The 'Kikaso' eatery was packed fuller than on usual days. Locals and guests alike had gathered under the high arches of the roof. It was truly crowded. Whether it was due to a special buhe [1] or the location - it was hard to determine. However, the building was situated advantageously, it sprawled out behind the Ashval management, from where many departed to see the world.

  "The clouds have hidden the heavenly light of Kaliel, master, " said the man, pushing aside the fabric covering the entrance. He clarified, "We will not see the sunset today."

  The response was silence. His companion was looking somewhere across at the people crowded around the tables, joyfully discussing current affairs. But the speaker knew - what he had said had been heard.

  Black clouds concealed from everyone the bright heavenly source of Kaliel, named after the creator Kikale. And such a bright name had many reasons behind it in the world's past.

  "Our path is darkened from this moment, Malk; that is an omen of bad things", the master replied after some time. He added quietly, "Especially bad when carrying afarah ore, because of which three reigns have not yet slaughtered each other."

  Malk nodded, accepting the words - he gestures of any descendant of Khanag. His hearts ached at the master's words.

  Large raindrops began to fall from the sky. The wind lazily sifted through the leaves of the lara [2] in the passages, which had begun to shed their a ayly [3] ago thus carpeting the ground with a violet-purple carpet. The time of colds was rapidly approaching Ashval, plunging nature into a short sleep until the arrival of the warm mes[4].

  "May Kikale illuminate our path. May he not allow his world to lead us down black trails leading to his most terrible creations. May he grant peace to the universe and forbid intrusion into the threads of humankind", the master quietly spoke words of petition to the creator.

  The hubbub and the fierce voices of the residents interrupted his words. Large, pot-bellied tables, resembling disassembled barrels, were laden with food -the host had put out the best dishes for today. And the people rejoiced in this, singing songs, and exchanging words.

  "Master", Malk addressed him, intently searching the darkness of the passage for what he needed, " has it been long since Kaliel hid behind the clouds?"

  "Three hundred years," the man replied, tearing himself away from praising the words, "since the end of the Global War."

  A silence fell between them. The mention of past events lay like a heavy burden on the hearts of everyone who heard that name. The years had carried away the bitter taste of blood and the sorrow in their souls, but they had left scars on Kikal that were too deep.

  The owner of the eating house slowly walked between the tables, setting out supplies. Pot-bellied like the tables, he barely moved his thin legs, thin for such a bulk. A kind and affectionate smile adorned his round face with cheeks flushed blue. He was respected by the locals, which is why many placed their palms to their chests in the Ashval custom.

  Slightly swaying from a loss of balance, despite his slow pace, he reached the travelers sitting at the distant, inconspicuous table.

  "Helka [5] from me in honor of a happy day."

  Saying this, he placed two equally pot-bellied mugs on the table. A sweet, foamy drink, much loved in Ashval, spilled onto the table, sprinkling the surface with tiny bubbles. A sweet, crackling aroma spread around, penetrating the senses.

  "What sort of day is it, owner?"

  Malk tore his gaze away from scrutinizing the wet, red roofs of the shacks and the dark, fearsome sky that instilled sadness in his soul. With a brief, piercing glance, he assessed the innkeeper, much like a true Demon (which caused the innkeeper to hiccup in response) and sat down at a table -there was no longer any point in waiting for Kaliel to appear.

  "Well, then," the innkeeper gasped, "it's been three hundred years since the Global War ended! No more bloodshed over the Kikal issue. And may Kikale hear this!"

  The Master merely snorted in reply, loudly and frankly. His pale eyes, which resembled ice more than anything, intently watched everyone in the eating house. Wiry, which made him seem thin, with a bluish tint, and with hair cut short -a style not done in Ashval -he resembled a young boy who had just stepped out of a shack from his parents' home. But something (and the innkeeper couldn't quite say what) was frightening about looking at the man, perhaps it was his overly colorless eyes, like those of the dead, or the firm grip he exhibited upon their first meeting.

  "You don't consider this a joyful day, traveler?" the innkeeper inquired, gathering his courage.

  "That is joy," the master shook his head, "joy built on the bones of sorrow. And our war has never ended from that day. It remained in the soul of everyone. And the eighty million people who died during the Great War will confirm this in the canvas of Kikale."

  One of the guests opened a keg of helka. Foam rose to the ceiling, and the people, like carefree children, began to dance under the droplets of the drink with their mugs. And in their actions, one could discern the dance "foot from under the mountain," as famous as Kikale itself. Sharp, jerky movements of the heel on the floor. Wide lunges and fierce shouts. The cheerful smiles of the women in colorful skirts and loud claps from the men, endlessly encouraging them. It was impossible not to recognize this dance -a symbol of reconciliation, albeit a very conditional one.

  "In any case, it is joy, traveler. Especially for those who no longer die at the Crossroads of Ten Roads in the name of vague ideas."

  "The ideas were quite clear," Malk remarked, taking a sip of the helka.

  The host paused before the guests. Both evoked vague, eerie feelings in him. He said carefully, trying not to touch upon the sharp moments of the past, "You are right, but that was only clear to demonologists and angelologists. Common folk followed them without understanding, blinded by the events of the early past. The times of Sheuskhoszy fkhuo [6] weakened the strength of people."

  "I think we should stop talking about this," interrupted a young boy who emerged from behind the fabric curtain. He noted briefly, "He sometimes tells sheer nonsense without thinking."

  The Master turned slightly toward the boy, slowly shifting his gaze from his pale eyes. His pupil narrowed to a thin, elongated line, and for the first time since the travelers entered the dining area, a blue sparks flashed in his iris -just for a split second. But that was enough for the youth to press himself against the wall and clutch convulsively at the fabric.

  "I think I agree with the boy," Malk smiled, easing the tension. He changed the subject, "Is this your son?"

  The host, not understanding what was happening, answered honestly, "Grandson. His name is Rokolon."

  "Did you name him after Rokolon Torglon?"

  "Correct," after a moment of silence, the owner clarified, "My name is Romulus. And yours? Where are you headed? Travelers rarely visit us in such a place. Surprising, isn't it?"

  Even though the last question was addressed to Rokolon, he gave no answer, continuing to examine the master's back. Malk, taking another sip from his mug, said, "I am Malk. We're on business for the guild – transporting afarah to Kalam. We are working for the future of Ashval, Romulus."

  "The gunwales loaded with afarah often pass through here. Useful work!" the host clapped his hands contentedly. He added quietly, "Lately, people have been complaining that wicked folk have appeared in the Tribal Forest. They steal the afarah. They kill people. Be careful, demonologist."

