Chapter 7: Chapter 7: To Whom Lesgrad Belongs.

At first, they tried to wake her, but no matter what they did, Lissa wouldn't respond. With no other choice, they decided to carry her by force, each holding one of her arms. She resisted, pulling them back toward the cave. But in her condition, she lacked the strength to fight them. The farther they got from that place, the more she seemed to lose the will to resist—until Ivan alone was enough to guide her.

"She's coming to,"

Ninka said, relief evident in her voice.

"Lissa, look at me. Say something."

"...Ninka? What...?"

"Let's sit her down. We should rest for a bit,"

Ivan suggested.

"You... you're the boy who...?"

"My name is Ivan, m'lady. Here, lean against this tree."

"Ninka, where are we? Where's Numa?"

"We're in the forest, in Temni Vozda—maybe ten minutes from my house,"

Ninka answered after a brief pause.

"Numa... I don't really know, maybe in the cave."

"Yes... I remember the cave, but something was wrong... I didn't know who... That tree. He has to stay away from that tree."

"Who's Numa? What tree?"

Ivan asked, frowning. Ninka shot him a sharp look.

"What?"

he asked, confused.

She nearly told him to shut up but stopped herself, realizing that would be unfair. Instead, she searched for a way to end the conversation.

"It's... personal. I'll tell you what I can, just... not now."

Lissa, meanwhile, stared off into the distance, lost in thought.

"How are you feeling?"

Ninka asked.

"A little... disoriented. Where are we going?"

"We're taking you to your mother."

"I'd rather not go home right now... I don't know what to tell her after being gone all day... Ninka, did you go to the—"

"Yes, but that was yesterday. It's been two days."

"What...?"

"Don't worry about that now,"

Ninka said, trying to reassure her, though her voice lacked confidence. Ivan observed them in silence, as if piecing together a puzzle.

"Ninka... can I stay at your place... just for tonight?"

Lissa asked hesitantly.

"If you had told me this two days ago, I would have scolded you for acting like a fool... "

"Hey! show more respect for your lady!"

Ivan cut in, indignant, but Ninka ignored him.

"...but today, that's simply impossible. Our cabin burned to the ground."

"What? How did that happen?"

Lissa asked, shocked.

"I don't know."

"And your mother? Is she alright?"

Lissa caught the melancholic look in Ninka's eyes and chose not to press further.

"She now rests in the Celestial, m'lady,"

Ivan answered solemnly.

Lissa got to her feet with Ivan's help and walked over to Ninka. Despite her obvious weakness and unsteady movements, she managed to wrap her arms around her friend in a warm embrace—warm enough to soften the cold weight of reality.

Ninka, still awkward, didn't return the gesture but rested her face against Lissa's chest and closed her eyes for a brief moment, seeking whatever comfort she could.

Ivan, standing close by, kept his gaze on the ground. His expression carried a quiet understanding—he, too, knew the pain of losing a mother.

"After we take lady Vasilissa back to the castle and warn the others about their kin in that cave, if you wish... I can go back with you,"

Ivan offered.

"So your mother can have a proper burial."

"Wait—your mother was in that cave? With other people?"

Lissa asked, startled.

"Not inside the cave, but just outside it,"

Ninka replied.

"And that's why we need to hurry. Come on, we've wasted enough time here."

∞∞∞

They walked for about ten minutes, just as Ninka had predicted, until they reached the land where her cabin once stood. Now, the burned-down house had visitors. Two men were inspecting the area—Sir Bosko and another Ivanove man, whom Ninka recognized from her time among them.

Lissa, now recovered enough to take some initiative, stepped ahead of the group without warning and approached the men.

"Looking for something, good men?"

she asked with her usual softness.

"Milady!"

Sir Bosko exclaimed, startled.

"Yes, we were looking for you. Your mother grew quite anxious when she found your chambers empty at this hour."

"I... needed some fresh air. So I decided to visit my friend Ninka, to see how she was doing."

Not even Lissa's natural charm could mask how much of a cliché that excuse sounded.

"Well, I suppose fresh air is understandable, given everything that happened today,"

Sir Bosko said after a moment of thought. Then, turning to Ninka, he added,

"You're Valeria's daughter, aren't you?"

