When Ninka woke up, it took her a few moments to regain awareness of who she truly was. As soon as clarity returned, she shed her mother's form and sprang to her feet, heading straight for the leather satchel.
A sudden dizziness threatened her balanceâprobably caused by the abrupt movementâbut she pushed through it; there was no time to waste. She opened the bag and emptied its contents onto the side table. The items she had expected were there, along with a few surprises. It felt strange to touch them, to bring them into her physical reality.
The black incendiary gloves immediately caught her attention. Their material had a peculiar textureâsomewhere between rough and smooth, almost alive beneath her fingertips. She slipped them on and attempted to activate them. To her surprise, the process was as intuitive as simply willing the flames into existence. And they appearedâso swiftly that she recoiled, startled. The most astonishing part was that the fire engulfing the gloves gave off no heat. It seemed completely harmless while bound to the enchanted material; once released, however, that might be a different story.
Curious, Ninka stepped over to the fireplace and experimented with controlling the flames. Some movements came instinctively, like transferring fire from the gloves to the burning logs. Othersâsuch as shaping the flames into precise formsâseemed to require more practice, something she knew she had no time to develop.
She removed the gloves and turned her attention to the next item she deemed essential for survival: the thaumaturge's lantern. Unlike the gloves, it did not respond to touch or thought. After a few moments of examination, she recalled her mother mentioning that magic often relied on symbolism. Perhaps Valeria had read something in the thaumaturge's booksâvolumes Ninka knew she wouldn't have time to study. She theorized that the lantern would react to the presence of night-creatures, given the symbolic relationship between light and darkness. Without further delay, she packed everything back into the satchel.
She had assumed someone would be waiting outside to escort her to Sir Bosko, but upon stepping out, she found no one nearby. So, she decided to make her way to the main courtyard on her own. She had walked the halls of this castle before and saw no reason to get lost now. And yet, she was mistaken.
After several minutes of wandering, she found herself in a part of the castle completely unfamiliar and far from her intended destination. The glances she received along the way ranged from mild confusion to outright discomfort, each more striking than the last. Eventually, she came face to face with a gray-haired man, who narrowed his eyes as he studied her.
"You're Boris's daughter, aren't you?"
he asked, scrutinizing her with a sharp gaze.
"You can tell just by looking?"
Ninka said, raising an eyebrow.
"Well, I heard people say the witch's daughter was in the castle. Sorry for the description, but that's how most here refer to Valeria. Still, I think I'd recognize you even if you were lost in the middle of a crowded market in Kustovka."
"I don't look that much like my mother."
"That's true, but you have your father's eyes. And the way you walkâit's just like his."
Ninka hesitated for a moment before deciding to ask for help.
"I'm a little lost. Could you help me find Sir Bosko?"
"Of course. Walk with me."
They walked together for a few minutes until they reached a balcony overlooking the castle garden. Ninka slowed her steps, captivated by the view unfolding below.
"Beautiful, isn't it?"
the man said, noticing her expression.
"Yes,"
she answered, a rare flicker of admiration in her eyes.
Along the stone pathways, worn smooth by time, delicate edelweiss and blue cornflowers swayed gently in the breeze. Further ahead, towering wild rosebushes intertwined with hop vines, climbing ancient wrought-iron structures, weaving a vibrant mosaic of colors. At the heart of the garden, silver-barked birch trees swayed gently in the wind, their whispering leaves forming an elegant canopy that shaded small ornamental ponds. Along the water's edge, lilies of the valley and alpine violets bloomed, filling the air with their delicate fragrance. Near fountains carved from white marble, plants like datura displayed their exotic white blossoms, radiating an almost ethereal aura.
Further ahead, neatly arranged beds housed traditional herbs of Rajmirâthyme, mint, and sage grew in abundance, releasing familiar and comforting aromas. Among them, angelica stood out, its tall, majestic stalks carrying a reputation for magical properties in local folklore.
Ninka recognized these plants immediately. Though she had never seen them before, her father had described them with such vivid passion that, in that moment, it felt as though she were meeting old friends.
"It must be difficult to keep everything this beautiful,"
Ninka remarked, admiring the landscape.
"You're telling me,"
the man replied with a faint smile.
"So, you're the gardener?"
"The one and only."
Ninka narrowed her eyes, studying him closely.
"Wait, I remember you. You used to visit my father when I was little."
"I did. I used to bring him angelica leaves. He said they were good for helping you grow, you know?"
"I'm not sure it worked,"
she said with a quiet laugh.
"Isn't it forbidden to take anything from the Ivanoves' garden?"
"Let's keep that our little secret."
For a moment, Ninka fell silent, staring at the ground.