  "I am Master Eye, Romulus. It’s not my first-time encountering trouble."

  "Torglon is already sending demonologists of such high rank? Do the enemies truly have no fear of Ashval?"

  Malk shrugged without answering. The men by the barrel began singing songs, having already completely emptied the container of helka.

  "And demonologists often do dirty work," the man persisted, "What is your name, traveler? You’ve been completely silent."

  The master was entertained by the host’s boldness in conversation.

  "Golor. Golor Demonrash," Malk supplied.

  The pleasant relaxation on the faces of Romulus and Rokolon was replaced by surprise, which then turned into complete horror. The tavern owner's eyes darted from side to side, trying to find support.

  Golor, however, reveled in the people's behavior, accompanied by Malk's quiet chuckles, which he tried to hide behind his mug of helka.

  "How could we not recognize them," Romulus finally whispered. He turned to his grandson, "Rokolon, prepare the best seats for the guests! Their sleep must be sound under the gaze of Liliel!"

  The boy, casting one last look at the master, disappeared into the darkness of the passage, as if he had never stood there. The owner, profusely apologizing, reinforced by words in the name of Kikale, promised them never again to disturb people worthy of their name or spoil their respite with conversation. He quickly excused himself so as not to be near those who started the Global War.

  When the travelers were left alone, Malk leaned back against the wall and began to laugh sincerely. In the light of the fat lamps, his dark hair sparkled.

  "You won this time, Golor," Malk said.

  In response, the master softened. His thin lips stretched into a smile. It was no longer possible to recognize the stern man he had seemed to Romulus -the feigned seriousness and importance had vanished.

  "Your name and title open the path for us in many places, despite any displeasure. We need to use this more often," Malk concluded.

  "It's not necessary. Otherwise, half of Ashval will start walking with a stutter."

  Golor got up from his seat, loudly slapping his thighs beforehand to break up his stiff muscles. He was quite tall for an resident of Ashval, but still much shorter than Malk. His body was covered by a trail traveling cloak, embroidered with the sign of the lake -an insignia for those belonging to the guild and working for the cause of Shernel Torglon, the head of Ashval. And although the master himself did not wear such a symbol due to certain circumstances, he had pulled on his companion's garment as a joke.

  "Your cloak doesn't suit me."

  "If you were in yours, you would have been recognized immediately. I didn't want to give these people such a hint," Malk chuckled.

  The master nodded approvingly at his apprentice's words, continuing to smile. The people in the eating house were already beginning to disperse after the revelry, driven by the cold and the late hour to their huts. The helka was over, and the owner refused to open a new barrel, promising to do so tomorrow. He still kept glancing over towards Golor and Malk, like a startled beast -nothing surprising for travelers.

  "I'll go and find the lad."

  "May Kikale light your way, Master. I will ask for some food to be brought to our room. I have no desire to eat among the helka-people," Malk said, warming up.

  That is how they decided.

  Already sitting by the fire, which the host had pre-lit, they sipped hot timala [7], which radiated a cool warmth. The clouds still obscured the sky, so the wind, twisting and swirling, continued to drive the fallen lara leaves.

  Golor squatted on the hide. The Master's legs were cold from the time spent in the dining hall, so he stretched them out, trying to warm them. The man, now that he had undressed, looked rather frail.

  The Master was enjoying a rest after the long journey. The path had led them from the entrance to Tritri [8] governance through the snow-covered meadows. The already difficult passage was worsened by the blizzard, for long days, despite the shining Kaliel, snowflakes dug into their chapped skin. Because of this, their faces became covered in a crust from which bluish-blue blood flowed.

  "I don't like this rain," Golor grumbled, tearing off another piece of dry hide. "It will wash out the path, slow down our movement -we are already delayed as it is."

  Malk nodded in agreement. He sat down on a chair and tirelessly observed what was happening in the city through the fabric of the opening. The apprentice felt uneasy.

  He spoke up, "I don't think those non-humans will escape. We will strike against them."

  Golor wiped the blood that had appeared on the wound with a cloth. He carefully soaked each area of the damaged skin with water mixed with the juice of kipres [9] (the Master had prepared this plant in advance), causing the surface to hiss and sputter as it mixed with the salt in the body.

  "The wind is strongly driving the clouds. Kikal wishes to free us from the rain," Malk finally spoke, sniffing the air, "soon the lychila-dots and Liliel will appear."

  "May that be just a mistake and nothing bad happen. Glory to Kikale, who created this world," Golor concluded.

  Having bandaged his hands with a thin fabric made only by the residents Tritri, who shared it with them upon departure in exchange for dried ti, Golor poured a new portion of timala. A thick and viscous aroma, similar to wet soil, spread through the room. Malk began to eat.

  The quiet conversations in the hall ceased. People dispersed either to their shacks or to their rooms -the time of lichila, when darkness falls and the world enters its sleeping period, did not allow them to linger. Only occasionally could the scraping of wood against the floor be heard as the host or his grandson moved furniture, most likely tidying up.

  "How is it for you?" Golor asked with a smile.

  "It's the worst food I've ever tasted."

  The Master chuckled at this, and then lay down on the hide with his whole body. The room the host had given them was small. The walls were made of lara, with fur resembling faded spots covering the corners. However, two beds, covered with warm down quilts, suggested a solid sleep. The tired travelers could not dream of anything more.

  Chewing, Malk grumbled,

  "He could have made the room from another tree. All Ashval is in a violet color scheme; he brought that into the room as well.

  "It doesn't burn, so that's what he made from it." Golor rubbed his eyelids, which were slowly starting to stick together. He yawned, "It’s a harmful plant. It has taken over all of Ashval with its lilac-purple color. And you can't burn it; they would have destroyed it long ago."

  "And it’s useless in life.”

  The rain stopped. The sound of the stomping of the gate guards, who protected the city borders, could be heard -they were taking their posts. Their feet slapped on the puddles, squelching in an uneven rhythm. Malk frowned unhappily. Warmth spread through the room.

  "Golor, do you really think those non-humans hunting for afarah are so dangerous?"

  Racking his thoughts, staring at the violet ceiling, Golor replied, "No. They are ordinary chong -masterless thieves -who trade stolen afarah. The problem isn't them."

  "You mean that the timing of the attack on the afarah doesn't align?

  "You are right, my comrade." Sighing, as if releasing all doubts, the master continued, "There are two groups of people wandering in the In the Tribal Forest. One is ordinary chong. The second consists of mercenaries. You can tell by their weapons. By their markings."

