Finally, they reached the Firaskian forest, a dark, ominous mass of ancient cedars.

Despite being so close to the city, the forest seemed wild and untouched by people. There were plenty of cedar cones scattered under the trees; every glade was full of berries. Obviously, no one picked local nature's candy – that alone should have made Bala suspicious but it didn’t. He enjoyed the forest too much for his own good. He picked herbs, nuts, and berries along the way, stuffed the herbs into his pockets, gorged on the forest gifts himself and fed them to Kosta.

For the first time in weeks, Kosta didn’t refuse food, knowing that he needed all his strength to meet what he was going to meet.

But strength was what he had not. Four hours after entering the forest, Kosta had to stop to rest and catch his breath. He resumed his journey shortly, as stubborn and methodical as ever in his efforts, but his next “sprint” lasted barely three hours. Then and only then, it dawned on his careless companion that they would not be able to return to the city before dark.

“Kosta,” he said in a terrified, hushed voice, “we have to go back, now!”

Young Ollardian, sprawled on the ground, opened his eyes, bloodshot and watering because of his endless cough, then made an effort to get up and leaned against the nearest cedar tree for support. His wheezy breath was painful to hear.

“Of course…” he whispered. “We will go… it doesn’t matter where to now… Please, sit with me… I have to tell you…”

But he didn’t have the chance… A terrified, wailing cry interrupted him mid-phrase. It must have belonged to a young child scared out of their wits.

“Stay here,” pleaded Bala, torn between his helpless friend and the helpless little stranger. “I’ll be back in a minute.”

“Don’t…” wheezed Kosta, trying to grab his sleeve, but Bala was too quick for him.

“Late once again,” he thought bitterly. And then he got up and tried to run after his friend.

Two seconds into the run, Kosta started to cough again. His lungs could not take it anymore. His heart was close to its limit as well; it pounded so fast in a desperate attempt to keep up with the sick body’s demands that Kosta felt close to blacking out. His vision dimmed, blurred, overcast with dancing green specks. He had to slow his pace to stay conscious but didn’t dare to stop, knowing that any delay could cost Bala everything.

“Breathe… breathe… breathe…” the boy chanted in his thoughts.

Bala was running through the forest in the direction he had heard the child’s cry from. The undergrowth was thick there; that made Bala’s long sword a real burden that slowed him a great deal. Luckily, the child, a little boy, jumped out of the bushes right in front of Bala.

Marascaran went down on one knee and tried to calm down the kid and learn what had happened to him. The boy looked about five years old: he seemed younger than Jarmin. He was scrawny, dirty, and dressed in filthy rags; his arms and cheeks were red with scratches that running through the undergrowth had left him. The boy’s little face was a mask of utter terror; it made all the horrors of the No Man’s Land that Bala had heard of from his teammates flash before his mind’s eye in a split second.

“What happened to you?” he asked, trying to sound as calm and confident as he could.

“They killed mommy…” whispered the child, his voice gone, probably from crying so loudly.

“Who?”

“They’re scary, evil! With long teeth! There!” the boy pointed his finger somewhere beyond Bala’s back.

“Stay here and be very quiet,” said Bala. He stood up and unsheathed his sword. “I’ll go have a look…”

“NO!!! Bala, don’t!!!” That was Kosta’s cry. One could only guess what that kind of effort it had cost him. “Step away from it!!!”

Surprised and startled, Bala turned back to the child. And recoiled instantly in horror, with his sword in front of him…

The mask of the human child now thrown away, the creature that had lured Bala here started to change into its real form. The eyes, blue and teary the second before, turned glassy and black. A heavy brow overhung them now. The nose sunk into the skull and turned into a narrow slit. The corners of the mouth stretched almost to the ears, revealing two rows of pointy teeth bending inward – a deathly trap for any prey. The “kid’s” arms lost their gentle appearance, they stretched and twisted, turning into grabby paws with long, clawed fingers.

The only thing that remained unchanged was the former boy’s ruffled fair hair that now crowned the creature’s ugly head.

A recent memory flashed in Bala’s mind, answering his silently screaming question: morok. That was all he had managed to think of before a wave of horror paralysed him. Now, he could not even run away.

Bala had no idea what had bought him and Kosta those several precious seconds that changed everything; why the monster hadn’t jumped at the paralysed prey right away: it was the sword. Bala still clutched his katana in his hands, he hadn’t dropped it even in the face of the No Man’s Land horror. Moroks are not stupid, they know well how dangerous human weapons can be. So the monster hesitated, just a moment, but that was enough for Kosta to reach Bala and stand between him and the shapeshifter.