Szarel raised his palm, creating an upward current beneath Paikan’s feet. The sudden loss of balance threw off the slaver’s aim, and the flash of destruction that had gathered on his snow-white chest, etched with red furrows, flew past the magister’s shoulder, licking a layer of metal from his pauldron.
The opponent fell face down, limbs flailing in a comical attempt to slip free from the invisible grip. The halo of particles closed around him, forming a limited defense against material attacks. He need not have worried.
Without the drug honing his reflexes and perception, Szarel calmly controlled telekinesis within a ten-kilometer radius. With the narcotic, the boundaries expanded to three hundred, demanding constant concentration. The magister planned to immerse the sinner in an oxygen-free zone and hold him there until all vital functions ceased. Even if the body recovered, critical brain damage would ensure partial erosion of function and personality.
Paikan held a similar opinion. Stretching out like an arrow, his heels flared brighter than any engine, pulling him back toward the cliff. Several flakes detached from the mass, reaching for the Magister.
He changed the flow’s direction, slamming Paikan into the surface at supersonic missile speed. The catastrophic impact squeezed stones outward; the slaver groaned, refraining from using his destructive power to avoid plunging into the depths of the earth. His left ankle buckled, his shoulder blade popping audibly on his back. The flakes missed, stripping the plating from power armor and exposing the muscles of the Magister’s face.
Weak, hastily formed telekinetic projectiles tore and cut at Paikan’s face while Szarel held him with additional pressure. The changes wrought by the opponent’s power proved no obstacle to inhuman healing; with a single shrug of his shoulders, Paikan popped the dislocated bone back into place.
He offered a mocking sailor’s salute, softened the cliff’s surface, and vanished into the churning water. The magister spread his invisible net, detecting the rapidly moving opponent within the mountain slope. Paikan used bursts of destructive force for swift dashes, never stopping for a second, boring tunnels and turning part of the ridge into something resembling a honeycomb.
The reason for such behavior soon became clear. The mass directly beneath the magister thinned. He hastily levitated backward, losing his feet to a snow-white emission. The sharp pain did not cloud his clarity; he lunged forward, saving his life and dodging another geyser of death that separated his left arm at the elbow. Pressure caught him, carrying him away from the worst.
At the cost of his spine.
Paikan leaped out through the molten mass flowing into the crater. A hand swept behind Szarel, passing dangerously close to his body. That was enough for the complete disappearance of his generator, an entire section of armor, skin, and the cold agony spreading through his body. His fingers weakened, systems shut down, but the touch of telekinesis revealed the full picture.
His kidneys had burst, his spine from rectum to heart had vanished, the surge of devouring whiteness had grazed his spinal cord, but amidst the bone destruction, that was not the priority. His small intestine convulsed, flayed; his heart, hidden behind implants, still held. He collapsed face down, drowning in blood, barely hearing through fluid-filled ears. The damage was too great. Szarel lacked neither the calories nor the time to heal and restore mobility.
With graceful somersaults, Paikan reached the cliff. He raised his remaining fist, made a low bow, and glanced at the battlefield.
“Flesh and pride you have sacrificed, buying time for your subordinates,” Paikan sang melodically in a deep, rich voice. His fingers plucked the emptiness as if strumming a harp. “My troops have been forced to retreat, regrouping on the Dauntless. But our mutual whelp is sowing chaos at your cruiser, and the true picture is becoming clear.”
The tyrant pointed to the road from which came the cannonade of artillery, the crackle of automatic weapons, dull explosions, and the roar of bombardment.
“Do you hear it? No? The Volnitsa Army is arriving, sent via the lower path by yours truly. Yes, I over-prepared to avoid the slightest chance of being left without soldiers, should you take this path. Tell me, who in the end proved more responsible?”
Paikan awaited an answer. His blind right eye did not notice the final piece of the puzzle in the magister’s desperate plan. The severed hand clenched into a fist, controlled by telekinesis. Light pressure on the damaged mechanism extended a narrow, long needle.
Szarel could barely breathe; he wanted to close his eyes and sleep, to go into his wife’s embrace, to finally apologize to his son for failing him. But responsibility, love for his comrades, and concern for his young charges held the spark of life in his ravaged brain.
