.

Vasily narrowed his eyes, equally curious to see how this exorcism—the one that had so enraged the feldsher—would affect his unfortunate rival.

The shaman stumbled his way back to the mat, tearing frantically at the layers of fur blankets. Then, his movements froze. A single, sharp cry escaped him before he clutched his head in his hands, breaking into a wave of wretched sobs.

A knot of dread tightened in Vasily's chest. He rose to his feet, ignoring the eyes of the others, and walked towards the center of the platform. He feared what he might see anything that could even upset a seasoned shaman. He glanced at the figure, down whose deeply wrinkled face streamed with the tears of a young soul, laying still and barely breathing on the ground. His gaze snapped back to the mat, but he found only a dark, empty void. It wasn't obscured by smoke, but rather… missing something.

There, upon the mat, nestled among the bedding, was clearly no one.

For a fleeting moment, Vasily even believed ht the shaman had stolen what was his, hiding it away in some place no one could ever hope to reach, in the bottomless abyss or the infinite layers of hell—but that thought held no terror for him, for he feared no such place. Even if he had to force her to cast another spell, to send him to that same domain. He, who could borrow the god-like speed of the carnivorous mare of Thrace and wielded the power that could touch the heart of the Queen of the Underworld herself, would be far more decisive than any old timer heroes. He would simply pluck out his own eyes, for he knew himself too well—he would look back.

He roughly hauled the shaman up from the ground. But after the ordeal, the shaman's divine power had faded, leaving behind what seemed only a frail old man. He managed to lift his eyelids, his eyes landing on Vasily, flickering over the scar and flinching, then when they met those cruel, icy eyes, an involuntary cry burst from him.

"Help! Help me!" The old man's voice now sounded completely different from before, so much so that it reminded Vasily of the raspy, smoke-ruined voices of the old guys he had served with.

The sound seemed to startle Vasily back to his senses. His eyes swept over the others crowding around them, and he reluctantly loosened his grip.

The old man clutched his grimy face, weeping with a wretched, muffled sound. After a moment, he glanced sideways at Vasily, found himself still pinned by that unwavering stare, and flinched again. "I don't know, I don't know," he mumbled. "I don't know where's your friend…"

Vasily never expected whatever that was between them two looked to outsiders, and he had no plans to clarify. This was a private matter. And it was certainly better than stirring up deeper worries that their camp's reputation might be tainted by a notorious murder case.

"Hey," a small voice came from beside him. Vasily turned and saw the young man from earlier speaking cautiously. "You'd better... have another look around."

These words, however, pointed to another possibility. Now the more he thought about it, the more likely it seemed, and this realization sent a cold sweat breaking out all over him. God, please don't let it be that. He hadn't even had time to do anything yet.

He turned and quickened his pace toward where he'd tethered the horse, the sense of dread growing heavier with every stride. And finally, he saw it: the rope had been hastily severed, and the horse was gone.

The young sailor eyed Vasily warily, braced for an angry shout. But the man just stood there silently, emanating a dreadful black aura far more terrifying than any shout.

"It must have happened when everyone was watching the grand cousin..." the sailor started. He turned, met the clenched fists and the determined steps, and quickly shouted, "Hey, where are you going!"

Getting no response, he hurried after him, breaking into a jog to keep up. "Listen, hey! No one can get far on horseback here."

The words had somehow made their way into Vasily's fury-clouded brain. He then recalled his very recent ride. Indeed, the camp was surrounded by woods and faced the river. While it wasn't entirely impossible to flee into the forest, anyone's first instinct would be to try their luck along the riverbank.

The other man finally caught up, breathing lightly. "Look, there are no proper roads here. The only people who come are just us visiting relatives, merchants, or kind doctors like Sergey, coming all the way just to practice medicine. We all need to make schedule with the boat crews they know."

He then pointed at a trading post stood further along the wide part of the shore. It appeared that there's a place for merchants who preferred keeping it to themselves.

