The altar was ancient, half-ruined—a stone slab covered in moss and cracks that spread like a web across the surface. Tree roots had coiled round the base, grown into the earth, as though trying to swallow the shrine back into the jungle. The ancestors' grove breathed with silence, thick and oppressive—even the birds didn't sing here; only foliage rustled in the gusts of wind.

  Vaaro stood motionless before the altar. Arms folded across his chest, back hunched, head bowed low, his braid hanging over his shoulder, touching the ground. The sun climbed higher; rays broke through the dense canopy, fell in patches of light on green skin, on tattoos that wound across his forearms and calves, black patterns pulsing in time with his breathing.

  Yellow eyes narrowed. His gaze caught the shadow cast by the trunk of an old banyan, slowly crawling across the ground, measuring time. The sun moved; the shadow shortened. Noon approached.

  He'd promised himself—if the priest didn't appear by noon, the agreement was broken. Permanently. Without recourse. He'd take the girl himself, teach her what was needed, and the rest could go to hell, to the Twelve and their priests.

  The shadow shrank to its minimum. The sun stood at its zenith; rays beat straight down, scorched the crown of his head; heated air shimmered above the altar. Sweat appeared on his brow, rolled down his temple, dripped onto his shoulder.

  Vaaro unclenched his hands, lowered them to his sides. His fingers twitched, clenched into fists. His breathing quickened; his chest heaved more rapidly, more deeply. Fangs clenched, ground together.

  Enough waiting.

  He wheeled sharply, stepped from the altar, away from the grove.

  Suddenly the air cracked.

  Sound split in two—a pop, a click, a flash of light. Space distorted, twisted in a spiral, spat out a figure in a white tunic directly before the caster.

  Tavarek materialised two paces from the altar. A massive body covered in tattoos, broad shoulders, a square jaw. Face tense, gaze hard.

  Alone.

  Vaaro froze in place. His gaze slid past the priest's back—empty. No one. Not the girl, not escorts, not Order guards.

  "Where is she?"

  The voice came out hollow, tore from his throat in a growl.

  Tavarek straightened, squared his shoulders. Arms lowered to his sides, open palms turned forward—a gesture of submission, of conciliation. But his gaze was firm, unwavering.

  "She's not here. Yet."

  "Yet?" Vaaro stepped closer, looming over the priest, though the latter himself was tall and massive. His hunched back bent even more; his long arms tensed; his fists clenched. "Dawn means dawn. Not noon. Not after it. Before!"

  "I know." Tavarek didn't retreat, didn't flinch. He stood motionless, like a stone statue rooted in the earth. "But as you can see, I'm late."

  "We agreed last night."

  "Yes." Tavarek shook his head slowly, measuredly, as though weighing each word before speaking it aloud. Wrinkles on his forehead deepened; his brows drew together. "But it's not my fault Nemira is absent now. She left the village before I could intercept her and bring her to you."

  Vaaro froze. Yellow eyes narrowed; vertical pupils compressed into thin slits. His fists unclenched; his fingers trembled—not from fear, from fury boiling beneath his skin.

  "Where did she go?" His voice became quieter, more dangerous. "Alone?"

  "No." The priest shook his head; his gaze slid aside, to the edge of the grove, there where the trees closed in a solid wall. "Banarka couldn't be found in the village either... I reckon she set out with the huntress. In recent months they've spent much time together, training very intensively."

  Vaaro stepped closer, looming over the priest with his whole body. His half-hunched back straightened; his long arms extended; the nails on his fingers, more resembling claws, flashed in the sunlight.

  "Where?"

  "Tracks lead east." Tavarek didn't retreat, didn't flinch; he met the caster's gaze openly, firmly. "But they're lost near the village, on rocky ground. I tried to track further, but..."

  "But there's not enough magic to continue?" Vaaro stepped back, turned sideways; his gaze slid across the trees, across the shadows lying beneath the canopies. His fingers trembled, clenched into fists again. "Or time?"

  "Time." Tavarek exhaled deeply; his shoulders relaxed slightly. "By the time I discovered the disappearance, by the time I raised the alarm, by the time I sent scouts in all directions... After the first reports, I transported myself here."

  Vaaro remained silent. His jaw clenched; fangs ground together. The air around him trembled, distorted—blood magic seeped from his body, stained the space with crimson radiance.

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  "So the girl decided she doesn't need a teacher." His voice came out quiet, dangerously quiet. "So she went seeking power herself."

  "Nemira is... impulsive, like all of you." The priest raised his hand, ran his palm down his face, rubbed his eyes. "But not stupid. She knows she can't survive in the jungle alone for long. She'll return."

  "When?"

  "I don't know."

  Vaaro wheeled sharply, stepped towards the altar, stopped before the stone slab. His hands settled on the surface; his fingers pressed into the moss, tore off a piece, crushed it, threw it to the ground. The tattoos on his forearms flared red, dimmed, flared again.

  "Are you playing games with me?" Vaaro turned and stared intently at the priest.

  "I can't control her every step. She's not a prisoner, Vaaro. She's free."

  "Free to die." The caster turned; his gaze bored into the priest. "The jungle's full of creatures that'll devour her in a couple of minutes. Beasts, monsters, brigands. Anything. She's a troll, yes. Strong, yes. But not strong enough to survive alone. Especially east of Taviri'Naa there are places best avoided entirely."

  "Banarka's with her." Tavarek raised his hand placatingly. "The huntress is experienced. She knows the jungle very well, though she wasn't born in it. If anyone can protect Nemira, it's her."

