The episode ends on a freeze-frame: Ayna’s carabiner clipped to a rusted anchor, The Last’s knife sawing at a rope three meters below. We don’t see whose rope.

The episode’s final ten minutes are its masterstroke. The “Last of the Seventh Cradle” doesn’t attack Ayna. He joins her on the wall—not to help, but to climb beside her, mirroring her every move from an adjacent crack system. He is her shadow, her ghost, her future. In a chilling monologue delivered without breaking eye contact (shouted over a 50-meter void), he confesses: “I don’t want revenge. I want you to choose. Cut the rope or don’t. That’s the only difference between a climber and a corpse.”

Spoiler Warning for Episode 4

The titular “Seventh Cradle”—the mythical pre-Soviet mountaineering route that claimed the protagonist’s mentor—is no longer a legend. It’s a scar. Episode 4 reveals that the route was deliberately altered decades ago, a fact buried in a Soviet-era alpine logbook Ayna finds tucked into a dead-end chimney. This is where the episode’s writing shines: the mystery isn’t a treasure hunt. It’s a trap . The “last of the seventh cradle” (the enigmatic figure played with silent menace by Igor Petrenko) didn’t survive the fall—he reset the bolts to fail.

Where Episode 4 stumbles slightly is in its flashback structure. We finally get the full story of the “Seventh Cradle” expedition: a 1982 team, a storm, a contested decision to cut a rope. The young climber who survived? Ayna’s father. The one who was cut? The Last’s brother. The reveal is powerful, but the execution is over-edited. The cross-cutting between Ayna’s frozen fingers on the wall and her father’s frozen fingers on a dead man’s harness becomes repetitive by the third iteration. We understand the parallel. Trust the audience.

The rope will be cut. The question is by whom .

The episode opens where the last one left off—on a crumbling limestone rib, 400 meters above the treeline. But director Mikhail Volkov smartly avoids a simple “climbing-as-action” sequence. Instead, the camera lingers on micro-movements: the chalk brushing off Ayna’s fingers, the silent judgment of a cam that won’t seat, the way her breath fogs a quartz vein. For the first time, the rock feels hostile , not indifferent.