“Can’t speak?” There was no mockery in Paikan’s voice, only sadness. “I thank you from the bottom of my heart, holy fool. Never, never have I experienced such keen sensations. In your honor, I will take your eye and arm, replacing what I have lost and testing the promises that foreign biological prostheses will, over time, acquire qualities indistinguishable from the lost original organs.” His hand formed the sign of the Planet. “Even in death, you will provide me interest…”
The tyrant fell silent, sighing in amazement. Szarel rose. His knees struck the ground; the stumps of his feet ached from contact with the molten stone. His hand gripped the spike-tipped staff of his sword in a death grip. The magister of the Onyx Order was going into battle—merely a meat puppet controlled by his own telekinesis.
The swirling white flakes around Paikan parted, dispersed by Szarel’s will like a snowstorm flowing around a building. The slaver did not retreat; he waited, arms spread in welcome. Some flakes began to return, burning channels through his body; a beam of light connected Paikan’s palm to Szarel’s elbow, severing his last arm. The ruby eye flashed, seeing its reflection in the mirrored vambrace.
The white head turned left, revealing the empty eye socket. An incoming projectile—the magister’s previously severed left hand—crumbled to dust from a flash.
“The fruitless final charge…”
Paikan jerked, rising onto his toes. Speech lost meaning, replaced by fading, senseless muttering. Szarel’s severed limb did not fall. Controlled by his will, the armored gauntlet accelerated, driving the magisters’ ancient weapon straight into the empty eye socket—the noise of war and limited visibility had hidden the decisive move. The sharpest blade, forged by the Ancients, pierced the thin bone, skewered the brain, and emerged at the frontal part of the skull.
Complacency, reassurance, and contempt—sure recipes for defeat.
Szarel ruthlessly twisted the staff with telekinesis, and the whiteness left Paikan. Before him once again stood a man with chocolate-colored skin; his eye sockets returned to their normal round shape, a mouth appeared, opening and closing. A trickle of viscous blood emerged; gray matter dripped down the blade. The magister moved the blade to the right, splitting Paikan’s head.
Unable to utter a word, the slaver’s legs buckled; he collapsed and rolled down the slope, not experiencing even a moment of pain, dying instantly, deprived of keen sensations, forever freeing history from his unholy presence.
Rockets arced upward, descending toward the cruiser. Falling onto his side, Szarel diverted them away, giving his all to preserve his subordinates. His lips silently whispered three words:
Mayali, Jake, Fahim.
Failure. He hadn’t held out. Hadn’t led the people out. Despair tormented his body like a fiery Gehenna, drowning out the itch of regeneration.
Mayali, Jake, Fahim.
Arrogance, stubbornness, and mistrust. His sins, leading to catastrophe. The tyrant’s death changed nothing. The Order lacked the strength for the final trial, and their leader lay a helpless heap of meat far from the battle.
Forgive me. My fault. I’m so sorry.
When footsteps sounded nearby, Szarel couldn’t even turn around. The battle was over, and he accepted shameful oblivion, certain of the inevitable end.
****
Draz and Ruda grappled, rolling across the ground in a tangled ball, crunching cracking glass and punching giant holes in the road with missed strikes. Fangs sheared layers of hide, exposing muscle; the canine maws bit into Ruda’s shoulders and chest, and she answered with savage throws, sinking her jaws into Draz’s necks. Broken bone collars tore her gums, cutting her tongue, but with animal persistence she tore out chunks of meat, forcing Draz to keep his distance.
There were no more words. They had nothing left unsaid. Automatic fire around them slowed, flying at arrow-speed for the giant Abnormals. The aftermath of their duel crushed Paikan’s minions, turning armored bodies into bloody pancakes, fountaining ruptured organs. A rocket fell between them, blossoming into a fiery flower.
With a roar of wild fury, Draz broke through the fire curtain, plowing furrows across Ruda with his paw. She grabbed his arm, pressing it to her body, and kicked him three times in the groin with her knee. The governor wasn’t even fazed. He threw her off, dodging a bite, and tore Ruda’s earlobe off with the central head’s maw. The right head tilted, letting a beam of heat—which, leaving the ear, splashed across the cruiser’s deck—burn a path toward the frightened children and the imperturbable Ney.
