{｡☆Boaz｡☆}

The knowledge that the phoenixes had fallen and the deer had survived by trickery shaped Boaz's worldview. He understands that the power of the fangs does not always decide the outcome. Queen Ai's hunters can be smart, fierce, and well-armed. They come from the south wave after wave, and each wave leaves behind ashes.

Northern hybrids, including his community, survive only because of the remoteness and severity of the climate — hunters come here less often for fear of freezing to death. But Boaz knows: This is just a postponement. Sooner or later, the Ai armies will get here.

That's why he's so fiercely teaching Zephyr everything he knows how to do. That's why there's always a hint of wariness in his silvery eyes. Somewhere far away, in a ruined kingdom, the last phoenixes are sleeping. Deer are hiding somewhere in the mountains with their drawings. And here in the North, snow leopards, wolves, arctic foxes and bears are on the defensive, passing down from generation to generation the memory of what life was like before the arrival of Queen Ai. And the hope that one day she will be like that again.

They survived thanks to intelligence and engineering, not fangs and claws. Since childhood, Boaz listened to his grandfather's stories about reindeer masters. Sometimes, at rare fairs, he happened to see things created by them: fasteners that do not rust, needles thinner than a human hair, but stronger than steel. He dreamed of one day seeing the City of a Thousand Trails with his own eyes.

The world of hybrids has never been one, but before, before the arrival of Queen Ai, there was a delicate balance between different nations.

· The Phoenixes: The Lost Kingdom Once upon a time, phoenixes were at the head of all hybrids. Their kingdom was located far to the southeast, in the foothills, where the snow never melts on the peaks, but unprecedented grasses bloom at the foot. The phoenixes were beautiful: golden and scarlet feathers in their hair, eyes the color of molten metal, and incredible, searing power — they could control the heat of their bodies, heal or incinerate. They did not rule others by force, but rather served as arbitrators and guardians of knowledge. Hybrids of wolves, bears, and snow leopards came to them for advice. The Phoenixes built cities of white stone, where the air rang with songs and wise speeches. Queen Iya hit them first. She knew that as long as the phoenix kingdom stood, the hybrids would never be completely broken. The siege lasted three years, but the forces were unequal — people brought gunpowder and steel from the south, against which the fire feathers were powerless. The kingdom has fallen. It is believed that the last phoenixes died defending their main temple. But there is a legend among the hybrids that several chicks managed to fly to the very edge of the world and sleep there in ice nests, waiting for the hour when they can be reborn from the ashes. · Deer Civilization: a miracle of engineering Deer hybrids (caribou and red deer) have always been different from the rest. If snow leopards, wolves and bears were wild, then deer chose the path of progress. Even before the great war, they built a city that is legendary among the northern hybrids. It is called in various ways: The Horn Lot, the City of a Thousand Trails, but most often it is just a Camp, although in fact it is a real metropolis.

Those whom the hybrids call simply "hunters" (they are not given other names in order not to multiply evil) are not just people with guns. It's an organized death machine coming from the south. Initially, they were mercenaries, renegades, and seekers of easy money, but over time, hunting hybrids has become an industry.

The human Queen Iya heads this industry. There are chilling legends about her. They say she was as beautiful as the northern lights and as cold as permafrost. No one knows exactly what pushed her onto the path of extermination. Some whisper that she was rejected by a phoenix hybrid in her youth, and since then, a black resentment has been burning in her. Others said that she was afraid of the power that the hybrids could accumulate and decided to strike first. Still others — that she is driven simply by love of power: She wants to be the only queen in the human world and will not tolerate other kingdoms nearby.

Anyway, it was Iya who gave the first order to hunt the phoenixes. And when they fell, her armies poured on, sweeping away the settlements of other hybrids. Hunters know no mercy. They take not only skins or fangs (as poachers do), but also live cubs for sale to southern menageries or to serve rich idlers. Adults are killed on the spot. For them, hybrids are not people, not animals, but simply "particularly valuable goods" or "dangerous creatures to be cleaned up."