Even if anyone had wanted to follow, the sight of Vasily made them shrink back. He was empty-handed but for a single torch, greased and lit from the campfire. He held it high, its flames illuminating his scarred face more clearly than ever.

He strode along the riverbank, not knowing what he was hoping to find. In some way, this dark, narrow path felt like the road to hell that he had sworn to take alone. He was following a faint, flickering light that might eventually lead him to a volcano for his own cremation.

And the foe could be hiding in the bushes now, ready to take a cold, calculated shot to correct last night's mistake.

Vasily felt his own mouth twitch, a tiny movement that sent an acute stab of pain through his torn flesh. How could he ever have thought that was a miracle? How could he ever have mistaken it for mercy? Even though he could still vividly remember the other night, his own gaze refocusing on that immense black iris blooming above him, blotting out the night and stars, becoming the only thing in his sky. Even though he'd witnessed the mouth twitch with the faintest smile, be that pleased with triumph or intoxicated with appreciation. But how could that smile have meant anything other than staring down at his undignified defeat?

He shouldn't have felt such immense agony that surpassed a thousand times than anything his body had ever endured.

His footsteps fell heavily on the ground, each thud echoing like his own heartbeat and the hammering in his temple. He walked on as if all hope was diminished, so much so that when he got to the other end and spotted the light in the distance, he felt a pang of… confusion.

Vasily quickly examined the light source and saw it came from a wooden structure that resembled little more than a barn. High up, there was a small window—could have been a perfect sniping spot, though the shutters were tightly closed, leaving no chance to see what's inside.

He extinguished his torch and began to circle the building on careful, silent feet, studying each side. A river breeze rustled the thatched roof, and the candlelight flickered through the gaps in the boards. He held his breath and pressed close against the wall, searching for a crack wide enough to peer through.

Through the narrow gap, he managed to catch a glimpse of the inside. The room was fairly large but felt cluttered with hay and old junk laying around. Once a bustling trading post, it had fallen into disuse as merchants changed their routes with the coming of the Siberian Railway. The counter and shelves were still firmly fixed to the floor with packed clay, though the tables and chairs were long gone. An oil lamp hung from a wooden beam above, swaying in the chilling wind.

In the dim, empty room, a soft chuckle broke the silence.

"Enter." It said.

It was only one word, but outside the door, Vasily instantly felt as if all the bones had been melting away from his body, nearly falling onto his knees.

Somehow, he had always believed that the two of them were on another level, understanding each other through nature rather than language. Even though he had seen the man speaking to others through his telescope from afar, hearing his voice felt like witnessing something forbidden.

Vasily swallowed hard, but his mouth was dried out, and only a faint, metallic taste of blood trickled down his throat. His hands fumbled absently at his sides, not fully realizing what he was searching for until he pulled a piece of cloth from his pocket. It didn't look particularly clean, but he tied it over the lower half of his face.

Leaning against the wall, he tugged at his hair, attempting to smooth it out, but it did no good. He shut his eyes, hoping his pounding heart would slow down, but it didn't either. Perhaps he should have brought a weapon, but he hadn't considered such outcome. And neither would the other person.

He reached under his shirt, even though there was nothing to grab onto. Then he moved to stand behind the door and kicked the opposite side open.

Sure enough, no bullets came flying out.

So he bent slightly and slipped through the barn door. He restrained his movements to appear far more composed than he felt inside, scanning the area with his eyes rather than jerking his head around like a fool. He stood at the doorway, blocking the exit with his body. He didn't even try to find somewhere to find. If anyone wanted to take a shot, let them.

Vasily examined the deserted bar, finding no bottles or bartenders left, though it still stood at a considerable height. His eyes moved to the hay bales piled in the corner, noticing the ample hiding space behind them. But Vasily didn't bother checking those places. Instead, he watched the oil lamp's unnatural slight sway, then lifted his head.