"You were already working at the castle when my mother was here, weren't you?"
"I was. I've spent my whole life within these walls."
"Tell me... did my mother really love Lord Ivanove? Was it mutual?"
The gardener raised his eyebrows, caught off guard by the question.
"Well, luckily, there's no one around to overhear this conversation,"
the man said, glancing around.
"Listen, girl, I'm just an old gardener who never even married, so my opinion on these matters might not be worth much. That said... yes, I do think Lord Andrej genuinely cared for your mother. But in the end, he chose duty to his family. Of course, it didn't hurt that Lady Evonia had the looks and charm she did."
"Makes sense,"
Ninka said thoughtfully.
"As for your mother, I think she convinced herself that she was the heroine of a folk tale. She believed that the suffering she endured gave her the right to take whatever she wanted from life. And it certainly didn't help that the Ivanoves treated her like an adopted daughterâexpecting her to understand that she was really just their favorite subordinate."
"And my father? Where did he fit into all of this?"
"Your father never told you?"
"No."
"Then I'm not sure I shouldâ"
"Just say what you think. I don't know if I'll ever see my father again... or if I'll even survive the day."
"You plan to accompany Sir Bosko on the search for Lady Vasilissa?"
"That's the plan."
"And why would you do that, girl? What could you possibly do?"
"I could finish what my mother started. And I could help save a friend."
"You and Lady Vasilissa are... friends?"
"Yes."
The gardener smirked, amused.
"Fate is a curious thing, isn't it?"
he said, clearly intrigued.
"And do you have your mother's... abilities?"
"I do. Now, about my father and my mother?"
The gardener hesitated for a moment but finally gave in.
"Alright. Again, what I say here is only my interpretation of what I witnessed."
"Go on."
"Did you know it was your father who was sent to retrieve the body of that thaumaturge? It was after that when he started getting close to your mother. They were always whispering to each other, just out of earshot of prying ears. I think he understood exactly what your mother went through to rid this place of that spirit. He always seemed to be looking out for her."
Ninka reflected on his words. She already had a good idea of what her parents might have discussed in those daysâand where Boris had ventured months ago. There was a strong chance that he had been the one to keep the censer burning all these years. She let out a quiet sigh, something the gardener did not fail to notice.
"Your father loved this garden, just as your mother did. This is where I often saw them talking. Maybe things would have been different if..."
Stolen story; please report.
"If he held the title of Lord. If he had lived in a castle with a view of a beautiful garden like this in the morning, instead of a cold, shadowed forest outside a cabin's door. Then maybe her childhood fantasies would have been fulfilled, and she would have loved him the way he deserved to be loved,"
Ninka finished, her voice steady yet laced with melancholy. The gardener said nothing. He only watched her in silence.
âââ
He led her to the castle's main courtyard, where Sir Bosko stood waiting alongside three individuals who looked impatient. Two of them caught her attention immediately.
The first had a rugged appearance. His skin, weathered by sun and wind, was tanned and dry, with deep lines etched around his eyes and mouth. Unkempt, uneven hairâa faded, dirty shade of blueâframed his face, making it clear that neither scissors nor comb had touched it in quite some time. His beard grew in patches, the coarse strands adding to his disheveled look. This personal neglect, however, contrasted sharply with the polished chainmail and clean surcoat he wore.
The second man looked like the ideal subordinate any noble would hope for. His face was clean-shaven, exuding a sense of order and hygiene. His hair, neatly trimmed and carefully arranged, suggested someone who adhered to strict codes of discipline. Something in his posture made him seem like an extension of Sir Bosko himselfâthough he was slightly shorter.
The last man, to Ninka's surprise, was Ivan. Now dressed in chainmail as if he had always belonged in this world, he still carried the one-handed Hellanian axe at his belt, while a shield bearing the Ivanove crest rested on his back. His ease in this setting made Ninka raise an eyebrow, intrigued.
"I'm ready. Where are the others?"
she asked.
"These are all who were able and willing,"
Sir Bosko replied.
"Ten men died last time. What makes you think three and a half will succeed?"
"Three and a half?"
the disheveled man repeated, frowning.
"She's referring to the boy,"
the well-groomed man pointed out.
"Hey, take it easy, skinny,"
Ivan snapped, clearly irritated.
"I've already proven myself as a warrior."
"Fighting Beowulfs and flaming horses isn't the same as killing enraged peasants,"
Ninka said, raising an eyebrow.
"Beowulfs!? No one said anything about Beowulfs!"
"It was mentionedâyou just weren't paying attention,"
Sir Bosko said, his tone carrying a hint of exasperation.
"So, you know exactly what happened all those years ago?"
"I do,"
Ninka confirmed firmly.