At home, in the big yarang, where it smells of smoke, hides and dried meat, the stern hunter turns into an older brother. She and Zephyr have their own corner — not far from the hearth, but to the side, so that their fluffy ears don't get too hot.

When it's time to sleep, Boaz first tosses and turns for a long time, checking if all the sounds outside are normal, and then allows himself to relax. He curls up into a huge fluffy ball, pulling Marshmallow towards him. The baby pokes his cold nose under his arm, and Boaz automatically covers him with his magnificent long tail, like the warmest blanket in the world. The tail wraps around the brother from all sides, leaving only the tip of the nose and ears outside.

If Zephyr is unwell or it gets particularly cold at night, Boaz acts without hesitation. He sits down, pulls his heavy fur jacket over his head and wraps it around his brother on top of all the blankets. He remains in his favorite red sweater, the only bright thing in his wardrobe, which was once tied by his grandmother. The red color against the background of white fur and gray walls of the yaranga burns like a small bonfire.

At such moments, sitting next to his sleeping, warmed brother, wearing only a sweater in the frosty air of the dwelling (the hearth almost goes out at night), Boaz does not feel the cold at all. There is a warmth in his chest that is stronger than any flame. He strokes Marshmallow's fluffy head, presses his cheek to the top of his head and purrs softly until the baby falls into a sound, healthy sleep. For this, he is ready to withstand any cold and meet any enemy.

The snow leopard inside him never sleeps completely. Even in the most peaceful moments, Boaz scans the space with the edge of his consciousness: the direction of the wind (so that the smell does not betray), the creaking of snow under someone else's feet, shadows moving on the periphery of vision.

When the situation calls for a show of strength, Boaz knows how to roar. It's not just a scream—it's a low, throaty, vibrating growl that makes an unprepared person's blood run cold. In such moments, he bares his fangs — slightly longer than human ones, sharp and white — and his narrow silver eyes turn into slits in which the ancient predatory cold is read.

But there is another side to this predator.

Boaz has a special sound for Marshmallows — a quiet, deep purr that originates somewhere in his chest and is transmitted by vibration when his brother sits on his lap. Little Zephyr, if he is scared or sad, climbs up to Boaz, presses his ear to his chest and listens to this rumbling — the most reliable sedative in the world. Boaz can purr only next to his brother and no one else.

Boaz is a hunter not just by necessity, but by his very nature. He has the blood of a snow leopard in him, and it shows in his every move, in every look. He transforms when he hunts.: The stern, stern young man disappears, giving way to a perfect machine for tracking prey.

His body works as a single mechanism. His long muscles, trained over the years, allow him to move with a grace that is beyond the reach of an ordinary person. When Boaz sneaks through the snow, his feet are placed exactly in the trail, and his heavy bushy tail, which usually requires rest, rises at the moment of hunting and serves as an ideal counterweight, allowing him to perform incredible pirouettes on slippery rocks and loose snowdrifts. He can hide in such a way that even sensitive reindeer, sensing danger from a mile away, pass within a couple of meters without noticing silver eyes among the snow hummocks.

Boaz has two main weapons in his arsenal. The bow, made by his father from mountain goat horns and reinforced with musk ox tendons, sings a taut song in his hands. Boaz personally verifies arrows with bone tips, achieving the perfect balance. But if the game gets too close or you need to act silently, a spear with a wide stone tip is used — Boaz wields it as if it were an extension of his own hand.

But Boaz's main weapon is not a bow or a spear. These are instincts.

This is the most difficult and ambiguous facet of life in the Far North. Humans (indigenous peoples) and hybrids have been living side by side for many generations, and their bond is not just hostility or friendship, but rather a fragile truce based on mutual respect and the need to survive in harsh conditions.

