Olekir and his guards followed Sirka and her people—silent as shadows. This forced them to keep looking back; though no one uttered a word, their discomfort was plain to see. The path was long, convoluted, and difficult for an ordinary person, yet perfect for ambushes. A few nearly occurred, but a brief exchange of signals resolved the misunderstandings.
The settlement was strikingly primitive. Instead of stone walls or even a palisade, there was a weave of branches and bones, with white teeth glinting here and there. The huts were worse than the shelters of a seasoned warrior: skins and bones over a crude frame, with equally crude extensions seemingly slapped together in haste.
At first, they were met with a clamour, but the streets quickly filled with whispers. Children vanished from sight, leaving only muffled murmuring and the cries of wild birds. Olekir looked at them without hiding his gaze—and some of the young women blushed under that look. Most resembled Sirka, but there were those whose bodies were closer to human—covered in the scars of heavy battles that had proven their right to live in the tribe.
Closer to the centre, the wolves became more numerous: they watched from roofs and trees; their silvery fur stood out against the grey and brown tones, though it blended in among their kin. And with them came new figures of the tribe, whose presence crowded out the rest. They no longer possessed anything human: massive bodies, three heads taller than a man, beastly muzzles without a hint of hair, only short silver fur. Their forelimbs were long, almost dragging on the ground, their hind legs springy, ready to pounce. They did not hide, openly baring their teeth at the stranger, making their sex known to one another without words.
In the centre, surrounded by walls of stretched hides, stood a throne—a wild likeness of bone, branches, and stretched skins, topped with a skull assembled like a puzzle, resembling the head of a Nav. On it sat a giant, taller than a spear—the chief, Sirka's father. His scars betrayed unearthly strength. Women of various ages and kinds huddled at his feet: some pregnant, some with infants in their arms. Sirka and her people fell prostrate. Olekir gave only a brief nod, his gaze already wandering further.
He stopped at a young she-wolf—or rather, at eyes that hid a human intelligence behind them. She rose from her place near a burrow or cave, from which cries, howls, growls, and groans never ceased. Slightly larger than a horse, she seemed almost restrained next to the chief. Her eyes did not tear away. In a deathly silence that not even thunder would have broken under the aura of the chief and his inner circle, she approached. She stopped close by. He reached out his hand—habitually, without haste. And before anyone could move, she accepted the caress—as if it were meant to be.
When this happened, the only thing that remained was silence. Everyone was so shocked by this that they simply did not know how to react. This she-wolf was restless, wilder, and more dangerous than the rest. She did not acknowledge the chief's authority to enjoy life, nor did she join the wild packs to roam around. She had simply been hunting and observing until this moment.
"I thought I would never see you again, but it seems our paths have crossed once more."
In response, she rubbed against his still hand, pulling him from the memories of their first meeting. Only at that moment did he realise she was now a summer or two younger, and her body had almost none of the scars he remembered. Yet those eyes and the sensation on his hand—he knew for certain it was her. His most loyal friend, who had stayed with him without regret until the very end.
"Will you come with me this time too, Luna?"
To Olekir's question, there was a clear and short answer: she simply lay down at his feet. Until this moment, she could have sworn she was seeing him for the first time. But something in her soul screamed of familiarity, of a promise she had been unable to keep, though she could not remember when she had made it. He smiled with satisfaction and looked at the chief.
"Thank you for your gift. These are indeed wonderful, innocent girls. However, I want more. Specifically—Sirka and a few others I noted on the way here. And also a hundred wolves that run around. Of course, I will offer a fair price. I will let you choose a suitable amount of prey from those killed by me and my army."
The atmosphere, which had been steeped in awe, was shattered by his words like a fiery explosion. The wolf-like creatures growled, wanting to tear him apart, and the wolves openly bared their teeth; even the gaze of the she-wolf at his feet, which previously could have sent them scurrying into their burrows, could not restrain their rage now. Olekir's stolen guards fanned out, cordoning off the surroundings, leaving only the space between the chief and him open.
And it was the chief who remained calm. Before the first blood was shed, he growled to silence everyone around. Then, slowly and demonstratively howling so that his entire body was clearly visible, he walked slowly straight up to Olekir. Luna stood up and wanted to prepare for battle, but was stopped by the hand that began to caress her. The chief stopped, looming over him like a cliff; he swung his arm deliberately slowly, deliberately openly, and Olekir made no move to prepare for the blow. However, when it descended, everything happened differently than those around had hoped. Olekir continued to stand, stroking the she-wolf, while the blow struck the ground; near the chief's neck, a sword slowly crumbled, a thin trickle of blood running down its blade.
"I recommend you don't tempt fate any further. And for this gesture, I also want Sirka's mother along with her sisters."
