From Berat the eye reads two bones of the world across one valley. Tomorr holds snow like an old man’s beard; Shpirag shows furrowed flanks — ridges cut as if something vast once dragged steel across stone. In the telling, the rival mass advances while Tomor sleeps beside Earthly Beauty. Eagles cry from the higher ridge; wind carries the bride away; then the mule and the scythe go down to answer. Where the blade scored Shpirag, watercourses run — scars that drink rain and feed the slopes. The cudgel marks Tomorr in turn. When the fight ends, neither peak walks away; the Osum threads blue between them, tears in the story’s geography, not a feast on either summit. This sheet keeps to landscape and legend. August climbs, türbe persons, and oath-earth chapters belong on other pages — same country, separate ontologies.