17:20
Military Camp Military Camp, Outside the Ancient City of Ai-Khanoum

Their camp sits in a riverside village beyond the ancient city of Ai-Khanoum, not far from the ruins where her unit has set up camp.
By the time the lieutenant returns with her riders, the sun has only just dipped behind the peak. For the locals, that means night has already fallen.
Moldir: "Make sure he's fed."
She is the first to step down from the stirrup, offering a long and reassuring pat to the Akhal-Teke that has carried her all day. After a gentle reminder, she hands the reins to the stable boy.
Soon enough her men dismount and gather around her, chatting idly over the day's training and their detour. Still talking and laughing, she makes her way toward the fire-lit courtyard.
Moldir: "Is that so? Go have Doctor Yelena take a look. If you can still walk, jump, and carry things, it probably isn't anything serious."
She lifts the new recruit's sleeve, revealing the mark left from his fall off the horse earlier in the day.
Moldir: "Nothing serious. At your age, I hit the ground far worse and far more often."
With that, she pats the young man on the shoulder and sends them all off, walking alone toward a courtyard fenced in by earthen walls.
The fire represents the villagers' welcome, a sign of light and good intent. People gather around it, passing tea, dried fruit, and warm smiles.
Here, all is calm and quiet, far from war and turmoil. The lieutenant approaches the village elder, and the aging man meets her with a grin.
Old Man: "Drink, traveler from afar. May the flame light your path."
Moldir: "Thank you."
The lieutenant takes the bowl of milk wine in both hands and finishes it with a single gulp.
She recognizes the flavor: a taste of her childhood, long before she donned a soldier's uniform. In the safety of her grandmother's home, a life that was simple and carefree.
Now, after leaving the frozen wastes of Antarctica and returning to an unfamiliar age, she has taken on a new assignment: travelling to the far eastern highlands and river valleys to take command of a newly reformed unit, with orders to make them ready for the battles ahead.
Moldir: "We'll be staying here for a few days, sir. Thank you for taking us in."
She takes a seat beneath the thick trunk of a desert poplar, her eyes lingering on the bonfire burning nearby.
The blaze gives off a faint warmth even at this distance. In the courtyard beyond, troops and the ever-hospitable villagers mingle and joke as they pass around milk wine, salted lamb, and thick, stuffed samsa pastries.
The fire's light creates a tiny patch of life in the still darkness, an island of peace in this age of war.
Old Man: "We welcome our guests, as we always have. But tell me, what name should I give my people when they ask who you are?"

An admiral's adjutant.

A Zeno officer.

Your decision changes what is yet to come.
Moldir: "We've come from further north. My father commands a unit there in the Don River region."
Father.
Old Man: "Ah, a Hetman."
As the elder speaks the title, he raises his pipe and pulls in a deep breath. Firelight spills across his lined, weathered face, tracing every crease and old scar.
Moldir: "Yes. A Hetman, and a respected one. That's a fair way of putting it."