  "Gravediggers", Malk said aloud.

  "Yes. The Tritri mercenaries. And their presence in the path of the afarah parties is dangerous for our rule. Torglon has tasked us with finding and destroying them without involving the Demons. If we don't do this, you know yourself how it will end."

  Averting his eyes to the side, the apprentice whispered, "A new war."

  "Yes. A new war. You and I, like all the descendants of Khanag, will not survive it. We do not have that much strength. And there are too few of us."

  The clouds finally moved on in their journey across the world, toward the Red Mountains, leaving Keulot in peace. As Malk predicted, a scattering of lychila-dots appeared in the sky, shining for a moment, allowing themselves to illuminate the huts with a thin, weak light. Following them soon after, Liliel -the dark companion of Kikal, who watches the world while Kaliel rests -was expected to appear.

  "Remember, we must not summon Demons for battles or fighting in the Tribal Forest, or Kikal will punish us for it. And Torglon, of course. His court demonologists and angelologists will quickly tell him about our summons."

  "But you can fight off Torglon, Golor. After all, you are one of the Council of Ten. A Great Demonrash!"

  The Master did not appreciate Malk's sarcastic, kind jokes, and an empty mug flew toward the apprentice, which the latter skillfully dodged. The resounding laughter of his comrade was the reply.

  The lichila had seized te city, plunging the shacks into darkness. Liliel was thin and barely piercing, illuminating the universe with its faint yellowish tint. Lara unceremoniously absorbed the rays, the time of cold had colored the trunks in muted sandy hues. With relief, people watched the trees sink into a short sleep lasting eighty days (exactly how many days were in the mes), until the arrival of new warm times -the purple canvas was diluted, allowing them to breathe out. It remained to wait for the frosty days. The cold Shkhoks-winds would bring rest.

  Golor, looking at the lychila-dots visible from the opening in the wall, reminded them, "The paths of Kikale are unknown to us. The paths of Kikal are incomprehensible. And the paths of people are not subject to judgment."

  The apprentice closed his eyes. These words were given to the adults for one purpose, to prevent the repetition of the Global War and the losses that people had suffered. Every day, the descendants of Khanag reminded each other of the times when everyone and everything was judged, unleashing discontent and fire in their hearts.

  "Yes, Master. We demonologists dare not meddle in such matters any further. Our business is only to observe."

  And Malk was right. The Global War began because of the demonologists and angelologists, nicknamed the descendants of Hanag.

  The gravity of the conversation made their hearts beat faster. Malk sighed, shoved the remnants of his food into his mouth, and went out to carry the dishes back to the master.

  In the light of the fire, the master began to wash himself in a tub, the pinkish water gently cooled his skin, warmed by the hearth. His cheeks stung, but it was no longer as painful as before, on the road. In the polished surface of the black stone, he saw his little blue sparks.

  He wiped his face with a cloth and allowed himself to watch the lychila-dots shining in the sky like sparks from a flame. The silence of the city settled gently on his heart, devoid of storms.

  The apprentice entered the room with another tub. Water splashed in it from the movement, sometimes rising in waves, sometimes slowly fading, turning into a smooth surface.

  "The lychila-dots are dim tonight," remarked the master, not taking his eyes off the heavens.

  "The cold times are to blame for that," Malk smiled.

  In silence, each attended to his own task, without disturbing the other. Loyal companions, knowledgeable about moments of heavy thoughts, understanding without words. Broad-shouldered Malk, barely fitting into the smoothness of the stone, tried to shave off his stubble with a special knife -it had grown considerably during the journey. With sharp, quick movements, he cleared the surface, causing hairs to begin dancing and swirling in the water.

  A gust of wind brought to them again the smell of wet soil and rotting leaves, but along with it, something else. Both of them stopped, trying to sniff the air, the aroma was incomprehensible and foreign to them.

  Malk asked quietly,

  "What is that?"

  "I don't know, comrade."

  They stood there for an uncounted time. But the next gust of wind brought them the familiar old scents, and both calmed down. The feeling of the akalot was muttering something inside them, demanding that they not calm down, but the travelers forced it to be silent.

  They lay down quite late.

  However, despite the blanket of calm, Golor slept lightly. Malk, on the contrary, snored, having retreated into the world of darkness -that is what they called the time of sleep. The Master, from time to time, breaking free from sleep, glanced at the lichii that flew into the room. They swirled gently in their simple, peculiar dances, and then flew away. The insects were so beautiful that, without a doubt, they would enchant anyone. Except him.

  The Master's thoughts were empty, like a bottomless cup. Akalot churned within, foreboding. But people, even those as unusual as the descendants of Hanag, could not fully comprehend the power of Kikale, granted to them many years ago. There was so much mystery in this world that no mind could unravel it.

  The scraping of legs in the hall made the man turn, too late an hour for guests.

  Golor had barely managed to rise from his bed when a desperate shriek, first rushing through the dining hall and then across the entire city, made him jump to his feet in an instant.

  The sounds of blows from the afarah-kokadni, on which a separate had boen built, rolled through the sleeping city. Lamps lit up here and there in the openings, announcing the awakening. The cries of the gualna birds echoed the no less ringing and sharp blows.

  "An attack?"

  Malk asked this without opening his eyes, but already having risen from his spot. Golor stared into the opening, trying to understand the reasons for the sudden alarm. Where was the blow coming from, who was the enemy?

  The darkness of the lichila was dispersed by the lights of hundreds and hundreds of lamps. And by lit torches. Beacon fires, soaring into the sky hundreds of motel [10] high, attempted to illuminate every corner of Keulot. The city shook off the spell of sleep in a fraction of a breath and prepared for defense. A defense that everyone had been waiting for years, remembering the events of the past.

  "It's not for nothing that we didn't see the Kaliel sunset," the master muttered to himself.

  His apprentice didn't hear him, glancing towards the door and listening to the surroundings.

  "I hear a roar."

  Malk's words made Golor look away from observing the trembling lights throughout the corridor. Realization flashed in the man's eyes.

  Grabbing his trail traveling cloak from the chest, the master rushed out of the room. His heart pounded, his legs filled with warmth and strength. But the apprentice stood bewildered, watching his departing comrade, unable to take a step.

  "Romul, get up!"

  Golor knocked on the doors in turn, not knowing the right one. Frightened visitors, awakened by the alarm of hits, rushed out of their rooms seeking shelter -their instincts did everything for them, saving their souls. But the master didn't care about that. He continued to wake everyone up to find the right person. The disgruntled words directed at him, the claps, and the shouts evoked nothing in him.

