1. The Shepherd

The steppe was waking from its slumber, wrapped in the light of dawn. An old man with a wooden staff slowly drove his sheep across the plain. The low mist receded, leaving a shimmer of dew upon the green grass. The sheep paused from time to time to nibble at the fresh blades, but the shepherd’s persistent black-and-white dog kept urging them on toward richer pastures.

Soon the sheep were grazing peacefully near a solitary oak. The dog curled up beside the shepherd, who, settled on a dry branch, drank kumis at an unhurried pace.

Suddenly, his gaze was caught by a falling star. Yet its tail did not fade as usual—it grew ever brighter. A moment later, the meteor flared, flooding the steppe with a blinding light, as though a second sun had risen for an instant.

The shepherd tensed and rose from his seat. Sparks from the blazing fragments hurtled toward him like burning embers. One of them struck the ground nearby with a thunderous roar. Startled, the sheep scattered in all directions, while the dog sprang up with a low, anxious growl, its hackles raised.

"Daki, watch the sheep," the old man commanded quietly, stroking the dog.

His gaze remained fixed on the place where it had fallen. From a small crater, where the smoldering mass lay, thin threads of smoke rose into the air. The shepherd cautiously prodded the meteorite with his wooden staff, testing whether it had cooled.

"Hmm, just an ordinary stone," he muttered, though something about this object troubled him.

On the surface of the meteorite he noticed a pale, semicircular protrusion. After waiting until the stone had fully cooled, the old man pulled it from the crater. Sensing his return, the dog wagged its tail eagerly.

Frowning, the shepherd struck the meteorite several times against a nearby boulder. The cracked stone broke apart, scattering into pieces, and among the fragments two strange objects appeared. They resembled parts of ancient armor—smooth, etched with mysterious patterns barely visible beneath a layer of dust and soot. Yet in their form and material there was a technology that was unmistakably not of this world.

The old man narrowed his eyes, studying the find. The surface of the unusual white metal was adorned with patterns like twisting deer antlers. It felt cold to the touch, yet somehow alive. The dog, excited, circled around, sniffing at the artifacts.

“Daki, look—these are bracers. They must be. Strange… how could they have ended up in space? They look almost like human workmanship,” the shepherd murmured, tracing the patterns with his finger.

When he returned to the village, he showed the find to his wife at once.

“What kind of nonsense is this?” the old woman asked suspiciously, eyeing the strange objects.

“I don’t know. Looks like bracers,” the old man replied.

“Bracers? Who even wears such things? Sell them—maybe you’ll get something for them. Where did you find them?”

“They fell from the sky,” he said darkly.

“You’ve been drinking again, you old fool?”

“I found them,” he muttered, but did not argue.

“How much do you think they’ll fetch?” the old woman’s eyes gleamed with greed.

“I’m not going to sell them. I’ll keep them.”

“And what do you need this nonsense for?!” she grumbled. “Useless junk. I’ll go to the city tomorrow, pawn them, and buy something worthwhile. You’ve drunk away your whole pension!”

“Do as you like,” the old man said, waving a hand, knowing there was no point in arguing.

The next day, the old woman went to the city. The bracers the shepherd had found she took to the nearest pawnshop, getting just enough for them to buy a ram.

2. The Bracers

A month later, local boys had gathered at a football field in the suburbs of Kalagrad to spend their day off playing. The air was filled with laughter, shouts, and the dull thud of the ball.

Standing in goal was eighteen-year-old Birlik, a slouching boy with thick glasses that kept sliding down the bridge of his nose. He paid no attention to the game. Instead, his mind was occupied with something else: counting the number of kicks the ball received every ten minutes. His eyes wandered over the players, and his lips moved slightly, quietly murmuring the tally.

The ball flew past him, but Birlik didn’t even flinch. Finishing his calculations mattered more to him than trying to save the goal.

The ball struck the net, passing straight between Birlik’s legs. His motionless figure seemed the very embodiment of indifference.

