As silence follows the wind that bends the grass of the steppe, so too did thoughts born in empty, open spaces pursue the lives of their new inhabitants, all of them trapped within the wheel of pain and sacrifice.
At dawn, the old shaman Erlik set out in search of those restless souls that demanded to be consulted.
Leaning on his staff, which bound him to the inner pulses of the dark world, he felt through his fingers an energy that both freed and restrained him—a malevolent force capable of knotting his feet to the earth or allowing him to glide freely across the dew-soaked grass.
He held the staff in his right hand, while his left guarded the object that had emerged from the depths of the earth to protect the clan: the Ovor-Kara, an egg-shaped stone bearing a natural, uncarved mark—a spiral groove like a fingerprint—suspended from a braided horsehair cord.
Hanging from his chest was a leather pouch filled with dried plants gathered on moonlit nights during past springs. Petals of liek, a small flower that grows in the shadow of stones across the prairie, collecting the breath of the gods veiled in low clouds that leave their memory upon the cracks of the land.
Leaves of argiuk, sought eagerly by mares after giving birth for their power to ward off the ailments of the steppe. And roots of rokento, hidden in damp soil near temporary streams born from the thaw.
Erlik walked on, and walked on, until the harsh midday sun dried his throat. He stopped beside one of those daring streams, drank to restore himself, and continued onward.
For three days he lived this way, drinking and feeding only on what the land offered, until purification was complete. At last, he reached the Kügan-Kulni Pass and vanished into the shadows of the deep valley.
He found the cave.
He sensed shadows blending with his own, which lingered at the entrance. One felt like his sister Aynura. An old scent revealed the pale face of his mother, arms outstretched.
As he ventured deeper into the cavern, darkness blurred both sight and thought. Then the monsters appeared, lurking. Erlik endured. He had to reach the chamber whose ceiling was guarded by a thousand pointed spears, passing through the narrow Worm’s Passage, twisting and tightening with every step, forcing him to crawl the final meters on his belly.
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There, within that protected chamber, where the only sound was the drip of water distilling the soul of life itself, Erlik drew the Ovor-Kara from his chest.
He laid it upon a bed of dried flowers and plants. With the staff Kügur-Terek, he traced the protective circle. He scattered the mauve petals of liek, which seemed to awaken under their own scent, revealing an inner glow that pulsed through delicate filaments.
He knelt and began to summon the souls that had always been, as his mother had taught him, as she had learned from her father, and so on from the beginning of time. He spat three times, invoking the three universal protective forces: Tengri (Sky), Yer (Earth), and Suu (Water), then kissed his blackened iron ring adorned with three small bells. At once they rang, signaling that the summoned had arrived.
Upon the ancient soot-blackened ground, where the earth no longer breathes, he cleansed the space with slow circles, always counter to the sun. Pressing the staff’s tip beneath his palm as if listening, he breathed softly, awakening the fire, murmuring—barely audible—the names of all those who had come before him.
Like a breath, a faint ember emerged, red and trembling, almost a heartbeat. Erlik fed it with dried argiuk leaves, transforming it from fragile and tender into something yellow and strong.
The fire grew, illuminating the cave. Shadows revealed themselves, swirling around it. Erlik suspended the Ovor-Kara before the flame, without touching it.
The spiral on the stone reflected the light unevenly, as if it were turning.
Erlik rose and spun uncontrollably, carried by countless reflections dancing upon the thousands of spears hanging above. The glare blinded him. He grew purer, and like a being of light, he could see from above, no longer bound to the damp earth.
Then voices arose, mingled with the crackling of dry leaves—voices demanding recognition, voices refusing to remain asleep.
Suddenly, the shadows froze. The fire collapsed inward, sinking back to the source of its nature, as though time itself paused to announce calamity.
Erlik trembled and fell to the ground.
The air thickened. His breath caught in his throat, sweat breaking across his skin as he struggled against the force constricting him.
The walls began to sweat shadows—unfinished figures, fragments: an unblinking eye, a child’s hand closing into itself.
And a name was spoken.
Chinggis Yud.
They showed his shadow stepping ahead of him.
The Ovor-Kara shuddered against Erlik’s chest. Its natural spiral ignited with a dim light, as though the stone remembered something older than the clan, older even than the steppe.
Then Erlik understood.
The curse did not seek the prince’s death.
It sought to let him live long enough to break everything.
He closed his eyes.
He bowed his head.
The spirits withdrew like water slipping between stones—without sound, without farewell. The fire was reduced to cold ash.
Erlik knew he had not been summoned to prevent destiny, but to recognize it.
And that, at times, was far more terrible.
He left the cave in tears.
Ovor-Kara, an egg-shaped stone with a natural spiral, safeguarding the memories and protections of generations. Others, like the Ulgen-Sakahar, with the head of a bird and the body of a feline, guided and protected during war or travel. Even simple river stones, dried leaves bound with horsehair, or iron rings with three small bells invoked the presence of Tengri, Yer, and Suu—the universal forces that sustain life. To carry an amulet was to hold the steppe itself in one’s hand, to feel the intertwining of the visible and invisible, and to remember that every action left a mark that must be protected.