Her beloved’s calm gaze calmed Ruda’s fears. She couldn’t save everyone. But she could butcher Draz. Like a blue shadow, she flew at the mutant, swiftly slashing wounds and exposing the whiteness of his ribs. Spotting the coveted gleam, she sank in her claws but couldn’t penetrate the bone. Draz’s ribcage had fused into one, becoming an insurmountable barrier.
A coarse chuckle came through the right head’s clenched fangs. The governor drove his elbow into Ruda’s stomach, lifting her massive body into the air, then sharply withdrew his arm, lightning-fast wrapping it around her neck and slamming the crusader into the ground with such force that tons of stone and hot glass shot upward. Draz released her, brushing fragments aside toward Ney, but Ruda leaped back, shielding her allies with her body. Thrown projectiles drummed against her wet blue scales.
Orange flickered in Draz’s throat, but before he could spit magma, jets of water from the underground spring struck him in the back. Enraged, the governor attacked Ruda, aiming his claws at her heart.
She couldn’t explain it. Draz was no fool. One-armed, wounded, he still surpassed her in every way. Previous battles had taught the crusader how dangerous this slaver was. But now he made the most primitive move, unworthy of a warrior of his caliber.
Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth.
Ruda caught his fist in the trap of both paws, driving her claws deep between his fingers. Her feet came down on the dog-like raider’s feet, digging into the flesh. Draz arched in pain, squeezed his eyes shut, and struck forcefully with both heads. The central one bounced off Ruda’s forehead. She heard the crack of bone—her unique physiology and fat layer dispersed the impulse, denying the opponent an advantage. But the right head clamped its jaws onto her shoulder.
With a loud pop, the crusader’s right arm went limp, ceasing to obey. Draz tore his fist free, leaving her shreds of flesh, but apparently, he didn’t care. Spraying fiery saliva, the governor threw Ruda off and began pummeling her, slowly driving her into the molten sludge, methodically tearing a path through the thick hide, stripping away most of her pear-shaped nose and scoring her muscles.
She couldn’t win this fight. The beast within raged, urging her to strike back, but the crusader calmed her power, convincing both personalities to focus on defense. The strongest doesn’t always win. Numbers provide an advantage, and sensing the targeting of three artillery batteries, Draz lifted his head, ears twitching in awareness of the closing trap.
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He made the only correct decision: tried to squeeze past the wounded knight toward the hole in the hull. The raider simply couldn’t comprehend, couldn’t imagine that morality could stay Ney’s hand, and refused to take a risk on a non-existent chance. Yeshua had been right. Thinking in battle, being part of a unit… divine.
A smile spread across Ruda’s face to its fullest. She thrust her hand into the wound, grabbing his entrails, and Draz squealed in agony, recoiling. He always retreated when danger threatened, prioritizing the preservation of the pathetic pile of shit he called his life. Even his radical change in appearance hadn’t cured this flaw.
She had no idea if Draz realized the depth of his mistake, and it didn’t concern the crusader. Simultaneously, dozens of shells meant to suppress super-heavy vehicles slammed into him. Centuries ago, the warlord Predaig had walked through such bombardment unscathed, bringing the Order the bitterness of defeat.
Draz was no Abnormals with such resilience. Gaping holes appeared in his body, both skulls shattered, his ribcage destroyed, exposing organs. The intense barrage passed through the beast’s entire body, tearing the raider into the tiniest pieces. Two lonely legs stood for a while and finally fell, not even convulsing.
****
The presence soared over the battlefield, filling the atmosphere with palpable hatred. Infusing this pitiful reject with true power had affected the weakness of his real self; his consciousness risked slipping into the abyss for emergency recovery.
He refused! The monkeys wouldn’t outsmart him! Non-material eyes stared at the red-hot breach in the hull; a thin, angry squeak escaped his lips, accompanying the tilt of the floor and the fall of his precious treasure. The pathetic little human couldn’t hold on to his weakened legs, but two vile mutants—the fatass and the gray runt—rushed forward and caught the treasure, sliding on their backs across the scorching metal and tumbling outside.
Meanwhile, the Volnitsa troops were arriving. Leaderless, eager to plunder the weakened machine. No, no! The useful insect wouldn’t survive slavery. The seer belonged to him, and he wouldn’t lose what was his.
The presence flew back onto the Dauntless’s bridge, frantically hurrying toward the pulsing disappointment and the ocean of despair rooted in the brain of the third option. The boar, permanently fused with his combat armor, weakly raised himself on one arm, experiencing the magnificence that had graced his worthless life.