It felt strange for Ninka to hear Sir Bosko refer to her mother by name, but considering what they had been through together, it made sense.

"Yes, I am."

"And you, if I'm not mistaken, are the son of the Hellanian blacksmith—Sivant, correct?"

"Yes, sir. My name is Ivan."

"And what are you doing at this hour, escorting two young ladies, Ivan?"

Sir Bosko asked, raising an eyebrow.

"I..."

"I asked him to escort us,"

Lissa interjected with a faint smile.

"Ivan is a very helpful young man."

"I see."

"Are you implying something, Sir?"

Lissa inquired, feigning offense.

"No, my apologies, my lady,"

Sir Bosko replied, his posture losing some of its firmness.

"It's all right, Sir,"

Lissa said, easing the tension. Sir Bosko cleared his throat before continuing,

"The situation is this: we have a cabin burned to the ground and, inside it, two of our men dead. Yet, there's no sign of the owner. Do you know your mother's whereabouts, girl?"

"Yes, Sir. She's dead. Her body is a few hours north of here, deeper in the forest,"

Ninka answered curtly.

"Valeria is dead? How did it happen?"

Ivan opened his mouth to respond, but Ninka cut him off firmly.

"It was the blow to her head."

Lissa seemed about to ask something but reconsidered, deciding to save her question for later, when she could speak to Ninka alone.

"I feared this might be the case,"

Sir Bosko said, his voice heavy with sorrow.

"I'm sorry. But what happened here is still unclear."

"Just as unclear to us, I'm afraid,"

Ninka replied, keeping her gaze locked on the knight. Sir Bosko studied her for a moment, as if trying to decipher something.

"Tell me, that satchel you're carrying... Was it with Valeria when she perished?"

Ninka hesitated, unsure of what to say.

"...Yes."

"I see,"

Sir Bosko said, leaving Ninka wondering what exactly he had understood. Turning to Lissa, he added,

"Lady Vasilissa, we must find your mother in the village. At the very least, she is deeply concerned."

"She's in the village?"

Lissa asked, surprised.

"Yes. After ordering a full search of the castle, she had the village searched as well. That should give you a fair idea of her state of mind."

"Very well, Sir. My friends will come with us. They have matters to tend to in the village."

"As you wish, my lady,"

Sir Bosko replied, dipping his head slightly in respect.

∞∞∞

Up ahead, Lissa walked with an upright posture, her falsely determined gaze betraying the crushing pressure she felt. Her stiff steps carried the invisible weight of responsibility, evident in the grave lines of her expression. Her gown, once splendid, was now stained and torn—silent witnesses to the events they had left behind.

Beside her, Ninka clutched the leather satchel with an almost desperate grip, as if afraid the strap might snap at any moment. Her fingers still trembled faintly, lingering remnants of recent tension.

Ivan walked just behind them, visibly uneasy after Sir Bosko's insinuations; to him, the scene felt like the prelude to a trial before the seneschal.

The scent of charred wood hung in the air, mingling with the damp earth of the forest, weaving a heavy, oppressive atmosphere. At last, they emerged from the forest's edge and found themselves before a vast, open field. In the distance, the granite walls of Ivanove Castle loomed, towering against the darkened sky. Ahead, the village lay nestled between the farmlands and the Aquerum River, its flickering lights standing in stark contrast to the surrounding gloom.

As they entered the village, passing by old Casmir's weathered hut, the sounds of an argument reached their ears. Restless peasants, kept awake by Evonia's orders, spoke in rising voices, their distress palpable.

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"She is not among us, m'lady,"

Miroslava stated, her voice tight with emotion.

"If I find out that any of you are under that witch's influence..."

Evonia threatened furiously, cutting her off.

"We haven't spoken to her, m'lady,"

a peasant woman lied hastily.

"I know you constantly turn to her, feeding these ridiculous superstitions,"

Evonia retorted, irritated.

"It's not that, m'lady. The spirit of the forest is restless again, and Valeria is the only one who knows how to appease it,"

Miroslava insisted.

"That absurd tale again!"

