Dawn

  arrived without the sound of birds.

  The golden mountains, which the evening before had reflected the

  sunset like sheets of copper, now lay shrouded in a thick, bluish

  mist. It crept from the grass-covered meadow and coiled itself around

  stones and roots.

  The air was damp and heavy, carrying the smell of soaked moss and

  cold manure. Horses snorted uneasily, striking the ground with their

  hooves, and the shepherd dogs refused to stray far from the yurts.

  It was one of the younger men who found the body.

  He did not scream.

  He stood frozen, breath broken, as if the cruelty of the scene

  itself had ordered him to remain silent, draining him of will.

  The body lay among low shrubs, near the path the shepherds used at

  dawn to lead their flocks of sheep and goats. The dog had been

  partially skinned, its belly opened with a violence that was neither

  clumsy nor desperate. There were no signs of dragging. The head was

  still attached, tilted slightly, its dull eyes fixed on the

  mountain—as if even in death it were guarding the pass.

  What kind of beast could have killed it like that?

  Blood had seeped into the soil, darkening the earth and mixing

  with the metallic scent of morning. Flies had already arrived, slow

  and low, buzzing softly, as if respecting the place.

  —It wasn’t wolves —said the shepherd who raised the

  alarm—.

  Wolves tear. Wolves don’t leave a body like this.

  —A bear? —another ventured.

  But bears shattered bones. Crushed them.

  This had been

  precise.

  Too precise.

  The shepherd dogs were not ordinary animals. They guarded horses

  and herds, slept among them, recognized every neigh and every shadow.

  They were worth more than many weapons. Losing one was not just

  losing a guardian—it was losing an eye that watched the night.

  The murmuring grew dense, uncertain. No one wanted to voice the

  third possibility.

  A human.

  Erlik arrived when the sun had barely managed to tear a narrow

  opening in the mist. He stopped several steps from the body. He did

  not approach at once. Instead, he inhaled slowly, as if reading an

  invisible text written in the wind.

  The spirits were disturbed.

  Not furious.

  Restless.

  At last, he knelt. He touched the blood-stained ground with two

  fingers and pressed them to his forehead. The Kügür-Terek

  rested beside him, planted in the earth, vibrating faintly—as if

  the tree still remembered being alive.

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  —This dog saw something —he said finally—. Something it

  should not have seen.

  No one answered.

  The lake remained motionless, unnaturally still for that hour. Not

  a single ripple broke its greenish surface. From the opposite slope,

  a crow croaked once—and then fell silent.

  —What was it? —Alysh asked—. An animal… or an enemy?

  Erlik shook his head slowly.

  —The omen does not say. It only shows the consequence.

  He asked that Chinggis Yüd be summoned.

  The prince arrived on horseback, the animal moving with steady

  confidence, indifferent to the scent of blood. He dismounted calmly.

  His gaze passed over the body without lingering longer than

  necessary. There was no disgust. No shock.

  Only attention.

  —It was a good dog —someone said, as if needing to hear it

  aloud.

  Chinggis Yüd nodded. A silent warrior remembered that this was

  the dog who had once pulled at the prince’s horse.

  —The good ones always trouble those who walk in darkness —he

  replied.

  Chinggis Yüd looked at him coldly.

  The words were precise.

  Measured. Correct.

  —What are your orders? —another warrior asked.

  The prince turned to Erlik.

  —If the omen demands an answer, let it have one. We cannot cross

  the pass carrying this with us.

  His voice was calm, almost compassionate. He placed a hand on his

  horse’s neck; the animal snorted softly and lowered its head.

  —Perform the rite —Chinggis Yüd added—. So the spirits do

  not mistake the innocent.

  Erlik watched him in silence. Over the years, he had learned to

  distinguish true fear from its perfect imitation.

  —So it shall be —he said at last.

  As the men dispersed to prepare the ritual fire, the wind shifted.

  It descended from the mountains with a long, hollow whistle, dragging

  the scent of blood toward the camp. Horses neighed, tense, and the

  living dogs began to whimper, tails low.

  Something had been broken.

  And though no one spoke it aloud, all of them felt it:

  the

  dog had not died by chance.

  It had chosen to stand in the way.

  Chinggis Yüd rode away from the camp on the horse his mother had

  arranged for him. His mother, whom he had never known, whose absence

  he hid in the darkest recess of his thoughts.

  He felt pride—not in justice, but in having caused humiliation

  without staining his own hands.

  He whistled once.

  He whistled twice.

  At the third call,

  the falcon dropped from the overcast sky.

  It cut the air with absolute precision. Its talons closed around

  the glove without hesitation, without error.

  Its black eyes—deep, bright—held the same gaze as Chinggis

  Yüd’s: emotionless attention, constant vigilance, a judgment that

  required no compassion to exist.

  The prince did not smile.

  He leaned close to the falcon until they shared the same breath.

  The bird did not flinch. Did not look away. Did not tremble. Between

  them there was neither dominance nor submission, only an ancient

  understanding, alien to ordinary men.

  The falcon saw what Chinggis did not need to see.

  Chinggis

  decided what the falcon would execute.

  Beneath the clouded sky, rider and bird remained still for a

  moment, like two overlapping shadows. Then the horse resumed its

  pace, carrying him away from the camp, leaving behind fear, whispers,

  and the unnamed omen.

  None of it belonged to him anymore.

  He moved forward.

  And the falcon—silent, attentive—watched the world for them

  both.

  Yet in the distance, Erlik felt unease when he caught the gaze of

  the warrior who had remained silent, screaming inwardly. Heavy, dark

  substances manifest in many ways, but they leave the same sensation

  in those with true perception.

  Erlik felt fear.

  Fear of the cave’s omen.

  Fear that it

  might be true.

  The one who rides ahead of the storm had arrived—

  the one

  who births lightning with his will

  and floods the horizon with

  thunder to sow terror.

  And when nature speaks in such a voice,

  destiny no longer

  pauses.

  The

  Central Asian Shepherd Dog, also known as the

  Alabai, is one of the oldest dog breeds in the

  world. It has been bred for thousands of years to guard livestock,

  camps, and nomadic routes across Central Asia, Siberia, and the Altai

  Mountains.

  it is a dog trained to

  decide.