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As a child, this forest was perceived as just a scary tale told by an old teacher...

A jerk up, another jerk, the skin burns with the breath of a flame raging underfoot, the rock squeezes the fire, makes it fly up.

And how could it be otherwise? When you lie under a warm blanket, in such a familiar, comfortable room, knowing that you are safe ...

The crackling of the converging walls and the rustling of the crumbling earth were the only sounds available to him. Fear? It's funny - fear does not exist.

And only somewhere in the depths of consciousness beats an obsessive thought that fairy tales are not always fiction. They are just different...

There were no fairy tales in his life and there was no that emptiness that always accompanied the brothers. They were different.

“I am grateful to you, teacher, for a life outside of magic, for understanding deprivation, for the perverted joy of feeling like a man. For getting used to the pain of loss. And I hate you. I hate it all put together.