"It's true, m'lady. More than twenty people from the village have already been taken by the forest! We sleep in shifts, watching over each other, afraid of being the next to dream of the spirit,"

declared another peasant woman, her expression heavy with pity and fear.

"I bet they are nothing but cowards, using that wretched legend as an excuse to abandon their families,"

Evonia rolled her eyes, impatient.

"As far as I'm concerned, this has gone on long enough. If these discussions persist, there will be punishments."

"With all due respect, m'lady, you may order them to hurt us, cut out our tongues, and take our little ones, as they did with poor Vesna. But you will hardly instill more fear than what lurks in the forest,"

a man at the front of the group said, his voice cold and defiant.

"You are playing with fire..."

Evonia began, fury evident in every word, until her eyes caught sight of their arrival.

"Mother! I'm here!"

Lissa called out clearly, already anticipating the sort of interaction her mother was having with the peasants.

Evonia shifted the disdainful look she had been casting at the man, and within seconds her expression softened into pure joy. She walked over to her daughter and wrapped her in a warm embrace.

"Are you trying to drive your mother mad? Where have you been, my flower?"

"I'm sorry, Mother. I... needed some fresh air to think."

"Did that fresh air really have to come all the way from the safety of the castle?"

Lissa fell silent, her face laden with guilt, and Evonia chose not to press her further. After a long, awkward pause, the lady of Lesgrad gently caressed her daughter's face and turned her attention to Sir Bosko.

"And the witch? Is she outside my domain?"

"In truth, my lady, she is outside anyone's domain now. Valeria is dead, somewhere in Temni Vozda."

At these words, the gathered crowd reacted immediately. The murmurs among the villagers took on a frightened tone, growing louder and more intense. Old Miroslava, who had been conversing with Ninka while holding the girl's shoulders as if to confirm she was real, suddenly faltered upon hearing the news. In a display of unexpected agility, Ninka was the one who stepped in to support her.

Evonia needed a moment to process the information.

"What do you mean by 'somewhere'? You don't know where? Didn't you see the body?"

Evonia asked in a severe tone.

"I didn't see it, my lady,"

replied Bosko.

"Then how do you know?"

"Her daughter told me,"

Bosko answered, signaling for Ninka to come closer.

"Tell your lady what happened."

"Um... alright..."

Ninka recounted everything she could, omitting the supernatural and compromising details, but striving to keep the account as true as possible. Evonia, as expected, found the death of men at arms suspicious, and she also questioned the fate of Valeria. Yet the determination in Ninka's eyes was unyielding. After a few tense moments of silent standoff, Evonia finally declared,

"I am sorry for what you have endured."

Those words surprised Ninka. She had expected a harsh, cynical response—much like the way Valeria treated Lissa—but the difference was clear. Drawing on her experience observing the lady of Lesgrad, Ninka deduced that although both possessed strong, even vengeful spirits, their methods of handling adversity were radically different.

Before anyone could speak another word about the mysterious death of Valeria, a woman's cry rang out across the village, shattering the already tense atmosphere:

"Fire!"

For a moment, everyone froze, processing the desperate warning. Then a chaotic flurry began: heads turned and eyes scanned in all directions, trying to pinpoint the source of the disturbance. Every gaze converged on Lissa as she let out a piercing cry and clutched her head. Ninka and Evonia rushed toward her but stopped abruptly when they saw her eyes—completely white and devoid of pupils.

When Lissa lifted her face, horror was unmistakable.

"Numa..."

she murmured, almost inaudibly. Her lips moved incoherently, as if some other force controlled her speech. Though her body remained upright, her limbs moved uncoordinatedly, lacking control. Still, she staggered a few steps northward before her mother restrained her with an expression of utter dismay.

Neighs sliced through the air, echoing throughout the village. The heat and smoke, now unmistakable, enveloped the scene. Supernatural flames—blue-violet and indigo—spread in a sinister, uncanny manner, casting a menacing glow over the darkness. And then they appeared: horses as black as night, their forms wreathed in distorted flames. They looked like emissaries from the depths of Umbra, their deafening neighs reverberating through the streets. Every step of their flaming hooves ignited the ground, while the houses caught fire instantly, consumed before anyone could reach for a bucket.