"We may not have the numbers on our side, but there's nothing we can do about that. What we do have is the advantage of knowing exactly what we're dealing with. This time, we won't be caught off guard,"
Sir Bosko stated.
"I hope so. There's no way to know for sure if that creature has another trick up its sleeve,"
Ninka replied, visibly concerned.
"Would you rather we give up?"
the well-groomed man asked, raising an eyebrow.
"No, of course not."
"Then let's put these doubts aside and simply do what needs to be done,"
Sir Bosko concluded.
"Don't worry, little witch. The Celestial will protect us, just as he protected your mother all those years ago,"
the disheveled man said with a confident grin.
Ninka studied him for a moment, her gaze analyzing him.
"I know you, don't I?"
"You've probably seen my ugly mug in the village."
"So, you're a peasant?"
she asked, surprised.
Ninka shot Sir Bosko a look of disbelief.
"Yasen is a brave man for volunteering to join us while others cower in fear,"
Sir Bosko said in the man's defense.
"Appreciate the kind words, Sir. That wretched spirit took my Nadezda from me. I may not be a warrior like the fine men of the Ivanoves, but that beast won't scare me,"
Yasen said with determination.
"Are you satisfied now, girl?"
the well-groomed man asked, directing his sharp gaze at Ninka.
"Just do your part as best you can, and we'll do the same."
"Ease up on her, Damir. The girl has been through a lotâit's only natural for her to be wary,"
Sir Bosko interjected, attempting to keep the tension from rising.
"I just like having a clear sense of the situation,"
Ninka retorted.
"Don't mind this bony thingâshe's like this all the time,"
Ivan chimed in, flashing a mischievous grin.
"Go hide in the sunset, rust-head,"
Ninka shot back, narrowing her eyes at him.
âââ
As they crossed the first ridge after leaving the castle, the ruins of the village came into view. The ground, once traced by children's footsteps, now lay buried under wreckageâits silence a haunting echo of the battle cries and frantic neighs that had filled the hills just hours before. The only sound left was the faint crackling of embers, buried deep within the blackened remains of wood.
Among the ruins, only a few houses remained standing. Their facades were blackened with soot, doors and windows left gaping open. Inside, the silence was even deeper, the air heavier, as if time itself had come to a halt. Amid the rubble, Ninka spotted a rag dollâuntouched, intact. A cruel reminder that, just hours ago, this village had still been alive. She couldn't stop her thoughts from drifting to her mother and grandfather, to the inescapable pull of fate.
The survivors were busy burying their dead. It was a grim and disheartening task, made worse by the fact that the number of corpses seemed to outnumber the living. Among those who still breathed, the men could be counted on one hand. They were the ones digging the graves, while women and children carried the dead, sharing the burden with tears in their eyes.
She wondered if they would seek vengeance against her if they ever learned the truth. Had there been anyone left in the village who cared enough to see her laid to rest? Her husband was at the border, fighting the Hellanians, and just like young Raduâneither of them knew what had become of Vesna.
But there was no time, no space, for these thoughts now. The only thing that mattered was Lissa's safety. One thing was certain: Evonia had been the first to be laid to rest, most likely by Sir Bosko and others from the castle.
There was a stark difference between the burial traditions of peasants and nobles in Rajmir. Nobles were typically cremated, their ashes placed in ornate chests adorned with aliscael and other apostolic symbols, along with the deceased's name. These chests were often decorated with rare metals and precious stonesâan unfortunate temptation for grave robbers, who sometimes targeted the apostolic temples where they were kept.
Among the most infamous of these tomb raiders were the Hellanian invaders, whose acts of desecration had played a significant role in worsening tensions between the two peoples.
For common folk, the tradition was different. The dead were buried, and the soil was prepared to welcome both the body and a sapling planted above it. As the tree's roots intertwined with the remains, it grew strong, and when its leaves rustled in the wind, it was said to breathe for the soul resting beneath. Over the years, cemeteries became silent forests. This custom was a legacy of Rajmir's old religious traditions, which revolved around the worship of Rod's Tree.
By the time they finally entered the forest, they wereâby Ninka's estimationâabout a hundred meters east of her ruined pinewood cabin. Sir Bosko slowed his pace and said,
"I assume you know the way to the creature's lair?"
"If we head northeast without interruptions, we should reach it in about two hours,"
Ninka replied.
"Have you been there? Do you know what it looks like?"
Damir asked.
"It's a cave in a granite outcrop,"
Ninka replied.
"It sits in the middle of a clearing in the forest, built into a steep embankment."
Sir Bosko's expression darkened at her words.
"A cave, you say?"
"Yes. Is something wrong?"
"I just realized something."
"Then share it,"
Damir insisted.
