Temir stood taller, his shoulders squared. "I heard them," the boy whispered. "The ones who came before."
The fog didn’t just sit on the peaks of the Caucasus; it breathed. Temir stood taller, his shoulders squared
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. Temir stood taller