Above him, he saw a crouching figure, whose stocky legs were awkwardly crammed into the narrow space on top of a burdened beam. Perhaps caught off guard by the quick discovery, the man remained silent for a moment before letting his legs swing down. Vasily shifted his gaze slightly—the tribesmen had surely only given their patient a plain robe.

He caught a glossy reflection, unsure whether it came from a bottomless eye or a gun barrel just as dark. The light only revealed a pair of pale thighs barely covered in birch-bark fabric, quivering like sprouts growing out of the darkness. He bit his lip and followed it upward to its source.

At the center of the hollow, damp air exhaled, and he drew it in without thinking, catching only the mud on bare feet. The strange, intoxicating smell from before was nowhere to be found.

Vasily waited, and the other person seemed just as cautious, closely observing the hand hidden beneath the clothes. Perhaps more than just careful. The fact that no shot had been fired yet might mean that he didn't have the option at all.

Vasily's mind throbbed. He could have reached for the legs and pulled the person down for a wrestle. However, doing so would inevitably expose himself, revealing that his hidden hand held nothing at all.

Then, he heard a low sigh.

The sound seemed to massage a vein Vasily hadn't noticed before, winding from behind his ear down to his collarbone, and then to the tendon in his right chest.

"What are you waiting for?" it sounded a bit impatient, even with a hint of... anticipation. "Do what you should have done long ago."

For a moment, Vasily was thinking about those too many things he should have done but forgot, or wanted to do but couldn't, until he realized the man meant he should have killed him cleanly and quickly.

Was he serious? Vasily blinked, pondering this request. It could be a trap, but if it were true, it would be extremely dissatisfying. He had thought he'd keep fighting. He had thought it was all in good fun, but had never considered how painful it must feel from the other perspective. Now he belatedly realized he had driven another person to the brink of despair, so much as so as he would choose death over disgrace. Perhaps the man feared facing even greater humiliation if he stayed captured, adding to his misery.

Vasily felt the need to explain himself. He extended the hand he had kept hidden and raised it above his head. He attempted to speak, but only a muffled noise came out through his nose. He then slightly moved the cloth from his face, but even with his mouth just slightly open, he couldn't make a sound without torn his flesh. Feeling the other person's eyes on his marred face, he hastily pulled the mask back down.

The figure shifted slightly, and now Vasily could see everything. His throat was moving involuntarily as he saw tangled black hair fall from the bandage, almost covered his face entirely. Between the furrowed brow and the crooked grin, a single eye gleamed, and for some reason, full of smug.

Then, clutching the beam for balance, he slowly inched towards the pillar, wrapped an arm around it and slid down. He landed as soundlessly as a cat, and turned to face Vasily. In an instant, his shoulders straightened and his posture composed. No one would think the ritual he had been put through could work the miracle, but as it appeared, he looked far better than the dying patient than earlier.

Vasily lowered the hands he had raised. He just stared hard at the man's face, trying to read that expression. The man only slowly lifted a hand to brush his dark hair from his face, tucking it behind his head.

"What are you staring at?" he said, lips curling faintly, eyes steady and unflinching. "Eyes on the target."

Vasily couldn't make sense of it. His attention wasn't even wavered for a second—until the other man's shoulder lifted slightly, followed by the slow rise of his other hand.

Vasily's eyes widened. He had no idea where the man had been hiding that gun. He stepped back and raised both hands to shield himself as best he could.

But the dark-haired man didn't seem in any hurry to pull the trigger. Watching Vasily's cautious retreat, he actually looked amused, advancing just as slowly as his pleasure took. Though injured and feverish, his hands were steady as ever, holding firm between the gun and his eye, every muscle fiber taut and straining like drawn wire.

Vasily noticed the man's head tilted awkwardly to one side, as though he hadn't been used to this new habit of aiming with the other side.

Although landing one more shot would be no challenge at all. Vasily's gaze shifted from the thick fingers wrapped around the grip to the familiar cylinder. He knew its power, knew there was no chance of a misfire this time.