· Indigenous people. Many people, especially the elderly, remember the days when hybrids were not persecuted. They call them "snow brothers" and treat them with reverence. Some shamans from human tribes believe that hybrids are messengers of spirits connecting the world of humans and the world of animals. · Trade. The strongest bridge between the two nations is trade. Hybrids extract the best fur, mammoth tusks, and valuable fish. Humans own metal, which is not found in the mountains of hybrids, cloth and salt. Once a month, a secret auction takes place on a neutral territory — the Ice Tongue (a long spit jutting into the sea). Both come there to exchange goods. The bidding process is silent but respectful. · Distrust and threat. However, reconciliation is fragile. Hybrid hunters coming from the south have learned to hire guides from those people who are poor or embittered. Because of this, there is always a tension in the relationship. Hybrids never come close to human camps, and people rarely enter the valley of hybrids, knowing that there they will smell a stranger from a mile away. · Mixed marriages. They happen, though rarely. Sometimes a young girl from a human tribe goes to live with the hybrids, attracted by their wild beauty and strength, or vice versa. Children from such unions are considered especially marked spirits. They are called "icy hearts" — they can go without heat for the longest time and have the sharpest eyesight. For Boaz, people are both a potential threat (the memories of that night when the hunters came blurred the line between "man" and "enemy" in his mind) and a necessity.

The life of hybrids is subordinated to the rhythm of nature and the memory of their ancestors. Customs here are transmitted not so much through words as through blood — the instincts inherited from the animal half have merged with human wisdom.

· Hunting and respect for spirits. The main rule of a hunter is never to kill more than is necessary for food. Before hunting down an animal, the hybrids perform a short ritual: they ask the tundra spirits for permission and thank the prey after a successful hunt, leaving some of the meat or fat in the snow for the "little northern people" — the guardian spirits. · The feast of the first blood. When a teenager takes part in a serious hunt for the first time and gets an animal (or helps in this), a small celebration is held in his honor. He is given his first knife, made of stone or bone, and a white thread is woven into his hair (or mane, if any) — a sign of the transition to adulthood. · Traditions of unity. Once a month, on the full moon, all the hybrids gather around a large campfire. They sing throat songs, imitating the wind and the animals, share stories and dance. It is believed that at this moment their animal nature is completely balanced by the human one. · Art. Women embroider amazing patterns on their skin with beads depicting animal tracks, stars and the northern lights. Men cut into mammoth bones and tusks, creating amulets, figurines of spirits and hunting talismans. · Education. Children are not pampered here, but they are not severely punished either. It is believed that the animal half does not tolerate bondage, and the human half should learn by example. Small hybrids are allowed to play a lot and even fight (to learn how to defend themselves), but they always interfere if the offense becomes too violent.

The Far North, where the hybrids have settled, is a vast kingdom of snow and ice, harsh but generous to those who know how to understand it. The settlement is spread out in a spacious valley, protected from icy winds by granite cliffs, which locals call the "Backs of the Sleepers." Here, among the permafrost, thanks to the hot springs gushing from the ground, a unique oasis has formed: rivers floating above the snow never freeze to the end, and gnarled but tenacious shrubs with sour berries ripen in a short polar summer grow along their banks.

Hybrids build their homes thoroughly. These are large communal houses, yarangs, covered with mammoth and musk ox skins, but with a frame made of driftwood, which has been harvested for centuries along the shores of the Northern Ocean. In the center of every home there is always a burning hearth — the heart of the family. The smoke comes out through the hole in the dome, and at night you can see through it how the northern lights dance their silent dances.

