He was no shaman. He should not be having visions. This Visitor is no ancestor, no form of the Great Blue Sky come to guide him. He is no longer Baya’ud. Altai knows he is not going to be spoken to by Tengri; he can only continue his dedication to it and pray to be seen and judged worth mercy when his time finally comes.

But he cannot deny the appearance of three rifts in the dream before him. He cannot deny the chaos unfurling beyond each of their thresholds. Altai does not know how he knows it is real. But he does, and the seeker has always been incapable of inaction. It is the method through which he was cast, half-dead, to this world.

He steps through the second door. He is not a warrior, but a Baya’ud wolf, man or woman, never reaches their first year without being taught how to bare their teeth and earn their place in this world, be it through blood or barter. The wraiths are strange to him. But Altai seeks to see if they bleed the same as any man. This most precious of herbs will not wither beneath his watch.