Panic took hold. The peasants, huddled at the edges of the crowd, were the first to scatter in desperate flight—and also the first to fall victim to the calamity. The armed men of the Ivanoves bravely attempted to escort the ladies back to the castle.

However, they were blocked by the infernal heat and the menacing presence of the spectral horses. Under Sir Bosko's leadership, the soldiers formed a defensive circle around the noblewomen. Ninka and old Miroslava, being in close proximity to the Ivanoves, were automatically protected.

Ivan, on the other hand, did not hesitate. With his axe in hand, he positioned himself alongside the defenders, determined to confront what now appeared to be a real battle—the first of his life.

Others gathered around the Ivanove escort, as if expecting that the solution to this terrifying situation might be found by mimicking the actions of the armed men. In reality, only Sir Bosko maintained his composure; the others tried to mirror his determination, though fear was evident on their faces.

One of the black horses charged at the group, forcefully carving a path through them. Three peasants were knocked down in its wake, their bodies crushed under the overwhelming weight of the creature until it reached the formation of the chainmail-clad soldiers. The beast reared up on its hind legs, emitting an infernal neigh that reverberated through the night. Then, it violently brought down its forehooves onto the oak shield of one of the fighters—cracking it as if it were glass—and sent the man crashing to the ground, his arm clearly injured.

Two soldiers armed with halberds seized the opportunity to attack the monster's flanks. Their blades tore into the cursed flesh, making the creature's warm, thick blood gush forth. Emboldened by their initial success, they struck again. However, before they could deliver a fatal blow, the being turned intangible like a specter and slowly vanished before their eyes. In its place, two other creatures emerged, as ferocious as the first.

One of these aberrations advanced with terrifying speed, biting into the midsection of one of the halberdiers' helmets. The metal groaned under the immense pressure until it gave way, crushing the man's skull as if it were a ripe fruit, his blood and brain matter oozing between the creature's fangs.

Sir Bosko, hardened by years of loyal service to the Ivanoves, refused to let the brutal spectacle shake him. He dropped his mace and unsheathed a dagger, advancing against the creature with his shield raised. With a precise strike, he drove the blade into the monster's right eye. A grotesque sound—a blend of a neigh and a human scream—erupted from the creature, sending shivers down everyone's spine. In a frenzied burst of pain, the black horse began to rear, its kicks striking indiscriminately at three nearby men, including Sir Bosko. Just like the first creature, it too became ethereal and disappeared into the air.

The soldiers' defensive formation was completely shattered. Ivan, disregarding his own fear, helped one of the men knocked down by the kicks to stand. However, the wounded man could not remain upright and had to be set back down, sitting and dazed.

Another warrior lay motionless, a victim of a direct blow to the head. Sir Bosko, for his part, had been struck on the arm. The blow left him unable to hold his shield, yet his posture remained proud despite the pain and the chaos surrounding him.

The creatures continued their relentless assault—attack after attack—until none of the Ivanove men were fit to wield their weapons to protect their ladies or themselves. However, as if obeying an unseen command, the black horses temporarily halted their attacks.

Ivan advanced, positioning himself between the noblewomen and the blue flames from which the creatures emerged, his stance evoking the bravery of heroes from legendary tales. Yet his hands trembled like leaves in a cold wind, even amid the suffocating heat of the flames. Still, his gaze remained firm; the tales of valor he had heard from his father echoed in his mind, urging him to be worthy of his legacy.

Lissa continued to writhe in unsettling spasms. Her eyes, now completely white like opaque pearls, seemed to gaze beyond this world, and her trembling lips murmured words that made no sense. Evonia clutched her tightly, her eyes fixed on her daughter as if the inferno around them were insignificant compared to the despair she felt. Yet even in that state of focused agony, she clearly heard a peasant's cry from among the huddled crowd:

"It's the girl! She's brought the curse! She's attracting these beasts!"

"Do not dare slander my daughter, you miserable animals!"

Evonia thundered, her voice slicing through the chaos with fury and authority.

The peasant who had confronted Evonia moments earlier stepped forward, addressing Ivan with a somber expression and unmistakable intent.

