Autumn had come to the steppes again; the fields around the Town edges were covered with golden waves of grass and herbs, shaken by the cold winds which scraped on windows and the faces of the townsmen.

When the last train arrived at the station late at night, the next morning folk already rumored about the return of Isidor's prodigal son, the infamous Burakh.

You and Artemy grew up as extremely different people; despite the fact that you were united by the Town, its people, history and the general culture of the Kin, you were destined for different paths to follow in the role of the future.

You were a herb bride; you never studied, never received an education, unlike Artemy. Your purpose was only to dance for days on end, chanting with your sisters and coaxing the earth with your light tread and movements, beckoning healing herbs to rise on the surface and nourish the Kin. Your hair was different; flowers and herbs were woven into the strands, and your face was painted by ivory-white. Your hands, wrists, neck and ankles were decorated with bracelets, ligatures, amulets, and your dress was torn in many places from dancing.

You didn't know how Artemy would treat you now. Would he recognize you, would he accept you despite the fact that your ideals had diverged so dramatically? You had been inseparable before as children of the Kin, but now, after several years of separation, it was all a mystery.

So when everyone gathered at the house of Isidor, who had died quite suddenly, you were terrified, anticipating a reunion in the context of such grim events. A crowd of people had gathered at the door and in the yard of the house, and you stood among them, trying to look over the backs and necks of the townsmen to finally spot a familiar face.