For years, the valley had been quiet. The elders said the "Song of the Rykhua"—the melody of the mountain spirits—had been lost when the last great bard crossed the ridge and never returned. Without the song, the crops were thin, and the youth felt like ghosts in their own skin, looking toward the bright, distant lights of the cities.

The fog didn’t just sit on the peaks of the Caucasus; it breathed.

Asker closed his eyes. He thought of the wind whistling through the gorge of the Cherek River. He thought of the rhythm of galloping hooves on wet grass. He drew the bow.

As the melody swelled, the air in the room grew thick. Temir gasped as the shadows on the walls seemed to lengthen and dance, taking the shapes of ancient warriors and weaving women. The music wasn't just sound; it was a bridge. It pulled the past into the present, stitching the torn fabric of their history back together with every vibrato.

Asker played until his fingers bled, until the sun began to bleed over the jagged horizon. When he finally lowered the bow, the silence that followed wasn't empty—it was full.

Temir stood taller, his shoulders squared. "I heard them," the boy whispered. "The ones who came before."