"Stand back,"

Ivan ordered firmly, though tension laced his words.

"Listen, spawn of a demon..."

the man spat the word with disdain.

"Demon" was the insult the Rajmirians customarily hurled at the Hellanians—a bitter echo of past brutal invasions that had scarred the conflicts between their peoples.

"I will not die here because of the golden girl of that arrogant woman. So be wise and step aside."

"No."

Ivan declared, planting his feet firmly as his voice rang out like steel. At that moment, the man attacked with the mace he had seized from one of the fallen combatants. The blow came with savage ferocity, yet it was clumsy and predictable. Ivan, his reflexes sharpened by training, deflected the attack with his axe. His father had taught him that move well, but no amount of practice had prepared him for the horror of witnessing a man struck down mortally by his own weapon.

The axe sliced from the aggressor's forehead down to his eyes, leaving a deep trail of blood across his face. The skin around the wound began to burn with inflammation—a vivid red stain contrasting starkly with the pallor brought on by shock. The man's lips parted as though the impact had robbed him of speech, and a trickle of blood streamed from the corner of his mouth, attesting to the severity of the blow that had fractured his skull.

For a moment, the man lay motionless. But soon his fury flared anew, raw and instinctive. He lunged at Ivan with uncontrollable force, knocking the young Hellanian to the ground and sending his axe sliding out of reach.

While the two struggled on the ground, a woman ran past brandishing a dagger. It was Ninka who reacted first, stepping into the attacker's path, but she was easily overpowered by the woman's violent momentum. It was Evonia who confronted the assailant. Grasping the woman's wrists, she attempted to restrain her, yet the opponent's raw strength—fueled by pure hatred—made the task nearly impossible.

Their struggle turned into a brutal spectacle, a desperate, violent dance. The woman managed to unbalance Evonia, and both tumbled to the ground. Now, with the attacker mounted upon her, Evonia finally caught sight of her face.

It was the face of one consumed by pain, humiliation, and hatred. The woman's mouth trembled, and the saliva—which once flowed under control—now gathered and dripped slowly from the corners of her quivering lips, like a sluggish trail of saliva. The muffled sound of her labored breathing, intermingled with involuntary gurgles, filled the air. Her eyes, once meek and introspective, blazed with pure fury.

She cursed my flower!

She must be punished!

That filthy tongue!

I did it to protect my daughter!

Evonia justified herself in her mind, but reality remained relentless.

The first stab came swift and true—yet it was intercepted by the noble's left hand. The second struck her cheek, shattering two teeth on impact. The third, the cruelest of all, pierced her left breast, shattered the bones of her chest, and punctured her lung, drawing a muffled cry as the air escaped her.

The fourth thrust, however, never came; the aggressor's nape met a solid stone, delivered with precision by Ninka's hands.

Vesna—Radu's mother and Piotr's wife—collapsed unconscious upon the body of her victim.

Ninka hauled Vesna's limp form away from Evonia when, for a fleeting moment, her gaze drifted to Lissa.

"No... Numa... It isn't..."

Lissa murmured, still in a trance, her voice laden with an enigma that Ninka could not decipher. Before she could react further, a crushing blow struck her back, and the ground rushed up to meet her.

∞∞∞

When color and form finally returned, the first thing she saw was a dark wooden ceiling, steeped in the scent of resin and smoke. Startled, she thought the fire still raged around her, ready to consume her—but a quick turn of her head revealed that the smoke emanated from a cracked stone fireplace on the opposite wall.

The embers crackled feebly, casting wavering shadows across the room and offering a fragile, inconsistent warmth. She lay upon a simple bed, its mattress stuffed with coarse straw. Thick, handwoven woolen blankets provided modest comfort against the icy air that invaded the room.

A young woman casually crossed the threshold of the chamber, but upon catching Ninka's eye, she hurriedly fled.

Some time later, Sir Bosko entered the room, dragging a wooden bench to sit beside the bed.

"How is your arm?"

Ninka asked, still struggling to gather her thoughts.

"It's alright. The bone was dislocated, but it did not break—thanks to the Celestial. I've broken bones before; it is never pleasant. The other wounds will heal with time. Thank you for asking."

