“This is the last moment I can explain everything to you.”
“On the other side, you’ll emerge in a different time.
The year: 1219, Gregorian calendar.
The season: autumn.”
“Your point of arrival will most likely be a cellar, a dungeon—or some sort of underground hollow.”
“The most important thing—” Jahongir continued, “—is this:
The Swan Feather will be on a writing desk.”
“You’ll likely arrive through a back door, into a sealed room where scribes are working.
There may be many feathers on the table—but none of those are your target.
The real one is stored in a tin box or a drawer.
It’s unique.
If you dip it in water—it doesn’t get wet.
That’s how you’ll know it.”
“After that, find your way out.”
“Our communication will be through the feather itself.
There should be a sheet of paper inside the box.
Write your question on it—we’ll reply on the same paper.”
“But we can only respond with ‘YES’ or ‘NO’.
So don’t ask vague questions.”
Don’t speak to anyone.
Don’t look anyone in the eyes.
Don’t eat anything.
And don’t bring back a single object.
Not even a pebble.
Any violation—and the balance of time collapses.”
“That’s it. The rest… you’ll discover there.”
“Go.”
Rustam had never felt his neck stiffen like this before.
His nape turned to stone.
He was on the verge—of screaming, of calling it all ridiculous.