“Missed again! Are you an idiot?” one of the players shouted, throwing an irritated glance at Birlik.

“Get this lunatic out of goal,” another added.

“Leave the boy alone,” intervened Madel, a tall, sturdy fellow who always tried to be fair.

“How long are we going to keep losing because of him?!” someone from the crowd shouted, backing the disgruntled players.

“Give him one more chance,” Madel said firmly. “He’ll show what he’s capable of.”

“Fine, have it your way,” grumbled the chief complainer, glaring angrily at Birlik. “If he lets another ball in, he shouldn’t come here again.”

The players paused for a moment, but then the game resumed. Birlik said nothing, as if unaware of what was happening around him.

The match went on, the sound of the rolling ball and the boys’ shouts blending with the soft murmur of the park. At the edge of the field, a man in a business suit appeared, carrying a black briefcase. His stride was steady, his gaze sharp.

When Madel noticed him, he immediately left the field.

“Guys, I’ll be back in a minute. Play without me for now,” he called over his shoulder, heading toward the stranger.

The man in the suit settled on a bench in the shade of the trees. Madel approached him and, frowning slightly, sat down beside him.

“What’s so urgent?” he asked, trying to sound calm, though a note of caution crept into his voice.

“In this case lies your salvation,” the man replied, gesturing to the briefcase.

“What’s inside?”

He opened it and took out a white object resembling a piece of armor. Madel took it in his hands, examining it closely.

“What is it?”

“Bracers. They’re made of a material no one can identify. A very rare and ancient artifact. My specialist assures me he’s never seen anything like it.”

“Really?” Madel said in surprise, trying them on. “And how much will this fetch?”

The man in the suit smirked.

“Enough for the ‘Green Serpent’ to settle all its financial troubles. And for you, in turn, to forget about your debts.”

“Seriously? And how many thousands of dollars is this thing worth?” Madel asked, skeptical.

The man burst out laughing.

“Millions, Madel. Millions.”

Madel’s hands dropped limply, his mouth parting in shock.

“I can deliver the item to the buyer at any time. No need to worry,” he said, catching his breath.

The man in the suit fixed him with a steady look.

“Don’t let us down. Guard those bracers as you would your own life. You know who they belong to.”

Madel nodded, looking at the bracers with new seriousness.

“Consider them already delivered. There won’t be any problems,” he said firmly.

3. The Burden

The ball flew into the net again, and that was the last straw. The enraged players, as one, demanded that Birlik leave the field. Without protest, he turned and walked away in silence, making his way home through the familiar back alleys of Kalagrad’s outskirts.

His path led him to a yard enclosed by high fences and heavy red gates. At its center stood a long three-story house, surrounded by neatly trimmed greenery. Behind a covered pool, almost hidden from view, stood a small wooden shed—the place Birlik called home.

Inside the modest two-room dwelling, everything was simple and practical. A mattress lay on the floor, and a small wardrobe stood against the wall. By the window was a cramped kitchenette with a single stool and a small table that had clearly seen better days. Despite the poverty of the setting, everything was clean and orderly—just the way Birlik liked it.

Birlik’s employers rarely left their three-story mansion. A year ago, they had hired him as a gardener when he was desperately looking for work after running away from his foster parents. For Birlik, it had been salvation—he now had both a job and a roof over his head.

Entering the shed, he took his work apron from a nail and picked up a pair of garden shears from a box. Until evening, Birlik worked methodically in the yard. He trimmed every hedge with care, shaping each one to perfection, and leveled the lawn as if trying to bring order not only to his surroundings but to himself. After that, he carefully watered the flowers growing along the long fence.

In the evenings, Birlik liked to make paper airplanes in his room. He found his materials in a storage closet where the owners kept old newspapers, scribbled sheets, books, and even broken toys. Absorbed in his task, he created entire fleets of airplanes, arranging them in perfect rows across the floor.

