Dmitry suddenly realized he was sitting with his jaws clenched painfully and almost not breathing. As soon as he registered this, his body went treacherously limp, as if an immovable granite slab had been thrown from his chest. He exhaled noisily, and immediately a prickly wave of shivering ran down his spine—a sure sign that tension was being replaced by a heavy, leaden fatigue.

  Taking a couple more deep breaths to steady the tremor in his fingers, Dmitry clicked the safety on. Leaning on the Benelli's buttstock like a crutch, he stood up heavily.

  Nearby, Coen and Hans were crouching over a pile of damp brushwood. They took turns, until their cheeks were red, blowing on a barely living spark. Acrid, whitish smoke drifted upward in a thin stream, dissolving into the black square of the sky above their heads.

  "Well now! He's back!" Hans chuckled heartily, noticing the movement. "I told you, my lord—it would pass." Coen, unlike his partner, looked guarded and serious. "How are you?" he asked softly, with sincere concern.

  "I think I’m okay," Dmitry muttered, trying not to look them in the eye. He felt agonizingly ashamed. While he was drowning in his own fear, he had completely forgotten about his companions. And Hans, the old soldier, had clearly read his state like an open book. He had seen far worse in his time.

  "How’s it going?" Dmitry hastily changed the subject, nodding at the fire.

  "Seems we’ll be freezing tonight," the Baron replied, wiping smoke-teared eyes. "The damned rain has soaked everything through. The fire is pathetic. I hope we don't come down with a fever after such a walk."

  Dmitry looked at their miserable attempts to get warm and shook his head decisively. "Wait. Leave that herbarium alone. Better help me unpack the backpack."

  The companions began to gut Dmitry's backpack. One by one, strange objects appeared: a tight roll of a tent, a sleeping bag, a mat, MRE packs, a camp gas stove, and compact dishes.

  Having finally come to his senses, Dmitry set to work. His movements became brisk: he quickly assembled the frame and threw on the second, waterproof flysheet, securing it with ringing velcro strips. Opening the zipper-entrance, he climbed inside, unrolled the mat, and pulled in the sleeping bag. The tent, though considered two-person, was spacious—if necessary, five people could wait out bad weather in it. Therefore, the Baron's and the old soldier's belongings also migrated inside.

  Suspending an LED lantern from the ceiling, which flooded the space with even white light, Dmitry invited the companions to enter. Coen, not hesitating for a second, slid inside, but Hans remained outside. "I’ll stand guard," he grumbled, adjusting his harness. "Lest they throttle us all at once in this bag..." His muttering faded behind the thick fabric.

  Coen looked around as if spellbound. For him, this was beyond understanding. He knew that tents were taken on marches, but those occupied a whole wagon, and here, from a single shoulder bag, everything necessary appeared. True luxury for a traveler. While the Baron, sitting on his haunches, examined the strange seams and huddled in his pelt, Dmitry assembled the stove. A blue flame hissed, and dry, life-giving heat immediately spread through the tent. Numb-cold fingers began to tingle—life was returning to his body.

  Dmitry warmed his hands a little and then began to open the hermetic MRE packs. Here everything was even simpler: the flameless heaters would do the work themselves. He had to use the entire daily ration at once—a solid breakfast, lunch, and dinner turned into one feast for three. The Ukrainian MRE is one of the most caloric and well-thought-out in the world; no one would leave hungry. And in this particular pack, there was even real Borscht.

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  The menu today included not only porridge with two kinds of meat but also thick pea soup. When thick steam billowed from the flameless heaters with a sharp hiss, Dmitry decided that dinner was ready. To avoid messing with extra dirty dishes, he simply cut open the packs and handed them to the companions just like that.

  Coen froze. He inhaled the aroma of buckwheat with meat and spices like a rare incense, closing his eyes with pleasure. His nostrils quivered, catching every note of the spices. A moment later, the Baron began to eat—greedily, rapidly, completely forgetting his aristocratic origin.

  But a hitch arose with the old servant. Hans had to be almost persuaded. "Just take it and eat!" Dmitry couldn't take it, seeing the old man hesitate. "Master Dmitri, I’m not hungry at all..." Hans muttered, suspiciously eyeing the green pack with beef and rice. However, a treacherous growling in his stomach said otherwise, and quite loudly.