  "He's here!"

  One of the guests pointed at the oval door. A short nod from Golor in his direction was all the help the man received. Leaning against the obstacle, he forced the entrance open - the master no longer seemed frail.

  The darkness of the room unpleasantly stung after the bright corridors of the dining hall. Blue sparks flashed in his eyes, allowing him to make out what was necessary in the blackness.

  "Kikal’s khnog!"

  Golor rushed to the bed where his owner lay sprawled out, taking up the entire width of it, belly up. Blue blood was dripping from his lips, shimmering with mischievous sparkles in the faint light coming from the door. His eyes, wide open, were covered with a whitish film. The master recognized the scent of human death immediately.

  "Romul!"

  The author's tale has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

  Rokolon burst into the room in complete confusion. The other guests followed him, scurrying like a herd. Golor looked around in an attempt to understand, who had attacked the defenseless one, and from where? The speckles in his eyes would ignite brightly and then fade again.

  "Master!"

  Malk flew into the room. His disheveled black hair gleamed in the light of another source that Golor had not noticed before. He lunged toward where the wave was coming from and furiously tore the fur off the wall -behind it, a passage gaped open, illuminated by a multitude of torch flames.

  "Kikale, protect us! Do not let enemies sow evil upon your soil!"

  The people began reciting the protective words, knowing them by heart. Malk only snorted at this, staring into the face of the deceased, feeling nothing but indifference. Under the light of the lichii (a term for the arriving guests, perhaps), who rushed into the room, drawn by grief, scratches and wounds were visible on the unfortunate man's face, as well as a huge blue stain on his stomach -Romul’s death had been swift. He had been struck directly in the kikal’s (resident of Kikal) second heart, the one located under the right arm, usually hidden from any injury.

  "Rokolon, what was your grandfather doing?"

  The boy did not hear Golor questions, staring at the face of a person who was once dear to him. His lips trembled, and his fingers dug fiercely into the fabric of shirt, tearing it in places. Tears never spilled from his eyes -fear and horror were frozen in them, completely halting his awareness of reality.

  The clang of the guards' shields rang out. The people, stunned for a few breaths, scattered frantically throughout the rooms.

  Malk slapped the boy across the face with a swing, causing him to look askew and fall to his knees. The apprentice repeated Golor question,

  “What was your grandfather involved in?!”

  Sparks of understanding appeared in the eyes clouded by the haze of confusion.

  “You shouldn’t have been so rough,” the master snarled.

  “It’s effective in such situations, Master,” Malk retorted.

  Tears began to stream from Rokolon’s eyes. The lichii surrounded the corpse from all sides, creating a shimmering, rippling cocoon.

  “Tritrian.” The boy stammered, repeatedly covering his mouth with his fingers in an attempt not to scream from unimaginable despair and grief. “He helped.” Romul fell silent again, trying to force out even a sound. But his young age and the shock of death made his tongue tangle, producing only inarticulate, gurgling words. “Helped. The Tritrian. To escape.”

  “He helped to the residents of Tritri escape?” Malk clarified.

  Rokolon merely nodded at the apprentice's question, unable to say anything more.

  "Kogon!" the master hissed after that. "Are the wills of Kikale meaningless to you? Why did you go to another people? Have you decided to start a war again? Nothing teaches you! Not death, nor the ruin of the world! How quickly you forgot the deaths of almost the entire population of Kikal! Forgot the taste of blood on your tongue!"

  Golor eyes were covered with speckles, obscuring the colorless iris and turning it into a single blue spot. The youth burst into louder sobs than before, falling prostrate onto the hide. A heavy tremor began to shake him.

  "I'm going there. Watch him!"

  Malk nodded.

  Golor rushed down the passage. The torches unfriendly assailed him with heat, as if trying to expel the lost traveler. Nevertheless, the master paid no attention to this, trying to move faster through the cold and damp stone opening.

  Pebbles rattled underfoot every so often, loudly bouncing off each other and creating unnecessary noise. Shouts of dissatisfaction and quarrels among people could be heard in the city, reaching even this place, which led the man to conclude, he was not moving underground, but through some building connected to the passage. The salt stones underfoot confirmed his assumptions.

  A fresh, light breeze wafted towards him. The man started running, feeling the end and the exit from the passage.

  He literally flew out into one of the haystacks. The dried mais cobs painfully hit his head and dug into his back. The exit led him to the barn where preparations for the cold season were stored. A completely unseen passage, hidden by an ordinary piece of fur, was now open – that's where the master stumbled out from.

  Before he could fully grasp what was happening, Golor heard a rumbling sound, more like a roar. Turning around, the man saw the open gates and the darkness into which several riders were moving away.

  About five lights circled in the distance.

  Demonrash pulled a stick filled with a bluish liquid from a secret pocket. With quick, light, simple movements, he drew unknown symbols on his arm.

  "Eusash," the symbols of the ancient language slipped from the master's lips.

  The barn filled with a reddish-blue light.

  First one foot stepped into the world of Kikal, then the second, and following them, the rest of the body and head appeared. A demon, as a black clot, froze before the demonologist.

  "Delay him," Golor commanded in the common language.

  The clot first swirled, spun, and then rushed out of the barn like a black arrow, leaving behind the scent of trail dust. Golor jumped to his feet and ran to the neighboring barn for the animal.

  Silsha whistled upon hearing its master.

  The animal's feet, endowed with five toes, were tied. Cursing, the master began to cut the ropes with the knife he carried with him.

  "Kikal’s khnog, what is happening within you, Kikal! Why didn't we see Kaliel setting? Has it begun already?" The Master grumbled, untangling and cutting the ropes.

  A powerful mount, four times his size, waited patiently. As soon as he freed the animal, it swiftly rose onto its feet and froze in place, waiting. Golor jumped onto the offered back, not taking time to re-tie the travel straps, and gripped the mane tightly to avoid falling.

  Silsha ran out of the barn, deftly moving over the wet ground. Clumps of mud flew from under her paws. Puddles splashed from her firm steps, becoming merely droplets on the dry grass and the decaying lara leaves.

  The lights in the distance had frozen in place, stopped by the Demon. Silsha whistled, warning her master and drawing his attention.

  Only then, previously distracted by brief thoughts and observations, did the man notice that the black cloud, which was the Demon, was circling the five Mau-Mol upon which riders sat. The attackers tried to fight off the swirling creature with fire and swords -nothing helped against the incorporeal being.

  "Intercept them!"

