Their leader had snapped:

“Only cowards start something and then run away.”

Those words hadn’t even been aimed at Rustam—but they had burned into his memory.

And ever since, retreat had never been his way.

Step by step, they climbed the stairs, lit only by the faint glow of the lantern.

At the top, hidden under an arched shadow, was an old wooden door—

Most likely once used by station personnel.

Carved across it were large Latin letters, written in a strange, almost hand-drawn font—

clearly made before the age of computers and printers.

Everything here screamed of abandonment.

Above, silence reigned.

The air was cool.

The space felt like outer space—soundless, but somehow breathing.

Jahongir turned to Rustam, looking him straight in the eyes.

His voice was low, almost intimate:

“This is a restricted section of the metro.

In truth, every station has its technical sectors—places only specialists know about.

We’re about to enter one of those now. Once inside, I’ll explain the rest.”

Rustam shook the numbness out of his hands and silently followed.

Jahongir pulled a strange device from his pocket—something like a key—and inserted it into a narrow slit in the door.

When it clicked open, a staircase appeared before them.

Descending was difficult, but Jahongir’s steady, unshaken steps gave Rustam the strength to continue.

At the bottom, they entered a vast underground chamber—dark, echoing, nearly silent.

The space felt unstable, surreal.

Only a few faint symbols shimmered in the distance.

Jahongir pointed ahead.

“That tunnel over there—used to be a depot.

It was built solely for trains.”

He paused, then added:

“Now… it serves us.”

Rustam glanced at him, concern stirring in his chest.

“How does it work? What’s waiting at the end?”

Jahongir smiled slightly.

“You’ll understand once you pass through.

Just remember—this isn’t a normal tunnel.

You won’t just feel movement.

You’ll feel time, space—and even yourself—in a different way.

The changes inside are scientific in nature… but we don’t need to get into the details right now.”

“So I just walk through the tunnel?”

“Yes.”

“And then?”

“You’ll come out the other side.”

“And after that?”

“That’s when your mission begins.”

“But how—”

“Listen carefully,” Jahongir said, his tone sharpening.

“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.