  "And I say—eat! Lord Prast, tell him already!" Dmitry turned to the Baron, who was already busy with a spoon. "Hans, don't be stubborn," Coen replied without looking up from his food. "Eat. This... this is incredibly tasty."

  "Fine then," the old soldier finally gave in. "Only I’ll eat from my own bowl." He quickly fished a chipped wooden plate from his shoulder bag and a similar spoon from his boot-top. Dmitry carefully transferred the steaming contents of the pack into the offered dish.

  "If you want seconds—don't be shy, there’s enough for a second helping," Dmitry said, returning to the warmth of the tent.

  Satiety brought long-awaited peace. When the stomach is full and warmth spreads through the veins, the world around stops seeming so frightening. Dmitry was even surprised at how easily the sticky fear that had tormented him for the last hours had receded. It became stuffy in the tent, so he and the Baron went outside and sat down at the very entrance, next to Hans.

  The old soldier, noticeably more genial after the hot dinner, was on guard. All three silently sipped the mediocre black tea from the army ration. However, right here and now, flavored with a pinch of sugar, this drink seemed almost an exquisite delicacy.

  Coen sat leaning his back against the doorpost and stared thoughtfully into the darkness, cradling a wooden mug of tea in his hands. The only source of light was the lantern inside the tent: its dim glimmers broke through the canopy, with difficulty maintaining a defense against the onslaught of the autumn night. Dmitry stood nearby. He had still not released his faithful companion—the shotgun—from his hands: he held it by the grip, barrel down, while his left hand held his camp mug. Hans sat directly in the doorway on a stump taken from somewhere and loudly slurped tea from a mug just like the Baron’s—evidently, they too had taken care of minimal dishes before the march.

  "How shall we watch?" Dmitry asked when everyone had been silent long enough.

  "In turns," Hans replied dryly.

  After they had encountered the mangled corpse on the road, the old soldier's authority had become absolute. Experience in these lands was valued more than gold.

  "Me first, then His Lordship. And toward morning, you, Master Dmitri. I hope you understand that one cannot sleep when standing watch?" Hans raised his gaze, looking Dmitry in the eyes.

  "I probably won't be able to sleep at all now," Dmitry replied, really feeling that despite the fatigue, he wouldn't be able to sleep anytime soon.

  "Don't bluster, Master! It only seems so now," Hans said instructively. "One only needs to sit down, get warm, and the eyes will close on their own. That's when you can sleep through everything in the world. They’ll steal your breeches—you won't notice. It's not for nothing that the watch before dawn is the hardest."

  "And why do you trust me with it then, if you doubt me?" Dmitry snapped. He certainly wasn't Rambo, but he hadn't given a reason for distrust.

  "Eh, youth!" Hans smirked. "Just a little pressure, and the pride already spurts! I see you are a seasoned man, Master Dmitri, but I haven't marched with you. His Lordship here has never stood watch, and I am too old to take the hardest shift. It turns out only you can be trusted with it."

  This answer satisfied Dmitry. The old man took a surprisingly sober look at the situation. That's what experience means! You can't buy that for any money.

  "I understand you, Hans. I won't sleep, don't doubt it. Then it would be time for me to lie down."

  "Yes. Off to sleep with you, my lord," Hans turned to Coen. "Your watch is second. You’ll have time to rest. I’ll wake you later."

  Coen had been silent all this time and hadn't noticed the conversation of his companions. His thoughts were occupied with upcoming affairs. He was already dreaming of how he would settle his debts and be able to start a new life. He would rebuild the castle, set up mines, and repopulate the empty villages. And he also dreamed that Dmitry would stay and help him. Become his court mage. That would be great, the Baron thought. Hans’s voice brought him out of his daydreams.

  "Yes, yes. I’ll go to sleep, I suppose," Coen replied abstractly and climbed into the tent after Dmitry. The latter crawled into the strange bag, turned on his side, and grew quiet. Coen lay on the old blanket taken from the castle and covered himself with the Snow Lion Pelt. The artifact warmed better than any warmest blanket. And soon the young Baron fell into sleep.

  Dmitry had feared he wouldn't be able to sleep after what he’d been through; however, as soon as he put his head on the small camp pillow, the warmth of the sleeping bag wrapped his mind in a warm blanket of oblivion, and before he could finish thinking of a plan for tomorrow, Dmitry fell asleep.

  Stay tuned. The Ark is moving forward.

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