  The cries of the guards reached the master's heated mind. The demonologist examined the mau-mol, trying to figure out how to approach them. Silsha hissed, grumbling discontentedly about yet another dangerous sortie -the creature conveyed its thoughts and feelings to its owner.

  The huge, bearded mau-mol, with two broad horns resembling two towers on their heads, spun in place, occasionally lunging in one direction and then another. Caught off guard by the Demon, they rumbled and bristled, trying to attack the black cloud, and naturally, they grasped only emptiness with their paws. Their six red eyes, devoid of pupils, shone with a mad, terrifying light. Only long whiskers trailed across the ground.

  "Free!" Golor shouted, releasing the Demon.

  The cloud gradually began to dissipate, after which it vanished altogether. And only the smell of trail dust remained behind it. Following this, part of the strength transferred towards the summoned creature, weakening the man, causing him to sway.

  The enemies, spotting the cause of their wails, rushed towards him. Five mau-mol charged at Golor like a battering ram. But the agile silsha dived beneath them, allowing them to bite only air.

  The guards were drawing closer, bringing chaos. About a dozen fighters, with shouts and fiery torches, presented a threat. Clad in armor on powerful guanaco mounts -they posed a real danger to their foes.

  Golor pointed out the main enemy, whom the others kept glancing at. Briefly conveying silsha request, the man jumped down from the high back of the animal, unpleasantly hitting the hard ground and getting covered in mud. The open space, ravaged by hundreds of steps of desperate mau-mol, now resembled a swamp. The man's legs slipped and sank.

  With a quick movement, he drew another sigil on his wrist and uttered a short invocation,

  "Eusash."

  Kikal groaned again at the summons, bending under the Demon's weight. Space tore open, revealing a passage for the mighty creature Kikal from another world. Under the light of Liliel, a new helper entered, illuminated by lychila-dots. And the mau-mol roared, already fending off the guards who had reached the site of the clash, they were pricking the animals with stakes, forcing them onto their hind legs, causing the riders to scream, nearly thrown from their backs. By hopping to the side or retreating to the guanacos, the guards tried to break through the enemies head-on. But the riders held on with all their might, knowing that death awaited them if they fell.

  Behind the fight, the Demon entered the world, washing Golor with the familiar scent of trail dust. The strength of the summoned creature was incredible and mighty -it was the Marquis himself. One of the supreme Demons, of whom there were only seventy-two.

  "Lift the earth and cast it against the foes, Hoevea!"

  Golor order was drowned out by the roar of the mau-mol and the cries of the guards. But the Demon heard.

  The ground trembled, causing frightened screams from people and animals. And even the master's silsha shrieked at the approach of trouble, although she understood the peculiarities of the summoning, seen many times during long service. The stones underfoot shook, gradually beginning to jump under the force of the tremors. With every breath, the world filled with the oppressive, dense power of the Demon, penetrating the corners of Kikal, causing it to groan and hiss as it entered the struggle. And because of this, the earth began to crack, colliding from the two opposing forces. People screamed desperately, trying to stay on their feet. Animals rumbled with fear and a sense of danger, trying to break away and flee, driven by instinct and the desire for safety. And Golor reveled in what was happening. Blue sparks darkened the man's eyes, making his face truly terrifying in the dim yellow light of Liliel.

  Stones rose high into the air, along with detached clumps of soil torn out by the Demon's furious power and began to swirl above the enemies. The sound of grinding and roaring mixed with the hoarse crackle of the gradually parting surface, creating yet another rift.

  "Beolot!"

  One of the enemies shouted and maneuvered sideways, escaping the growing chasm from which stones were rapidly rising to fall down. The rest of the riders turned their mau-mol and rushed after him, overcoming obstacles and the confusion of their mounts with quick and sharp movements. And the stones flew over their heads, a now restraining them from attempting to attack the guards again – it was a terrifying and magnificent sight.

  The guards, realizing that the power directed by the demonologist was not against them, jumped onto their guanacos and timidly raced in pursuit of the uninvited guests, who were now fleeing with their tails tucked. Literally and figuratively.

  "Free," Golor whispered.

  Hoevea lowered the stones back down and sealed the earth between them, hiding the rift. Kikal hummed approvingly at this, washing the demonologist with warm, affectionate streams of wind summoned from the farthest corners. Like the previous creation, the Demon gradually melted away, dissolving into dark droplets, leaving behind only the taste of trail dust on the tongue. And nothing indicated that a real massacre had taken place here just a short while ago.

  Golor climbed back onto her silsha -which had calmed down -and quietly directed it toward the barn.

  The wasteland was calm. The lichii began to sparkle again in the light of the lychila-dots (they had been hiding all this time in the decaying lara leaves) and swam rhythmically through the air. And Liliel looked sternly at the world, as he usually did. The lights in the passages were gradually going out.

  "Help."

  A faint whisper reached Golor ears, causing him to halt his silsha. The silsha fidgeted on the grass, shuffling its toes in anticipation. At first, the master thought he had imagined it, but a barely audible moan made him change his mind. Jumping off the silsha, the man crept closer to the pile of lara leaves, carefully left by the people for the animals during the cold. He studied the spot for a moment, trying to determine the exact source of the words and who needed help.

  The silsha, tired of waiting, knocked the top off the stack with its branched antlers, causing the stranger buried within to roll aside.

  The silsha whistled in cheerful tones, seemingly mocking the situation.

  "Clever girl," Golor murmured affectionately, stroking the side of his companion.

  In the light of the Liliel, a view of black, shaggy hair gathered in a semblance of a tail was revealed. Smooth blue skin, shimmering with a dark gray hue, attracted the attention of the lichii, who tried to cling to the new guest. But the master immediately understood, this was the one whom the deceased Romul had been hiding. A tritrian.

  "Master!"

  The call of the apprentice, making his way to the wasteland on his silsha (he was male), distracted Demonrash.

  "I gave the youngster to his grandmother. I barely found him. Had to call Demon," explained Malk, riding closer.

  His silsha was smaller than Golor, but no less large compared to human physique. A long mane, braided around its horns like a crown, adorned the animal's muzzle. Green eyes, with slit pupils, glittered, and the animals exchanged glances with the second silsha, causing wherefore silsha master's to roll its eyes and whistle sadly – they were communicating about what had happened.

  The apprentice stopped, looking down at the tritrian from above. He said nothing more and groaned no longer, as if having lost consciousness and sunk into the darkness of temporary sleep.

  "Did everything start because of him?"

  The Master, shrugging, answered honestly,

  "I don't know."