Old Man: "My ancestors were fighters too. They came from far away across the western sea and made their home here."
Moldir: "Yes. I know. That is why I've come here."
Moldir: "I seek your support, elder."
She states her purpose plainly: to recruit more soldiers for her father's army and to strengthen their influence in the remote regions along their rear flank.
The old man's eyes narrow, revealing a depth of wisdom behind his gaze.
Old Man: "And what would you give us in return, officer?"
Moldir: "Protection."
She names her terms with a steady, unguarded honesty.
Her father stationed her here so she could drum up support for the front lines and so she could win over every force that has not yet chosen to oppose them.
Stone by stone, a citadel rises. Small gains become towering strength. The lieutenant understands this well. If the battle roars in the west, then she rides east to gather allies.
Moldir: "Our troops in Ai-Khanoum are more than enough to maintain peace in this region."
Peace. Simple, direct, and powerful.
Old Man: "..."
The old man holds a long silence, opening his shaking right hand as though laying the village before his far-traveled guest.
This particular village has been built around a medieval citadel, which climbs up the mountainside, pressed tight against the slope, overlooking the pass along the river moving east-to-west. It's a perfect chokepoint.
Old Man: "When my ancestors mounted their horses and drew their curved blades, they were warriors. When they dismounted and donned their robes, they were merchants. From east to west, west to east, this is how we have lived for twenty-odd centuries."
Old Man: "We are friends to all who meet us."
As he speaks, the old man waves someone over. A girl in her early teens comes at his gesture, her face glowing in the firelight like an unripe little orange.
Old Man: "This is my last remaining granddaughter. Her brothers answered the call from the north and have gone far from here."
Moldir: "I'm Lieutenant Moldir; I'm very pleased to meet you."
The lieutenant rises and, following the local custom, touches her right cheek to the girl's, then her left, in a gesture of goodwill.
The girl nods respectfully as she steps to her elder's side.
Old Man: "If you wish, I will ready my finest horse for her and allow her to join you as one of your warriors."
Moldir: "No, you just said she was your last granddaughter."
The lieutenant's composure wavers for a moment.
Old Man: "I did not expect you to refuse another woman in your company."
The old man looks at the lieutenant with a long, knowing gaze.
Moldir: "No, that isn't what I meant. I'm hoping to find more fighters of the right age here."
Old Man: "Everyone in this village can trace their blood back to the same heroic ancestors. Her father and brothers have never brought shame upon us."
The old man takes his granddaughter by the hand.
Old Man: "You're just as good as those rowdy boys, aren't you?"
The young girl offers a silent nod.
Old Man: "Ma'am, please take her along. Look after her, and let her fight at your side like a hawk."
Faced with the sudden request, the lieutenant pauses, searching for a reply.
The girl's eyes are like polished jade, green as the grass in spring.
The lieutenant can't help thinking the girl belongs tending to a pasture, not fighting on a battlefield.
Moldir: "Perhaps the life she has now would suit her better."
Moldir: "Why would you ...?"
She looks toward the girl, and in this unfamiliar young face, she catches a fleeting glimpse of someone she once knew.
Pastures and herds—they're her own childhood and the peaceful life that is all this mere child knows. She should be holding a docile lamb, not lifting a rifle.
Old Man: "I don't have many days left."
The old man strokes his beard. Age has worn him down. He can no longer even draw a bowstring; the vigor of his youth eroded like a wind-etched stone.
He turns back to the guest beside him.
The bonfire casts shadows of the village along the mountainside. In its glow, they seem to honor the ancient gods they've served for ages—light, flame, and the good that stands against its eternal enemy.
The trade roads have been cut off for years now, and no caravan bells have echoed through the valley for generations.
The fortress built into the cliffside is a crumbling ruin, hewn like a sandcastle carved from red stone, slowly slipping out of time's remembrance.
Old Man: "Peace."
Old Man: "This is something we are well acquainted with."
He braces himself on his lapis lazuli cane and takes a step forward.
Old Man: "But I also know the price of peace."
Old Man: "That is why they listen to me and why they will listen to those who come after me."
The old man answers, his voice never rising above an even tone, like the wind softly whipping through the mountains.
Old Man: "The support you ask for will be yours."
Old Man: "But first, I would like to know more about you, our visitors from far away."
Old Man: "The flames reveal all. Come. Let us speak by their light."
A few soldiers, their caps and jackets off, walk toward them. When they see the village elder shaking hands with their commanding officer, their smiles vanish.
Young Officer: "Pardon me. I'm not interrupting, am I?"
Moldir: "What is it?"
Young Officer: "It's nothing, really. We just wanted to ..."
The young men glance at one another, rubbing the backs of their necks, clearly unsure of how to proceed.
Moldir: "Wanted to ...?"
Young Officer: "We just wanted to ask if you wanted to dance with us."
It's an earnest, friendly invitation from the boys who, just earlier, were over by the fire dancing arm-in-arm with the villagers.
Moldir: "Oh. So that's what this is about."
The lieutenant lets out a quiet laugh, covering her mouth before giving a small wave of her hand.
Moldir: "We still have matters to discuss. I'll join you all later."
Young Officer: "O-Okay. But actually, I have one more question. Just a quick one!"
Moldir: "Speak."
Young Officer: "A girl over there just asked if I had the guts to kiss her, and I ... I don't know what to do."
His face goes beet red as he blurts out the words. She looks at him and laughs. He is her family and also an ace pilot who earned his merits in Antarctica.
Moldir: "Where has your courage gone, soldier? You would fly into the jaws of death but run from the lips of a pretty girl? Do you need my permission? Go on then; don't keep her waiting."
Young Officer: "Y-Yes, ma'am!"
After giving a comically awkward salute, the soldiers trot off toward the crowd.
She lets her smile fade, then turns to walk after the old man, heading toward the fire and coming to a stop beside the stacked logs.
On the way over, the old man hands her an almond.
Moldir: "Thank you."
Old Man: "You're probably not used to flavors this bitter, but we're quite fond of them here."
The lieutenant holds the almond between her fingers and eats it. The flavor is sharper than she expected, upturning her face into a scowl before she manages to swallow it.
Moldir: "..."
Moldir: "You're right about that."
Old Man: "Bitterness clears the mind. Before the fire, we speak no lies."
Old Man: "A deeper understanding between us will serve our future cooperation well."
When they reach the bonfire, the old man slips on a white cloth mask as if fearing his aging breath would profane their sacred flame.
The lieutenant approaches the flame with a touch of hesitation, the rich, stark smell of smoke lingering on her nose and lips.
Old Man: "Step closer. Do not fear it. The flames will reveal the truth in your heart."
Old Man: "What do you see?"

A courtyard in the pouring rain and the barrel of a gun.

A girl on horseback, riding across the grasslands.

Moldir: "I raised a weapon against my own family."
Moldir: "I fired at her in the pouring rain."
Moldir: "I ... I abandoned her."
The memories flickering in the flames make her throat tighten.
Old Man: "..."
Old Man: "You must have had no choice. Something must have forced your hand."
Moldir: "No. I knew exactly what I was doing."

Moldir: "I see my past."
Moldir: "Everything that made me who I am."

Open your eyes to see the future that we know?

Horseback Riding

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