“My poor dear,” the presence cooed, reaching out a hand and stroking the backup helper’s chin with its fingers, filling him with euphoria and healing his wounds just enough for him to speak. “Your unworthy master abandoned you like a mangy old dog. His plans to fight the League’s Bane have turned to dust, and you risk growing old watching your ancestor’s murderer continue to prance merrily, enjoying every moment. Is loyalty worth keeping in this hour of despair? Surrender yourself to me, and you will see Paikan dead,” he promised, avoiding lies.
“G-give me strength, and I pledge myself to you.” The monkey took his hand.
Immediately, hands dug into his face, penetrating through the visor and skin without wounding. Feda’s identity shuddered, crying out once as an alien will subjugated his consciousness, molding his psyche for its own satisfaction. The man dissolved, becoming a faithful servant of the true deity, discarding his former name and accepting a new, more fitting one in honor of reborn hopes: Phoenix.
The god never relied on just one plan.
****
An onslaught staggered Ruda, halting her rush toward the children. The raiders had brought up an armored vehicle with an industrial vibration emitter, converted into a combat weapon. Waves meant to grind stone and metal to dust coursed through her body, widening wounds and damaging her eyes. Unable to hold on, she dropped to one knee.
Two unknown objects raced along the canyon slope. Both oblong, the first with yellow upholstery. Damn. More foes.
A group of five raiders hurried toward the children, who had ended up outside the cruiser, intending to take them hostage or worse. Strangely, they weren’t shooting. Decimus rose, handing Grisha to Tsereg. His entire back was a black crust of charred flesh, framed by wet, convulsively twitching edges. Nevertheless, he bravely raised an automatic rifle from a corpse, firing a burst that ricocheted off the approaching raiders’ plates.
Tsereg unexpectedly created a ball of fire in her hand. A long tongue of flame reached for the raiders, igniting ammunition belts. The leading mercenary raised his cannon. Ruda’s blood ran cold. If she crawled to them, the children would be in the emitter’s zone of effect. The incessant vibration stream prevented her from concentrating for blood manipulation. Ney couldn’t use the plasma cannons without risking the little ones’ lives. Worst of all, the cruiser’s guns were reloading, offering no chance…
“Back off, rabble!” a cry rang out.
A figure in armor landed straight in Tsereg’s flames, splitting a raider with a long blade enveloped in a shimmering field. Ruda recognized that thing. Vibration technology too, but adapted for melee combat. The savior raised a short-barreled pistol with an energy cell instead of a magazine, and a flash, hotter than the sun’s surface, punched a neat hole in the attacker’s belly.
The unknown fighter charged into battle, using the sword and plasma pistol simultaneously. Power armor, stylized as knightly plate adorned with platinum and gold, protected him from a shot that ricocheted off his breastplate. The sword severed a hastily raised knife; a plasma sphere vaporized a raider’s large-caliber pistol along with his hand. Through the helmet slit, two gray lenses stared out, but the most striking feature was the emblem on his chest: a gauntlet gripping a small planet. Blueness spread from where the fingers touched the surface.
Why are they here?
Decimus’s shots deafened a bruiser sneaking up on the reclaimers from behind; he spun with astonishing agility, cutting a woman down at the ankles with his sword. A second thrust pierced the falling one’s helmet. Nodding in thanks, the soldier melted a fourth raider’s throat with a shot.
“Vile scoundrels! How dare you raise your hand against…” The butt of a cannon struck his helmet; he fell without dropping his weapon. “Such dishonor will inevitably be avenged!”
A stream of flame and a pistol burst passed him, aimed at the enemy. Tsereg’s heat weakened the plates, Decimus’s fire found the human body within. The Troll discarded his rifle, hearing the click of an empty magazine, but their intervention bought time, and a sword pierced the attacker.
“You… Lord…” Tsereg stammered. “How did you get here?”
The unknown turned to them, saluting with his blade; the front of his helmet split, sliding up and down. The youthful face of a gray-eyed boy, without the slightest fuzz on his chin, keenly glanced at the pair, noting Grisha as well.