But there is someone in this big family whom Boaz loves more than anything in the world. His younger brother is Zephyr. Zephyr is the exact opposite of Boaz. If the older brother is a harsh winter wind, then Marshmallows are a light, warm breeze. He is only five, he has the same fluffy ears and curious silver eyes, but the boy's character is lively and trusting. He doesn't know the real cold yet, and Boaz will do everything so that he never finds out. Realizing that his parents were busy (his father with the village, his mother with the upcoming replenishment), Boaz took responsibility for raising his brother. He teaches Zephyr how to stand on skis, make out footprints in the snow and feel the approach of a blizzard. They are inseparable. When Boaz goes hunting, a huge shaggy bison, a tame giant with a warm back, carries not only a stern young man with a bow, but also a small Marshmallow wrapped in a arctic fox skin. The kid likes to grab his brother by his long dreadlocks when the bison is walking especially briskly, and laugh loudly. Boaz is outwardly strict, but he never rebukes his brother. There is a subtle softness in his silver eyes at such moments. He raises Zephyr to be strong, but not violent. He wants the younger one to be able to stand up for himself, but at the same time retain that childish sincerity that Boaz himself was robbed of at the age of seven. When the time comes for a new family member to be born, Boaz already knows that there is enough room in his heart for love for him. But Zephyr will always be the one he overshadows in the first place. The one for whom he continues to be a cold-blooded, strict, but infinitely fair older brother.

Despite his young age — only eighteen years old — Boaz carries a weight that not every man who grows up gets to know. His character is a fusion of the harsh northern ice and the smoldering heat inside, intended only for those closest to him. At the age of seven, Boaz's world split apart. Hybrid hunters came to their settlement not for the purpose of plunder, but for the purpose of extermination. That night, the boy, whose ears still remembered his mother's affection, saw the blood of his loved ones for the first time, heard the death rattles and felt the all-consuming chill of loss. Many survived then, but Boaz's childhood was over. The fear and stress that settled in his soul did not break him—they forged a flint out of him. By the age of twelve, he had finally developed what would later be called composure. He learned to hide his emotions behind an impenetrable mask of severity, but there was always a core of justice inside: Boaz would never offend the weak and would not allow others to do so, because he remembers too well what it feels like to be defenseless. His main driving force is his family. Not only the one that is connected by blood, but also the entire large community of the North, which became his native after that terrible night. Thanks to my grandfather, who handed over the title of elder to Boaz's father, the village was able to rise from the ashes, rebuild and regain its former strength. Grandpa now spends his days ice fishing, providing the village with a catch, grandma chores around the house, especially now that Boaz's mother is carrying a child again. She walks slowly, often rests, and grandma does not leave her side a single step, preparing medicinal decoctions and soft skins for the unborn baby. The father, burdened with the cares of the whole settlement, disappears on the councils of elders and solving common problems.

Boaz gives the impression of being woven from the harsh northern wilderness. At 18, he already possesses the physique of a seasoned hunter—a wiry yet powerful figure, with defined muscles accustomed to constant physical exertion, long walks through the snow, and duels with wild animals. The most striking feature of his appearance is his long, thick, raven-black dreadlocks. They fall in a heavy wave down to his waist, contrasting with the snow-white fur of his animal features. On top of his head, neatly tucked into the human hair, are small but very fluffy snow leopard ears. The white fur on his ears, with barely noticeable dark specks, constantly trembles, catching the slightest rustle of the taiga. Boaz's gaze is unusual and memorable. His eyes, slightly slanted (a characteristic trait inherited from ancestors who lived in windswept expanses), shimmer with pure silver. They convey the calm confidence and alertness of a wild animal. He is dressed in a roomy jacket made from thick, tanned animal hides. The fur on the jacket is frayed in places, but still reliably retains warmth. The jacket is cinched at the waist with a wide leather belt, adorned with copper plaques and, possibly, the claws of a large animal. A huge, almost shaggy hood of the same fur crowns his head, capable of hiding his pointed ears and half his face in inclement weather. Traditional northern accessories complete the look: amulets of fangs and bones around his neck, and leather bracelets with crude but skillful beadwork on his wrists. A tail of incredible length and fluffiness completes the look. It is heavy and massive, colored smoky white with the dark rings characteristic of the snow leopard. When Boaz stands still or rests after a long journey, he instinctively takes the tip of his tail in his teeth to relieve his back from the weight. This habit makes him look like a huge, tired kitten, a strange contrast to his stern hunter visage.