"And Evonia... did she survive?"

"Lady Evonia Ivanove has gone to join the Celestial,"

replied Bosko solemnly.

Ninka fell silent for several moments, the weight of the news pressing upon her heart.

"Anyone else... Lissa? Ivan? Old Miroslava?"

"The boy is well. No grievous injury. Though now he fancies himself a warrior—if he's not careful, that inflated ego may one day truly harm him."

"Fool,"

Ninka commented with a bitter humor, drawing an even more somber smile from Bosko.

"Old Miroslava, too, is well. It will take more than a few magical beasts to end that long life of hers. Still, she appears more concerned about you than she is about herself,"

Bosko continued hesitantly before adding,

"However, Lady Vasilissa was... taken by the creatures."

At these words, Ninka quickly sat down, a sharp pain seizing her back. The knight noticed her reaction, his face etched with concern.

"I should have known... How could it be otherwise?"

Ninka murmured quietly to herself.

"Are you alright, girl?"

he asked.

"I'm fine."

"Can you make sense of what's happening? Do you know anything about it?"

"I... suppose I do,"

she replied, her tone guarded.

"Did your mother teach you how to deal with the spirit of the forest?"

"Yes, she did! I inherited her skills for dealing with such matters,"

she lied, hoping to buy some time.

Bosko exhaled a heavy sigh of relief.

"That's exactly what I expected to hear. Can you instruct me on what to do, or is it something only you can manage?"

"Are you going after Lissa? Will you rescue her?"

"Certainly. I failed in my duty to Lady Evonia, but I won't wallow in shame while Lady Vasilissa remains ensnared by the dark grasp of Umbra. Even if it proves a futile effort, my honor demands that I try."

"I must be there,"

she declared.

"Understood."

"However, I'll need a few hours to prepare."

"Is that truly necessary? Every passing minute reduces the chances of her surviving."

"Unfortunately, yes."

"Very well. Do you require anything?"

"If possible, I'd like a cup of milla tea."

"Is that some sort of magical ingredient?"

"No; I just need to remain calm for what I must do."

"Understood. I shall request it from the castle's kitchen."

"Thank you."

Several minutes after Sir Bosko had left the chamber, the same maid from before entered carrying the milla tea. Carefully, she placed the tray on the bedside table beside the bed, casting a quick glance in Ninka's direction before hurrying away.

Now, with her senses fully awakened, Ninka recognized the girl—it was the very same appearance she had assumed to escape the castle the previous night. Here, however, the young woman appeared timid and reserved. Judging by the interaction between her and the guard at the castle gate, that demeanor was clearly just a convenient façade.

As soon as the maid departed, Ninka rose and bolted the door. It would not be wise for anyone to see her in the guise of a dead person.

In the corner against the wall, resting atop a low table, lay the leather satchel—the very last thing her mother had entrusted to her.

Ninka closed her eyes and released a heavy sigh, preparing herself both physically and emotionally for the change, which had troubled her so many times before, and now seemed a minor distraction compared to the emotional weight of what was yet to come. She studied the hand that now bore new features and imperfections: deep wrinkles, hardened calluses—marks of a life marred by frustration and bitterness. She brushed back the long purple hair that fell over her eyes, tucking it neatly behind her ears.

Then, she sat on the bed, facing the bedside table, and picked up the cup of milla tea. The gentle aroma and comforting flavor of the tea kept its promise—it was a powerful soother, yet pleasantly delicate. For a few moments, the world seemed to fall silent. But then, as Ninka raised the cup to her lips, she caught sight of her reflection in the golden liquid. A tear rolled down her cheek before she even realized it, her face betraying no hint of emotion. It was as if that tear had been waiting there for ages, biding its time—a solitary moment of privacy to trace its silent path across her features.

Ninka lay down once more, drawing the blankets tightly around her body. She fixed her gaze on a dark blot on the ceiling, concentrating on the irregular contours of the wood. This deliberate distraction served to repel the unwelcome thoughts creeping through her mind.

Gradually, darkness began to claim her vision, tinting it with soft, muted hues. And so, like a feather drifting upon a tranquil lake, Ninka sank into the echoes of the past.