“My betrothed lady lost her way, and as her appointed cavalier, it fell to me to ensure your return to your parents, Boragchin,” the boy said haughtily. “Dust and dirt on you suit the wild surroundings, but let us display at least a modicum of dignity. Stand proudly, speak clearly, in accordance with…”
“Duck, Duval!” Tsereg shouted.
Instead of obeying, Duval crashed into the kids, shielding them with his body and escaping a laser beam that pierced the spot where his leg had just been. Decimus grabbed the plasma pistol, and Ruda noted with what readiness the boy released the weapon. In the heat of battle, not every soldier was capable of such trust. The Troll aimed with both hands and burned a hole near the armored vehicle’s hatch, missing the cursing mercenary climbing onto its roof.
“Missed. Damn,” Decimus said without raising his voice.
“No regrets, only striving for improvement!” Duval took the pistol from him.
“Your Highness! Don’t take risks!”
Despite the vibration torture, Ruda blinked in surprise, recognizing a strangely agitated voice. A flying object—a hoverbike—crashed into the armored vehicle, smearing a raider armed with a laser rifle into a pancake. Davinia rolled off it, clad in night-colored power armor with red lenses. The Wolfkin tore out the closing airlock, threw an acid grenade inside, and grabbed the emitter, pulling it aside with inhuman effort. Catching a breather, the crusader leaped up, reached the armored vehicle in an instant, and crushed the cab with the driver inside with a single blow. Water-vision detected no living beings inside.
“Inelegant, but it’ll do. You’re an Oathtaker? Remind me of Ruda, though she’s more of a brute than you,” Davinia informed her. A nerve twitched in Ruda’s eye. The Wolfkin jumped to the children, landing silently on the glass. “Your parent will be informed of reckless behavior and theft of property, young man.”
“What kind of man would stand aside while a mob tears at the vulnerable?” Duval challenged.
“The key word is ‘man.’ Earn that title in two years,” Davinia purred.
The Wolfkin constantly scanned the battlefield. Ruda joined them, instinctively raising her hand over this arrogant, cunning pest. Rustam’s words about how she had hurt him rang in her ears. Noticing the movement, Davinia tensed.
“By my deeds, I declare victory over harlots and mongrels!” Duval wedged himself between them, pointing upward with the tip of his blade shrouded in vibration haze. The weapon’s hilt was crafted in the shape of a wolf’s head. “The Reclamation Army has achieved yet another inevitable triumph over barbarism! Three cheers for the Dynast!”
“So cool…” said Grisha, looking at the sky.
“Veritably so, young man…”
A dull thud came from the direction of the collapsed giant slaver transport, lying like a mountain on the road. Accompanied by tearing bulkheads, bursting power systems, and extruded turret debris, a blister swelled on its hull. The growth burst, releasing two enormous wings—a blend of organic and mechanical. Muscles, without any sense or reason, pulsated along their four-meter length, entering directly into the green-glowing metal. Behind them appeared one paw, then a second.
The creature that crawled out only vaguely resembled a human. Flesh merged with hydraulics; its head sat on a high neck; nose and mouth combined into a long beak. Eyes sparkled with blue dots; paws ending in long claws clenched and unclenched, releasing gun barrels from their palms. Its knees were twisted backward.
“Behold the reborn spirit of the League!” he roared in Feda’s voice. “After a century, we have returned! I am Phoenix, bearing the seed of your end! Give me the chosen one and burn!”
The wings rose, releasing detached parts that took on the appearance of leaves. They flew in a coalesced stream toward the fallen pyramid, splitting above the defensive guns and shearing them clean off. Ney cursed, pulling Rustam and Sylvie away from a crack. Phoenix’s beak opened, revealing a tongue like a white slug covered in cancerous tumors, growing onto the gun barrel. White light ignited in the muzzle, and Ruda stood before the group, ready to give her life for them.
“Don’t worry.” Grisha hadn’t stopped smiling, looking at the sky. “Everything will be fine. I’ve seen this before. We’re saved!”
In a spiral, the white flame burst forth, instantly reaching Ruda to shear off everything above her torso. She couldn’t dodge in time and was about to push the children away when a heavy body landed before her. A skeleton, standing in the blazing fire, absorbed the white flame, not letting a single drop of heat reach the people.