  "If so, we saved his life today by preventing him from returning to Tritri."

  "And there is nothing good in that," Golor pressed. The Master washed his hands and bit out angrily, "We violated Kikale will by intervening for him. What was I even thinking? Nothing good will come of this. So, his path was to live in Tritri. And I…"

  "Perhaps his path is to be saved by us in this lichila?"

  "I don't know, Malk. And I don't wish to know."

  He spat angrily and decisively directed his silsha towards the barn, shifting his gaze to the lychila-dots so as not to think about this day anymore.

  "And we’re leaving him here?" Malk asked, raising an eyebrow.

  "I have already violated his path. I won't take on anything more."

  Malk suddenly laughed. Cheerfully, loudly, with genuine bright merriment. And the already upset Golor became angrier and more displeased. In response, the silsha whistled furiously, sensing its master's mood. Neither his companion nor his silsha responded – they continued to laugh together.

  "Master," Malk said, after laughing, "you have already made a mistake. Why stop halfway? Everything needs to be seen through to the end."

  Silsha Golor rolled her eyes, and he himself replied, "I'm not going to make two mistakes instead of one."

  "Then I will make it."

  "I don't doubt it," Golor snorted.

  "I feel pity for people. Even if he is a tritrian. But you should learn the true precepts of Kikale."

  "Oh, look who's talking!"

  Malk jumped down from the broad back of the silsha, landing on the scattered lara leaves. The youth had still not recovered, collapsed in the mud mixed with withered grass. He looked tormented by the journey, which was why a crust had formed on his skin, although much thinner.

  "Kikale commanded us to support and help each other."

  "Without deviating from the path, Malk, what is intended."

  "So his path goes through us then."

  The Master remained silent at the man's words. Malk freed the animal's neck from the straps that held the entire harness, and with quick, sweeping movements, turned it into something resembling a tether.

  "You won't help me, Master?"

  "You took this burden upon yourself," Golor grumbled.

  "When we return to Olmor, I will definitely tell Olisa that you have become a cruel old man. She will be surprised what kind of father she has."

  Jumping down from the silsha, the Master began to help his companion bind the youth onto the animal's back. The tritrian was light, so much so that even one man could lift him without difficulty, which greatly surprised both travelers. However, his weakened arms, like his legs, dangled uselessly, which made it difficult to put.

  "Did you decide to get all my indignation at once? Complaining to Olisa is a forbidden move, comrade."

  "But it's effective," Malk gasped, throwing the youth's leg.

  "Who did I take as a companion," Golor drawled with feigned exasperation.

  "A loyal companion. And a comrade, it should be noted. And Kikale heard your words when you agreed to my company."

  "That was a mistake."

  "Words in the world of Kikal have no reverse effect. You have made a choice you cannot evade," the apprentice chuckled.

  "Terrible covenants."

  And even though Golor grumbled and sulked at his comrade, deep down he was no less amused by their bickering. The Silsha whistled upon seeing the returning lights. The guards were slowly moving back. Meeting them with the tritrian in hand could either calm the people down or anger them even more. Therefore, both men decided not to show their find.

  "What are we going to do?"

  Golor snorted at Malk's question and sarcastically clarified,

  "Your cargo -you worry about it."

  "Master," the apprentice drawled in response and looked at him with a sad gaze.

  "Whom I've taken upon myself."

  Malk smiled and puffed out his chest proudly in the yellowish light of Liliel.

  "We'll take him to Kilana. Let them deal with him themselves -any people will be a joy for them."

  "Do you know anyone in Kila here?"

  "Delok the Rejected. We'll drop him off with her. Go to the eatery, and I'll talk with the guards."

  The apprentice grunted and gave the command to the silsha, which moved quickly toward the indicated place, making sure the animal's silhouette wouldn't be visible to the guards. Golor, looking around, noted that the ground was beginning to grow cold. The warmth of Kikal was disappearing, replaced by frost.

  The Master waited.

  The guards caught up with him some time later. Their blue-tinged faces and heavy breathing revealed their exhaustion. They carried their shields on their backs, covering themselves, while their spears hung down to the soil, scratching and raking aside the lara leaves. The withered grass crunched and wheezed under the heavy steps of the guanacos.

  "Did you catch them?" Golor voice was firm and commanding, like when he spoke with Romul.

  The head of the detachment suddenly turned to him, as if they had decided to pass by and forget the people, he began to scrutinize the master with a squint, distrusting him. The violet iris of his eye glittered in the light of Liliel.

  "They went toward Tritri, at the crossroads," one of the guards, who was closer to the edge of the detachment, said, unable to bear the silence.

  "The enemies are attacking us again. The Tritri people don't change," the head of the detachment spat angrily. He introduced himself in a friendly manner, "Kaiet Guards."

  A hubbub of voices offering kind words and a succession of names followed, but the master didn't even bother to remember everyone's face -there was no point in that. The guanacos shuffled their paws.

  "Golor Demonrash," the master introduced himself.

  "Ah, that explains it, a strong demonologist. You nearly turned the ground upside down. The Celestial people are probably cursing your summoning," Kaiet roared with laughter.

  His companions supported him with a unified burst of laughter and short, joking call-and-responses. The simplicity of the Ashval folk was truly astonishing.

  "Will they return?" Demonrash question was drowned in silence.

  The guards exchanged glances, trying to find answers in each other's eyes, but it didn't go well. The master grunted at their confusion and naivety regarding security, no one had thought about the causes and consequences of the attack. Defending one's home turf above knowledge -a crooked path.

  "They shouldn't. We drove them off no worse than Ketolom!"

  "Indeed!"

  "Even better!"

  The men played with words like children – this made Golor smile. Shifting slightly on the silsha back, he said, "I am returning. May Liliel illuminate you and may Kikale himself protect you, guards. The Master bowed shallowly and briefly."

  "May Kikale also light your path and lead you on the true way, and may the Demons always hear your call, Golor Demonrash," Kaiet repeated the action. Then he turned to his comrades, "Let's split into pairs and cross the wasteland. Who knows what or who might have gotten lost here after the encounter."

  The guards grumbled at the order but began to carry it out. The guanacos slowly moved their tired paws. And the lights from the lit afarah-lamps suddenly flared up the space, and then began to gradually recede, turning into ghostly specks. Golor followed them all with his gaze. He briefly thought about how successfully they had found the tritrian in the leaves before the men arrived and ordered the silsha to leave the wasteland.