He didn't shut his eyes like a coward. Yet again, they wandered back to the man's face. The other's lips twitched into a crooked grin. The odd seam on his cheek rose unnaturally, and for a moment, Vasily couldn't look away.

The heel of his boot struck something solid behind him and he found he'd backed into the abandoned counter. Vasily froze on the spot, waiting for the shot that still hadn't come. He blinked, trying to get a clearer look at the loaded gun.

Suddenly, the barrel turned—and in the next instant, it was pressed against the man's own head.

"If it wasn't by your hand, then what of it?" The lips moved quickly, curling and uncurling with rolling consonants—some sharp, others breaking midway. Then he bared his teeth in a grin. The small, round teeth gleamed like pearls, still smooth and perfect even on the run. "You'd be disappointed, wouldn't you?"

He—he'd better be bluffing. Vasily didn't even want to entertain the thought. He lunged for the gun, trying to wrest it away. But the other was clearly faster, slipping himself smoothly out of the incoming grasp and quickly pulling the trigger.

The cylinder clicked forward a fraction, and the back of the barrel recoiled. Vasily realized he had let out a loud, startled sound, his mouth opening wide and blood spilling from his wound. But at the moment, he couldn't even feel the pain from it. He just couldn't stop looking and waiting for the incoming impact.

But the gun's muzzle remained silent, except for the faint metallic tap as the handle lightly struck the man's forehead.

The man rubbed his head thoughtfully, letting the gun be taken from him without resistance.

Vasily gave him a fierce glare, then he turned his attention to the gun in his own hands. A quick feel confirmed the problem: the cylinder was still full, but the casing of the bullet just fired showed burn marks, which meant it had already been spent long ago. Anyone unfamiliar with this peculiar design, or overly trusting their instincts, could easily make this mistake.

He glanced at the man, who had already turned his back, inspecting the barn as if it suddenly became more interesting than ever. The guy then just moved around behind the counter, rummaging through it.

Vasily raised an eyebrow and ran his fingertips over the bullets one by one. Most had clearly been flattened. Then suddenly, his finger brushed against one that was smooth and unmarked.

His heart skipped a beat, and he had to double check it. This wasn't his gun after all. Had he missed it? Or was this intentional?

Carefully, he cocked the hammer back and raised the gun, then waited.

Vasily leaned against the counter until the other man wobbled to his feet. The guy just fixed him with a cold stare, snorted, and then began pounding forcefully on something he had just pulled out.

It looked like a bottle wrapped tightly in newspaper and straw. His strike sent up a cloud of dust that put him in a constant sneeze. But he kept at it, and finally, the man loosened the twine, tore away the wrapping, and examined the glass bottle in his hand.

"Fucking finally," he muttered, tearing off the foil in two quick pulls. He inspected the cork, gripping the short end tightly while his nails whitening from the pressure. His expression quickly soured again.

Vasily reached out and tugged at him. Before he could glare back at him, he snatched the bottle away.

Holding the neck firmly with one hand, Vasily pointed the base of the bottle against the side of the counter and suddenly thrust it forward against the surface. The liquid's inertia pushed the cork out just a little bit. He grunted in satisfaction at the little trick he'd picked up and repeated the motion a few times more.

This time, the cork popped free, though unfortunately, some liquid spilled out. Vasily pulled off the cork and set the bottle down on the table.

But the guy acted as if anything he touched became suspicious, eyeing Vasily for a few seconds too long, until he shook his head, maybe realizing Vasily couldn't actually take the first sip.

He raised the bottle, took a drag, and closed his eyes.

Almost visibly, a flush of red spread up his pale neck. Whether it was the alcohol or something else, his voice tightened a bit.

"Weak stuff. Tastes like water," he grunted. "When we raided the kulak's house earlier, that's where all the good stuff was."

Vasily hummed softly, not pressing any further, and kept busy with the task at hand. Seeing no response, the other man slowly opened his eyes and found Vasily pushing the bullets out one by one with the ejector rod. He immediately cast a look of disdain.