Wrapped in black, crackling skin like papyrus, the skeleton gazed at Ruda from eye sockets where infernal flames played. Tongues of fire licked every part, concealing the dark silhouette beneath an unusual robe. He had no lungs; his freely moving bones created the impression of a victim consumed by hunger. In the center of his ribcage was a cylindrical object, cinnamon-dark, shot through with red threads.
“Dad!” Tsereg exclaimed in a joyful, pure voice.
“Baby girl!” the skeleton spoke in a deep, confident baritone. “You’ve gotten so thin, sweetheart!”
He grabbed her in an embrace, pulling her into the crackling fire faster than Ruda could cry out. But the deadly heat didn’t harm Tsereg, only gently cleaning off dirt and drying her tears.
“I’m sorry, I was a selfish fool, I made you worry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry…” Tsereg whispered.
Another stream of flame from Phoenix fed the skeleton’s halo.
“Later, later, my gentle one. Everything will be fine; we came for you.” The skeleton raised his gaze. “Ha. Duval beat me here while I was stopping the missiles. The boy has a steppe-dweller’s heart! But his prudence is lacking. And who are you, my daughter’s friend?” A black claw extended toward Decimus.
The Troll fearlessly shook it, unafraid of the heat, and looked at his unharmed hand.
“I’m Decimus. Boragchin has often helped me out.”
“Don’t listen to him, Dad! Decimus has saved me more often than I can remember! He’s a brave warrior,” Tsereg protested.
Why did he call her Boragchin? Ruda remained silent, gathering her strength.
“The children’s fearless cooperation, combined with attentiveness worthy of a scout, saved me from injury.” Duval slapped his breastplate.
“Actually, the two of them saved me. I wasn’t much use…” said Decimus.
“You’re lying!”
“Don’t exaggerate…”
“Ha,” the skeleton grunted, turning to Ruda. “You with them?” She nodded. “I am Horkhudagh. Guard them. I need to pluck a rooster, and this nanny is too slow.”
“Your observation… is fair,” Davinia said sourly.
The Wolfkin grabbed the four children, forcibly dragging them toward the cruiser. Spotting a crack, she whistled and tossed Decimus upward.
“Boragchin!” Horkhudagh barked. “What is our war cry?”
“Devour the world!” the girl and the skeleton shouted in unison; their voices soared upward, echoing off the canyon walls.
In response came the war cry of thousands of throats, accompanied by shots and explosions from the east. Tsereg stopped, mouth open in astonishment.
“We are all here,” Horkhudagh said softly. “Fear nothing.”
Ruda thrust out her left hand, blocking a feather from Phoenix flying toward Tsereg. It only managed to cut her hide before a burst of flame licked it away. A dozen feathers descended on Horkhudagh, cutting off his head. The separated part turned to ash, and a new skull appeared on his vertebrae, staring at the transformed slaver.
A whip materialized in Horkhudagh’s hand, lengthening as it struck and lashing across the transport’s hull, instantly crumpling a several-meter section. Phoenix leaped back but was caught by a ball of fire that slammed the monster into the slope. Bursting through the flames, the mechanical abomination flapped its wings and soared upward.
“I was mistaken. You’re not a rooster, but a pathetic chick,” said Horkhudagh. “No one attacks my family and survives! Today, I dine on chicken!” The skeleton’s feet left the ground, and he flew after his opponent.
“Leave the raiders to the Horde!” Davinia shouted, stopping Ruda, who had been about to head toward the sounds of battle. “We’d better guard the civilians.”
“I’ll join the troops!” Duval announced.
“See what I have to deal with?” Davinia complained as Ruda helped Grisha and Tsereg climb up. “No, Prince, you’re not sticking your nose into danger.” She grabbed Duval by the leg and tossed the boy upward.
Then the Wolfkin pushed off from Ruda, executed a pirouette, and flew into the operators’ cabin, gracefully spreading her arms. The crusader followed, blocking the exit with her body. Duval rolled across the floor, stood, sheathed his sword, holstered his pistol, and bowed to those present.
“Duval, son of the Dynast, greets you!”
“So cool…” said Grisha from the operator’s panel.
“Please postpone requests for autographs…”
“I meant the Burning Lash.” The boy pointed to the display, showing the battle in the skies.
Ruda and Davinia snorted in unison.
“…At least until we have provided aid to the wounded. Afterward, I will accept your admiration,” Duval finished imperturbably, joining Tsereg, who was treating Decimus’s back.