"Agreed," said the chief, "but you will also take my sister Sirb. She will see to it that the girls do not misbehave and that they obey you."
"Excellent."
The chief touched his neck, not taking his eyes off Olekir; scooping a little blood onto his claws, he licked them and smiled, if that snarl could be called a smile at all. The chief gave orders quickly, and many girls and women were brought to the centre of the tribe, their eyes looking fearfully at the cave, but when they realised why they had been gathered, they visibly relaxed. Olekir inspected each of them, passing power through their bodies. To those he rejected, he hinted that they were in a rather interesting condition. In total, he selected about forty girls and women, while the she-wolf walked around, gathering the wolves.
Towards evening, the bonfire was lit so that the flames licked the sky, casting shadows on the leather walls—long, distorted, like ghosts of past battles. Olekir sat next to the chief—a place of honour, equal, but no longer equal in essence. Before them lay the carcass of a giant beast, roasted on a spit: the meat somewhat blackened on top but juicy inside, with a taste of smoke and wild herbs. They ate with their hands, tearing off chunks, letting the fat run down their fingers. The drink served in crude bone cups was thick blood, diluted with water and the juice of sour berries, with a metallic aftertaste that stirred the instincts. Sirka served him silently—refilling his drink, tearing off a new piece of meat when his plate was empty. Luna allowed him to lean against her side; her fur warmed like a living hide, and her breathing was steady, like the rhythm of drums.
The other chosen ones sat at a distance, separate from the revelry, though they were present. They did not dance, they did not laugh, they did not touch anyone but each other. Some held their hands on their knees, some stared into the flames, some at Olekir. Their gazes held no hint of hostility. Now they held a mixture of various emotions: helplessness, resentment, expectation, and gratitude.
The rest of the tribe did not hold back. At first, there was clamour, jokes, crude songs to the beat of drums made of skin and bone. The children had long since vanished—led away by parents when the sun had fully set. In time, as the moon rose, couples began to scatter into the shadows of the huts: someone pulling someone by the hand, someone already pressing another to the ground by a wall where shadows hid the movements. The sound of the drums drowned out muffled growls, the rustle of skins, short groans—all of it merging with the crackle of the fire. Some enjoyed themselves without hiding, calling others to join with a joyful roar. The young, who had only just come of age, got to know each other roughly under the supervision of elders who occasionally shouted advice—a mix of instruction and mockery—or even showed them how it was done. Some simply drank and ate, watching from a distance, their eyes glinting in the firelight.
From time to time, someone from the tribe, intoxicated by drink or emotion, dared to approach Olekir's chosen ones—their gaze sliding over Sirka, Sirb, and those whose forms stood out in the firelight. But Olekir's cold stare extinguished their ardour instantly, forcing them to retreat, muttering curses. At the more persistent ones, Sirb growled—tense and dissatisfied. Once, she would have already cycled through several men, squeezing them dry, hoping to find someone who could withstand her onslaught. Or she would have played with the young, forcing them to watch as others taught their partners. Or she would have set upon her brother to satisfy her needs. But not now; now she was forced to look after the women of her new husband.
When the moon reached its zenith and the chief left the revelry, taking his women, Olekir went to his own and sat among them. The drums had fallen silent, as had most of the voices; only the howling of wolves broke the silence. He leaned against Luna and pulled Sirka into his arms, caressing her like a pet. The others, unable to restrain themselves any longer, reached for his clothes, struggling in vain with buttons and laces. Consumed by desire, they pulled at the fabric, hoping to tear it.
"Don't get your hopes up: you won't succeed, no matter how hard you try. And I want you to be able to walk tomorrow, not lie there as dead weight, if you wish to amuse yourselves with each other."
It was as if they had been doused with cold water: their hands recoiled, their gazes dropped. Sirb was particularly displeased: her shoulders tensed, her lips curled in anger, her eyes flashed as if ready to pounce. But before she could utter a single word, one touch from him, light as a breath of wind, pierced her. Her body writhed, trembled, her knees buckled. She fell to the ground, breathing heavily, with glassy eyes. Not pleasure—shock, humiliation, a sudden loss of control.
"Be a good girl," Olekir said calmly, as if commenting on the weather, "and you will feel something much better. Or fight—and you will feel something much worse."
After these words, he relaxed completely, enjoying the company of the helpless Sirka and Luna. The others did whatever they were doing, but in time they simply gathered around. Eyelids grew heavier, fatigue rolled in like snow. From the sides came the sound of steady breathing. When the fire, which no one was watching anymore, finally went out and the moon vanished behind the clouds, leaving him alone with the darkness, Olekir fell asleep.