"Just use your fingers," he scolded as those bullets neatly lined up before him. His expression shifted slightly as Vasily took something from around his neck. It was nothing else but another bullet, placed alongside the others in the row.

Vasily caught the flicker of panic in his eyes, quickly masked by forced calm. He grabbed a handful of bullets and, thrusting them back into the cylinder in a fluid motion, loaded the gun. The man showed no sign of being impressed by Vasily's handling but flinched when the muzzle turned toward him.

"Great. Go on then," his voice rumbled from behind the bottle. "Finish me, if you think you can."

But in the next instant, Vasily shifted the muzzle and pulled the trigger against his own head. Immediately after, the gun was fired. Vasily only flicked out one bullet with his thumb. The metal casing clinked sharply as it hit the ground.

The other man blinked, then cracked a grin. Vasily noticed the redness had spread up to his ears, and his breathing grew a bit heavier.

"Aren't we getting interesting?" he said, snatching the gun and pointing it at his own head.

Vasily was fully aware of every chamber's status. He just watched as the dark-haired man fired the shot at himself, then shrugged and casually tossed the gun back across the counter. He did picked the hitched breath, but that could also be from alcohol.

The man had seemed to be staring down at the bottle, head bowed, then suddenly looked up at Vasily. A strange expression flickered in his eyes—somewhere between understanding and disdain—but Vasily couldn't tell which exact one had he found out about him.

He reached for the gun, about to press the trigger again, when a cold command cut through the silence. "Throw that rag away."

Vasily saw no clear reason to obey, only slowly raised the gun. Just as he was about to pull the trigger, a hand suddenly shot out, startling him. Panic surged so suddenly that he almost thought the gun had actually gone off.

The man clenched the rag in his hand, eyeing it suspiciously. Only then did Vasily panic, realizing exactly where that cloth had come from. He felt the blood vessels in his face threatening to burst again from the rising heat.

Silently he began to pray: please, don't recognize it. How could he possibly explain still carrying a piece of the other man's clothing? He raised his hands quickly, trying to shield his face from the shame that couldn't be hidden.

The man didn't catch on right on, hadn't realized the bloodstains weren't entirely Vasily's own. But he had been drawn away by Vasily's flustered movements. He tossed the rag aside and grabbed Vasily's sleeve, pulling away his hands from his face. Leaning in with narrowed eyes, he examined him closely before breaking into a grin.

"Hurts, doesn't it?" he said.

Though Vasily was actually not that sensitive to touch, he nodded toward the expectant face. The man seemed delighted, even gripping Vasily's chin and tilting it this way and that, admiring his handiwork.

"Very good, very good…" he nodded, sighing, a faint scent of alcohol drifting from his mouth. Vasily avoided his gaze, avoided his breath that made these brief moments of close proximity felt like the hardest to endure. He shoved the gun hard toward the man, reminding him it was his turn.

But the other's eyes seemed glued to Vasily's face, patrolling every inch from the wound, down across his forehead, nose, and beard, as if searching for some hidden evidence.

He knew it was probably the alcohol talking. When people drink too much, they tend to do things they normally wouldn't, no hidden reason behind it.

Driven by some mood he couldn't quite register, Vasily grabbed the bottle on the table and took a sip. Instantly, a sharp, stabbing pain shot through him from the side where the liquid touched his wound like putting the injury back on a blazing fire.

He spat out the liquid, then glanced over the other man, who grinned and said, "Good, that'll disinfect it. Do this a lot in the trenches."

That might be a certain level of truth, but it was probably just that the man enjoyed seeing Vasily suffer even more. Casually, he picked up the gun again and weighed it in his hand, trying to gauge the weight of the bullets, maybe. Then, seeming satisfied with what he expected, the man pointed the gun at his own head. Though he hesitated for a moment, he still pulled the trigger.

This time, the gun was still empty, but it meant there were even fewer guesses left.