The sun rose slowly over the city, bathing rooftops and walls in soft morning light. Already awake, Birlik brewed himself some tea and took milk from the refrigerator. But as soon as he poured it into his cup, he realized it had gone sour. The sharp smell made him grimace.

“Bastards,” he hissed, angry at the shop that had sold him spoiled milk.

Birlik didn’t like tea without sugar, but without milk it seemed completely unbearable. Unwilling to put up with it, he headed to the nearest store.

Walking along a narrow alley, Birlik avoided the direct route through a sinister stretch locals called the “Path of Disappointment.” The place had a bad reputation: those who dared pass through at night often came back beaten or robbed. Even during the day, the alley looked menacing, its grim walls often concealing suspicious figures in caps and worn-out clothes.

Birlik always went around it, even if it meant a longer, more exhausting walk to the store. Today was no exception.

Madel came running toward him. His face was tense, his breathing uneven, his steps heavy, like someone who had just broken into a sprint. Reaching Birlik, he grabbed him by the shoulders, nearly losing his balance, and glanced back over his shoulder as if expecting to see someone in pursuit.

“Birlik, I need your help,” he breathed, almost in a whisper.

“What happened?”

“They’re after me. No time to explain,” Madel cut him off, quickly rolling up his sleeves.

Without wasting a second, he removed the white bracers from his own arms and fastened them onto Birlik’s forearms.

“Why do I need these?” Birlik frowned, examining the strange objects.

“They’re bracers. Very valuable.”

“Bracers?!” he repeated, his voice carrying more confusion than understanding.

“Keep them with you. Bring them to the football field tomorrow. All right?” Madel looked him straight in the eye, as if his life depended on the answer.

“I’ll bring them,” Birlik agreed reluctantly.

“Good. Don’t show them to anyone. And don’t lose them, or I’m finished,” he warned.

“Can I take them off at home?”

“Do as you like. Though… better not take them off until tomorrow.”

Birlik gave a short nod. Madel glanced back again, as if expecting shadows to emerge from the alley at any moment, then dashed off, leaving Birlik alone.

“See you,” he called over his shoulder.

Birlik continued toward the store, occasionally glancing down at the bracers. The metal felt strangely light, almost weightless, yet wearing them felt unfamiliar. Whenever people passed by, he instinctively hid his hands, slipping them into his pockets or covering them with the flap of his apron.

An hour later, he was sitting at home. A cup of tea with milk stood on the table, and a plate of dried rings lay beside it. The bracers were still on his arms; their cold surface felt oddly alive, but Birlik paid no attention, absorbed instead in his evening ritual.

4. The Imprint

After lunch, Birlik set about his favorite task—watering the flowers. He liked to study the roses, marigolds, nasturtiums, peonies, daisies, and tulips, taking in their bright colors and forms. These hours among the flowers were a quiet refuge from the bustle.

Children’s voices drifted in from afar. Orazak, eleven, and his eight-year-old sister Aidai—the owners’ children—ran out into the yard. As usual, they decided to play badminton, making the most of the last warm days of Indian summer. The air filled with their laughter and cheerful shouts.

A butterfly settled on one of the flowers Birlik was watering. Its wings shimmered in soft autumn hues. A moment later it lifted off and began circling around him. Then more butterflies appeared, whirling above his head as if guided by some unseen force.

Birlik froze. The insects’ strange behavior made him uneasy, even slightly alarmed. At the same time, the bracers on his wrists began to heat up. The warmth grew so intense that he involuntarily loosened his grip, and the watering can slip from his hand, splashing onto the ground.

He shook his arms, trying to get rid of the heat, but the bracers remained motionless, as if fused to his skin. Birik glanced around, hoping no one had noticed the strange scene, but the children, absorbed in their game, paid him no attention.

“Don’t grip the racket so tightly. Relax your hands,” Orazak told his sister, watching her miss the shuttlecock again.