  "If." Vaaro spat the word like venom. "If they don't run into a pack of renderers. If they don't fall into a swamp. If they don't enter forbidden lands. If, if, if!"

  He pushed away from the altar, strode along the grove's edge; his long legs moved quickly, nervously. His braid swayed behind his back; the silver nose ring gleamed in the sun.

  "How old is she?" He stopped sharply, turned to the priest. "Eighteen? Nineteen?"

  "Eighteen."

  "Eighteen." Vaaro snorted, shook his head. "A child. A foolish, stubborn child with the blood of the Ancients in her veins. And she's gone somewhere with an orc woman who only knows how to swing an axe and shoot a bow."

  "Banarka is more than just a huntress." Tavarek's voice hardened; defence sounded in it, almost anger. "She's survived in this jungle for twenty years. Without magic, without support. Only skills, instincts, experience."

  "Without magic." Vaaro smirked, baring his fangs. "Exactly. Without magic. And what happens when they meet someone who has magic? What then?"

  The priest remained silent. His gaze slid downward, to the earth, to the roots that had grown into the altar's base. His fingers clenched into fists, unclenched. His shoulders tensed beneath the white tunic.

  "Then I pray they don't meet him."

  "Pray all you like." Vaaro wheeled sharply, strode away from the altar, towards the grove's edge. "I'll go searching for them. Myself."

  Tavarek raised his head; his gaze sharpened.

  "Alone?"

  "Yes." The caster didn't turn round, continued walking; his long legs moved quickly, confidently. His braid swayed behind his back. "Your scouts are useless. Blood magic will show the way better than any tracker."

  "Are you certain you'll find them?"

  "I'll find them." His voice came out firm, without a shadow of doubt. "The only question is—alive or dead."

  He stopped at the grove's boundary, turned round; his gaze bored into the priest. Yellow eyes narrowed; vertical pupils compressed into threads.

  "As soon as I find them, I'll send Banarka back to the village. Let her inform you."

  Tavarek nodded slowly, measuredly.

  "Very well. And then?"

  "Then come to my hut on the tenth day after receiving word from the huntress." Vaaro raised his hand, showed his splayed fingers. "The tenth. Not earlier, not later."

  The priest exhaled deeply; his shoulders dropped. The wrinkles on his forehead smoothed; his gaze softened.

  "You'll find them, Vaaro." His voice came out calm, confident, without hesitation. "Sooner than anyone else. Of that I have no doubt."

  The caster snorted, shook his head. A smirk touched his lips, vanished as quickly as it had appeared.

  "No doubt?"

  "None." Tavarek stepped closer, stopped two paces from the troll. He folded his arms across his chest; his gaze was open, honest. "You're a blood caster. Nemira's blood bears the mark of the Ancients; it burns brighter than a torch in the night for those who know how to see. You'll see her trail, even if she passes through fire and water."

  Vaaro remained silent. His fangs clenched; his jaw tightened. His fingers twitched, clenched into fists.

  "Go already." The priest waved his hand towards the village. "The longer you stand here, the farther they go."

  "I know."

  The caster wheeled, stepped into the shadow of the trees, dissolved into the green wall of jungle. Foliage closed behind his back; branches swayed, fell still. Silence blanketed the grove again, thick and oppressive.

  On the path to the village, from where he'd decided to begin his search, the caster pondered, immersed in his own thoughts. A question drilled into his mind, gave him no peace: how did the priest know so much about blood casters and their abilities? Tavarek's knowledge had proved too precise, too detailed.

  He'd spoken of the mark of the Ancients in Nemira's blood as though he himself had seen this mark, felt its pulsation. He'd mentioned how blood burns brighter than a torch for those who know how to see—yet this knowledge was accessible only to those who practised this ancient and dangerous magic.

  Not many sentient beings in the world wielded this manifestation of Ether. Blood casters had always been few—the art was too demanding, too cruel, too dark for most. Many feared it, others despised it, others simply didn't understand. But Tavarek understood. Far too well.

  The priest remained alone before the altar. His gaze lingered on the spot where the troll had vanished, then slid to the stone slab, to the moss that Vaaro had torn off, to the claw marks on the surface.

  He raised his hand, ran his fingers across the tattoos on his forearm. Magic flared blue, enveloped his body, swirled in a spiral. The air cracked; space distorted.

  "No, not yet," he whispered through clenched teeth and, with a sigh torn from the very depths of his chest, cancelled the spell ready to burst from his hands.

  Magic obediently died, retreated, dissolved in the air, leaving only a faint aftertaste of power on his fingertips. The priest again ran his palm across the tattoos, feeling how they pulsed in rhythm with his heartbeat.

  How long had he wanted to destroy this godforsaken altar? To wipe it from the face of the earth, to turn it to dust and ash, to scatter to the wind the last crumbs of what had once been a heretics' shrine. Every crack in the stone, every symbol on the slab's surface evoked in his soul a mixture of revulsion and fury. And he would do it—would certainly do it. But not now. Definitely not now.

  Now it was important not to spook Vaaro and Nemira. Too much was at stake; too fragile the balance he'd been building for so long and so patiently. One wrong step, one hasty decision—and everything would collapse, crumble to dust.

  Instead of the destructive spell that had been ready to burst forth and crash down upon the hated stone, Tavarek created a portal. Air split with a drawn-out groan; space curved, folded into a glowing opening. He stepped into it without looking back.

  The priest vanished, leaving the grove empty and quiet beneath the scorching midday sun.