  ***

  Malk was waiting for him by the barn. The youth was hanging limply from the back of the silsha, unconscious, though, as the apprentice assured him, both of his hearts were beating steadily without hesitation. A crowd of people had gathered at the entrance to the tavern, which offered a view from this spot, driven by the talk and the sudden attack. The women were sighing and gasping, much like gualna -just as loud and clamorous, bordering on hoarse shrieks -while the men quietly discussed what had happened.

  "Guards catch them?"

  "No," Golor shook his head in response to his companion's question. He clarified, "They bolted towards the Crossroads of the Ten Roads, and from there they will move to the Gates of Beleu. After the Demon, it is unlikely they will return. It's too dangerous. The path there will be clear for us."

  The master's silsha lay lazily stretched out on the withered, faded grass, which had therefore acquired a dirty violet-beige tint. Her white hair hung down, touching the wet substrate of water droplets. Golor grumbled angrily at the animal, but it only whistled playfully, brazenly mocking him. For this, it received a light snap of fingers on its horns.

  "Shall we stay and watch Romul's burning?"

  People were fussily gathering the deceased's belongings, following an old tradition, to destroy everything that belonged to him along with the body.

  "No. Let's hurry to the kila, and then set off. There’s no sense in lingering here. There is someone to see Romulus off. And the nimapho will dance a magnificent dance of tears for him. In any case, Romulus is from now on an lychila-dots in the canvas of Kikale. Our feelings mean nothing to him," Golor refused, turning his gaze to the distant horizon, which looked like impenetrable darkness.

  "I notified Delok through Demon. She is waiting for us."

  The Master smiled at the apprentice's foresight, remarking briefly, "Useful."

  "Not all the time you have to grumble at me,” Malk laughed, "I wish I could hear such pleasant words from you more often, Golor."

  "Once is enough."

  The man laughed again at Demonrash words, puffing up on the silsha. The tritrian continued to lie motionless, as if in a deep, unshakeable sleep. And against the backdrop of peace and tranquility in the company of the demonologists, the people were piling things onto a large bonfire. The women dragged branches or firewood, paying tribute to the deceased, while the men started the fire, pulling out more and more items from the house as they did so.

  Rokolon, burying his face in his shirt, wept silently – the loss had struck the youth too early. Both travelers felt regret.

  "May the peace of the Demons grant you protection and comfort. May your path in life be easy and simple and may sorrow no longer touch your soul. Sekfahoesz."

  Malk's words were caught by the wind and carried first toward the boy, and then out into the whole world, to reach the edge of Kikal and from there ascend to the Sky People. Afterwards, having circled their domains, they were to be carried into the world of the Demons, where the shudy would fulfill the 'blue words' at the demonologist's command. That was a gift from the apprentice. But Golor also did an equally good deed for Rokolon, he reported nothing to the Council of Ten, freeing him from pursuit and questioning -that was a valuable gift. Unnoticed by others.

  Casting a final glance toward the people who had already lit a bonfire, showering them with a burst of sparks, the travelers set off for Kilana -the place where the kila live. Rokolon's bluish eyes, to whom the 'blue words' had reached, watched them depart, and his lips whispered words of supplication to Kikale.

  The Nimapho watched everything from the heavens and awaited their moment to emerge with the first rays of Kaliel.

  The men arrived quickly. Kilana stood on the very edge of the city, hidden by dozens of lara. Kila's hid far from the hustle and bustle of life so that no one would dare disturb the peace.

  Standing with a loud splash on their hindquarters, the silsha stirred up small, noble, whitish bekas, who were genuinely distressed and began to squawk loudly. Flapping their wings and hopping across the small meadow, they grumbled at the mounts for interrupting their sleep.

  Malk spoke about the animal, expressing his dissatisfaction and what he thought about the situation. The temperaments of the mounts left much to be desired, harmful, playful, and mischievous, they also had another unpleasant habit – vindictiveness.

  "May Kaliel enlighten you, descendants of Khanag."

  Delok came out to them, clearly expecting the arrival of guests. Her head was uncovered, which violated traditions, the completely bare skin where hair should have been was decorated with symbols of the Kikale language and ancient drawings of the first people from Khalev.

  A thin, tall, truly beautiful woman deprived of the most valuable thing in Ashval -the braid for which girls were famous upon marriage. But despite this 'ugliness,' she exuded a nobility and significance for which all kila were renowned.

  "Your Demon caught me unawares. Why frighten me so much amidst the litc lichila? There is enough fear in life as it is," the woman began the conversation reproachfully. "Golor, without you, Kilana lived excellently. What commotion have you brought with you?"

  "Let's start with the fact that this is not my Demon," the master countered.

  "Yours, then?"

  "Mine," Malk grinned, weathering the kila attack.

  "Don't let do that again -I'll unleash all the words of Kikal upon you."

  She shook her finger menacingly in the air as a warning gesture, causing Golor to snicker slyly at Delok’s behavior, genuinely admiring her feelings in the moment. Malk, leaning carefully over the kila, said,

  "It won't help. I have the Demon's protection."

  A light tap on the forehead from kila made Malk's hair shine, illuminating the world like the light of Kaliel, the apprentice flared up just as brightly, emitting a light grayish, shimmering glow, similar to the iridescence of crystals. Taken by surprise, the man plopped down onto the ground, kicking up a spray of droplets. He looked around with bewildered green eyes, filled with surprise and confusion. The silsha whistled, hiding their faces in the foliage. And even Demonrash burst out laughing.

  Kila looked at him smugly, feeling a sense of pride for what she had done -to offend such a person as him meant bringing trouble upon oneself and one's loved ones.

  "What was that?"

  The apprentice's bewilderment brought a sincere smile to everyone's faces.

  "A small power, granted to us by Kikal," Delok offered him a hand to help him up and explained, "Kila channels the power of the world through herself to hear it, so sometimes we can play a little with its might. You akalot also know how to use the power of Kikal outside the body, after all."

  "It won't cause pain. But it will impress an enemy or a person with its unusualness," Golor assured him.

  And Malk quietly added, "And make them laugh."

  The first rays of Kaliel began to rise above the horizon, in the sky, the clouds were tinted with a delicate violet-pink hue, which, with the gentle strokes of the creator, painted large intricate stripes of dawn, giving the world the unique colors of the most wondrous mixtures. The Nimapho began to dance with their flexible and long bodies the "farewell dance of tears." And Delok smiled kindly at the warm source and the accompanying beauties who had been following Kikal for long thousands of years without stopping or tiring.