Vasily felt the pain in his mouth gradually subside. In fact, after that sharp sting, the dull ache from before seemed to fade somewhat. So he raised the bottle again and took a small sip. This time, he managed to hold it down, swallowing the liquid carefully instead of spitting it out. The doctor's orders felt pretty powerless now, and the more he drank, the thirstier he felt. The liquor was indeed as weak as the other man said, more refreshing than intoxicating.

When he put the bottle down, watching the other man's flushed face, he felt a bit dizzy. But that probably wasn't really from the alcohol. He wasn't really always taking such big gulps.

A low voice cut through, sounding half scolding. "So quick?" the man said. "That thirsty, huh?"

The question made Vasily feel even more exposed and vulnerable, so he just raised the gun and fired a shot at his own head. In a way, he hoped this very bullet, then he wouldn't have to keep up the pretense of holding on to his dignity.

The other man looked at the lowered gun Vasily, then suddenly seemed to remember they only had two bullets left.

"Tell me," he said, "this next one's empty too, right?" He looked up at Vasily. "So the last will be it. It will end up in your hand." He chuckled. "Really. Would you actually point that one at yourself?"

His doubt left Vasily at a loss for words. He had to admit that when he loaded the bullets earlier, he'd been a bit strategic. As long as he ended up with that last live bullet, he'd hold the upper hand. He could point the gun at the other man and force him to comply, even though he hadn't fully figured out what commands he'd give yet.

Vasily stared intently at the man, silent, trying to convince him with his expression—serious as cold steel, red like a burning iron—that he should keep pulling the trigger, so the game could go on. Even though there was no sign the other man intended to follow any rules.

He fixed his gaze on the man as he picked up the gun, waiting for him to do his part. But instead of pointing it at his own head, the man quickly fired in the direction of the barn—not at anything, just to eject the extra bullet so the cylinder would rotate to the next chamber.

Then he leveled the gun back at Vasily's face, baring his teeth. "I guess that bullet's been sitting on you for so long, you can't really tell if it's even good, huh?" he chuckled, already halfway through the bottle of alcohol, its intoxication more clearly now. Leaning closer, he said, "Don't you want to find out? Let's try it together."

Vasily reached out with both hands, intending to grab the gun, but a smaller hand gently covered his, guiding him to hold the grip. He swallowed hard as he felt the muzzle press against his chin, but it didn't stay there. Slowly, it slid upward, crossing his chin to rest against his cheek.

This side bore one huge ugly scar now. In a way, if the stitches were pulled out, the muzzle might even fit inside. He felt cold sweat trickle down, flowing over his already swollen and reddened skin before dripping onto the other hand gripping the gun.

"Well?" he heard the voice press on. "Go ahead, pull the trigger. That bullet is supposed to be yours."

Then, the man loosened his grip, staring straight at him as if absolutely convinced that breaking his word would be the worse choice. He even placed his hand behind his own head.

" It won't make much difference either way. If you really want to shoot me, just do it."

This was exactly not the ending Vasily wanted. He had hoped to be the one who was in control. The gun was now in his hand, but it didn't make a difference, when the other party had stripped him of the control by ignoring its held on him.

For the first time, Vasily felt his grip on the gun falter.

He turned the muzzle, slowly, until it pointed at the man's head. He tried to recall every moment since that bullet had hung around his neck, and undoubtedly, the slug was still perfectly unmarred. There might be a one-in-a-thousand chance it wouldn't fire. But what was the chance? Could he stake everything on that one thin margin?

He didn't know. And neither did the other man.

The man merely squinted, but maybe from beneath his thick lashes, he was studying Vasily's strained, twisted face.

Maybe pulling the trigger was the only way. Maybe only then could the calm mask be torn away, and only in that final instant could Vasily see the truth beneath it: the man's real face, the one that could scream, weep, fear, beg.

That was what he'd been dying to prove. At any cost.

The Nagant's trigger was heavy in this configuration, so stiff that even an experienced shooter had to press hard to make it go. He forced it down halfway with great effort, but the resistance was less mechanical than something inside him.

