Zhivko
In the back of my head, I calculated the years without any effort.
It was twenty-three years ago. Vrashka Chuka, Balkan Mountains, some miles away from the Bulgarian-Serbian border.
I was thirteen, and Ivan was twelve. We were on the training ground one summer mid-afternoon. The trees around us were tall and fat. The breeze was cool, blowing the tree leaves and branches. Everything was lively. The earth-smelling ground was distinctive and hard. It was mixed with sweat and blood.
My brother Ivan’s golden eyes were fierce as we were trying to tackle each other to the ground, as part of our training. It had been a couple of hours now.
Some of our pack members were present to watch our sparrin