  Mesmerized by the pleasant caressing rays, the silsha wearily lay down on the soft carpet of lara, mixed with withered grass, and plunged into a short healing sleep before the long journey. Golor and Malk, untying the straps on the tritrian, dragged the light youth towards the main hall of Kilana for aid.

  Walking through one hundred columns arranged in a circle, supporting a not-less-circular massive stone roof, the men briefly glanced at the structure from the inside. Afarah-lamps burned on each of the columns, maintaining a semi-twilight state similar to what Kikale dwelling was like near the void.

  Ten large flat stones were arranged in the center of Kilana, like a tower in the middle of a desert. On every side -a forest of columns, leading away and off into the unknown. When Kaliel was high in the sky, this place became magnificent -Malk and Golor both knew this. But now, in the darkness, the place seemed truly ominous and eerie, harboring threats behind every turn and passage. It was as if the light, having turned away for a time, allowed the blackness hidden within the world to crawl out of the abyss.

  The tritrian was placed on one of the stones. His dark hair framed his skin like an aura. He did not look like he was suffering. No, it was a serene sleep that had overcome him temporarily.

  "Kikal is displeased," Delok whispered.

  She stood thoughtfully by one of the columns, running her hand over it, discerning what the world would share. The smooth surface had indentations -symbols of the Kikale language. Language the of the first people from Khalev, which they used to speak with the creator.

  "They brought the boy from the direction of the tavern," the woman whispered.

  "Did Kikal tell her that?"

  Malk nudged Golor side with his elbow. He rarely communicated with the kila, not acknowledging their power. He usually avoided Kilana, and if he did visit, it was only to gaze at the beauty of the structure.

  "No, I saw where you came from," Delok snorted in response.

  Malk, puzzled, sat down on the floor, it was the first time he had studied the kila in their work, and they rarely granted others the right to witness this mysterious moment.

  "Kikal is alarmed by your summoning, Golor Demonrash. He nearly overturned the earth. Do not dare disturb the serenity of the universe again."

  "It was a necessary measure. Tell Kikal that," the Master remarked listlessly.

  "Then next time, an abyss will open beneath you, and Kikal will consume you. I won't even sing a requiem for your soul," the kila bit out in return. She muttered, "He was as unbearable then as he remains now."

  Silence fell between the participants. Delok traced her hands silently over the column, paying no attention to the humans.

  "Are we going to save the boy?" Malk couldn't hold back.

  Golor yawned in response.

  Once again, the canopy of silence enveloped Kilana, plunging everyone into a semi-somnolent state.

  "Aesha!"

  A woman's cry ripped the veil of sleep from the men, causing them to jump where they stood. Delok rushed to the young man, in her hand was something bright and hot, from which the smell of scorched flesh spread throughout the hall.

  Golor immediately rushed to the youth, taking hold of his head, and Malk pinned his legs to the stone.

  Kila slowly brought the tritrian to her mouth, her small glowing speck -as it appeared from the outside.

  "Take your lychila-dots, youth," Delok whispered.

  But the youth thrashed about. A sudden convulsion took hold of his entire body, causing him to jerk right, barely held on the stone by the men, then arch his back, preventing her from getting close. And kila had to maneuver around him to find a comfortable angle.

  "Give the word to Kikal!" Golor exclaimed, irritated.

  "I cannot," Delok hissed in response, "I am disrupting his path. Kikal will not answer."

  "And is this safe? Will Kikal not carry us away to the heavens after this?"

  "Malk, you shouldn't be thinking about that right now."

  The apprentice looked genuinely surprised and remarked hurtfully, "What else should I be thinking about right now, if not my own soul?"

  The youth arched his back again, pushing Delok away. She hit the floor painfully. Her pupils flashed with red light from the emotions that surfaced. She growled in response, "You should have thought about it before you saved him."

  Malk caught the released leg of the tritrian and pinned it to the stone with all his body weight. With a smirk, he said, "Golor saved him, then."

  "Malk!"

  Delok rolled her eyes and whispered with feigned sadness, "I knew, Golor, that acquaintance with you would bring nothing but trouble."

  "Speak about that more quietly."

  "And I am not hiding the truth."

  "Well then, I saved you from Tritri in vain," Golor replied in the same tone.

  With bulging eyes, the apprentice looked at his comrade. He hadn't known that his master had once been involved in something like this. And his words, spoken to Rokolon, took on a different meaning, not a warning, but a part of the past that had been lived through.

  "Don't look like that. We all make mistakes."

  Golor pressed the youth into the stone with displeasure and might. A blue spark flashed in his eyes, growing brighter and more dangerous - it spun and whirled like an evil wind.

  Delok, seeing an opportunity, seared the mouth of the tritrian with hot warmth, then exhaled in relief when he stopped struggling and collapsed weakly on the surface.

  All three sank tiredly to the floor with a feeling of emptiness in their bodies and souls.

  Footnotes:

  [1] - The time of Kaliel setting over the horizon is determined in the period from 30-00 to 40-00 hours.

  [2] - A highly resilient tree with a cap-like crown of a purple hue, making it look like a ball on a stick (the trunk is very thin). It has lilac-colored bark, which turns beige with lilac veins during cold weather. It does not burn and does not sink, spreads rapidly across the soil, and displaces other plants. It sheds its leaves for one month. It has a sickly sweet aroma.

  [3] - a small part of a mes, consisting of ten days, repeated eight times a mes.

  [4] - The number of days in a year is divided into equal intervals. There are 80 days in one mes (with the exception of lara-mes and intimate-mes every 10 years, which have one day less). Additionally divided into 8 isles.

  [5] - a foamy drink with a sweet and salty taste that allows you to relax and have fun. It is drunk by Ashval on holidays and any meetings.

  [6] - from the language of Kikale, "black evil" or "black ear", placed by the Angel of man on the soil of Kikal, who enslaved all governments, making one single one, a period of the life of the universe is named after him. More than twenty different lords ruled under this name. It ended with the arrival of Zakeo the Magnificent.

  [7] - dried herbs steamed with hot or cold water or another plant. It has a taste depending on the filling.

  [8] - the board, hidden in the protection of the Afarah mountains, on the shok Kikal. A very extensive community of people, stretching to Lake Krivoe. The main feature is the renunciation of Kikale. Economic development at the nascent stage (afarah sticks). They are engaged in Afar trade with other boards. Socially, it is an extremely difficult place, as there is a ranking system that belittles those who have a visa list.

  [9] - a wide dark purple plant with a green tint, having vertical star-shaped branches without foliage.

  [10] - a measure of length. Approximately equal: 1 motel is 4 earth meters. It is measured with a special long stick ? a montel.