All his life he'd never doubted his choices, and fortune had only favored him. What if that favor had run out? Or worse, what if he was misunderstood, and the next bullet would actually end everything that he had started, then what?

The last time fate had favored him, he'd gone back alone. All his friends were dead, and even his only worthy rival. He'd been left behind, confined to a lonely outpost on the edge of the world. He had been the loneliest man in the world.

And yet, in these past few days, brief as they were, he had felt something close to happiness for the first time in a long while.

He held the gun steady, still unmoving, his eyes fixed on the other man's calm face. The man's lashes trembled—perhaps with concealed fear, perhaps with something closer to anticipation.

Vasily didn't rush his next move; he simply stood there, watching in silence. The shadows cast by the oil lamp above were wavering, but its light was warm and golden. For an instant, it felt as if he wasn't holding both their lives in his hands, but found a fragile, long-lost peace.

But his ears caught a faint hiss that shattered the fragile illusion in an instant. Vasily froze, head snapping toward the sound. The other man's eye flew open, confirming it wasn't his imagination.

Instinct took over. Vasily turned sharply, the half-pulled trigger finishing its course.

The shot cracked through the barn, echoing against the walls. A bullet tore into the darkness at the doorway. He couldn't see what he'd hit—but he had hit something.

Whatever had come through the dark could've been anything. A trespasser, a bear, a ghost… or maybe nothing at all. Only then did Vasily realize what he'd probably done.

There were people nearby, he remembered that much. The day's memories came flashing back, one after another, until panic began to rise in him. They were...they shouldn't be involved in this.

The other man, even drunk and unsteady, still carried that inexplicable calm. He braced a hand on the counter, pushed himself upright, and started toward the door.

Vasily followed, holding up the now-empty gun—utterly pointless, yet unable to let go.

Just as they reached the doorway, a bloody hand shot up from the ground, clawing skyward. Worse still, its owner seemed to be dragging themselves into the room, as if the devil crawling out of hell, uninvited.

Vasily tried to shove the other one aside, fancying himself more sobber and capable of dealing with whatever this was. But the other man moved faster, even dropping to a crouch to study the figure that was inching toward them.

He stared at the writhing figure and wasn't afraid at all. Slowly, he gave a short hum. "I think I know this man."

Only then did Vasily realize what he was pointing at. The man on the floor wore a uniform. Not a soldier's, but one belonging to some private estate. Vasily had no idea where that was.

The other man nodded. "I've heard of him, in a way. On the ship."

Vasily bent even lower, yet he doubted he could get any real answer from this dying man. Why had he come here? Was he looking for them? And worse—would someone come looking for him?

He was straining to catch something—anything—from the man's fading breath. In the dim doorway, the dying one couldn't see their faces, only two shadowed shapes outlined by the lamplight, grim and monstrous. He then focused on their faces, and let out a muffled scream, perhaps thinking demons had come to claim him. He struggled all the harder. Soon, his voice thinned to a rasp.

"Find… find…"

And then it was gone.

Vasily watched the light fade from the man's eyes, then reached out to close the trembling lids. He wasn't sure the man came all this way to die at their door was all because of him, but he surely pulled the trigger. One way or another, they would have to deal with this before anyone found the body.

The other man, however, seemed untroubled as he began rifling through the corpse's coat with practiced hands. At last, he pulled something heavy from the inner lining, felt its shape, sniffed it, and—God help him—nearly tasted it.

"Hey," he called, waving Vasily over.

Almost by reflex, Vasily rose to his feet. It was useless to fight his curiosity.

"Take a look," the man said simply.

Vasily stepped closer. The man loosened the drawstring and unfolded the small pouch beneath the lamplight.

In an instant, the room seemed to brighten.

It was only a small bundle, barely enough to fill a palm, yet in that faint shimmer lay a wealth beyond measure. Golden, shimmery, pure and raw.

Grainy. Shimmery. Pure.

Nature's first jewelry for humankind, its most concentrated wealth, and its deepest curse. Gold.