"Have you ever heard of Elinde Ivanove and her affair with a hunter?"
"Of course. It was all anyone talked about from here to Kustovka in the old days,"
Damir said.
"My old mother used to tell me that story,"
Yasen added.
"She said it was a miracle of the Celestial that led the old Lord Ivanove to his daughter."
"It was actually a campfire,"
Sir Bosko corrected.
"What?"
Damir asked, frowning.
Sir Bosko let out a sigh.
"The thing is, I happen to know more about what really happened than most people. My father served under Lord Janko Ivanove at the time."
"With all due respect, Sir, but how does this concern us?"
"The place where the couple was found was also a caveâone that sounds very much like the one young Ninka just described."
"You think it's the same place?"
Damir asked, his voice laced with intrigue.
"Yes, but it doesn't end there. What few people know is that the hunter was killed in that very same cave, right after Lady Elinde left."
"Killed? No one ever told me that,"
Yasen said, frowning. Sir Bosko lowered his head slightly, as if weighed down by the memory.
"My father stabbed himâunder Lord Janko's orders."
A moment of silence followed before Sir Bosko sighed again.
"Years ago, when I was making my way to this very forest, the Elisian thaumaturge tried to explain to me what the spirit truly was. He told me that, in the beginning, the creature had been a treeâjust a tree, among all thingsâuntil it was corrupted by the blood of an innocent victim."
He paused for a moment.
"My father described the hunter's lair to me once. At the end of the cave, the passage opens into a vast space, almost like a natural dome. And in the center of that dome stood a tree, its roots so large they stretched across the entire ground. That's where my father left the poor man's body."
Yasen and Ivan fell into quiet reflection while Ninka tried to appear indifferent.
"None of this is your fault. Don't let it weigh on you,"
Damir said.
"Easier said than done,"
Sir Bosko replied.
"All these deaths, so many innocent lives lostâthe Elisian merchant, the master thaumaturge, Lady Evonia... and now Lady Vasilissa..."
"Lissa is alive,"
Ninka cut in.
"...You know, yesterday, when I escorted Lady Vasilissa through Kustovka, she asked me about this story. Out of nowhere, she suddenly took an interest in an event that happened decades before she was even born..."
He stroked his chin, lost in thought.
"I wonder if, somehow, that has something to do with why she was the only one taken alive by the creatures."
Sir Bosko was close to piecing the puzzle togetherâand Ninka wasn't sure how she felt about that.
"Tell me, Sir, how much do you remember about Elinde Ivanove?"
Ninka asked.
Sir Bosko was caught off guard by the question.
"Not much. I was just a boy at the time. I remember that she was considered beautiful, but I can't recall the details of her face or anything else. Back then, I did everything I could to sneak out of the castle and play like the other children in the village. Lady Elinde also seemed to avoid life within the castleâshe visited Kustovka often."
"Captain, with all due respect, this conversation is just a distraction,"
Damir interjected.
"We must remain aware of the risk of Beowulfs. You, more than anyone, understand what those beasts are capable of."
"Yes, I do,"
Bosko replied.
"With every imperfect step of this leg, I remember the strength of their fangs."
"But you're right, Damir. Let's pick up the pace and stay alert."
As they walked deeper into the forest, heading toward danger, the shafts of light filtering through the trees began to changeâfrom sunlight to moonlight. That stretch of woods had witnessed so much death that even the gentle breeze carried a whisper of unease, a murmur laced with foreboding. The towering pines, solemn and watchful, seemed to observe their march into the unknownâstanding in near-ceremonial reverence to those with the courage to tread this path.
Ninka slowed her pace, falling back until she was walking alongside Ivan at the rear of the group. She leaned in and whispered,
"You told the villagers about the creature's captivesâabout them standing at the entrance of that cave, staring into the mist?"
"Obviously. They had a right to know."
"And none of them decided to come with us?"
"What did you expect? Most of the survivors are grieving women and terrified children."
"I saw men among those burying the dead."
"Yes, three made it out aliveâaside from our Yasen hereâbut none of them had any ties to the missing. Still, if it were up to me, I'd have sent themâNinka!"
Ivan shoved her aside with his right arm while fumbling for his shield with his left. He barely had time to raise it before the nightmare reached them. The shadow mare reared up before him, intending to strike with its front hoovesâbut the attack was cut short. Its instincts screamed against the risk of impaling itself on Damir's spear, which had already been thrust into its path.
Yasen rushed in to reinforce Damir, driving his own spear toward the beast to keep it from closing the distance. Meanwhile, Ivan, now firmly gripping his shield, drew the Hellanian axe from his belt, and Sir Bosko loaded his crossbow with a broad-tipped bolt.
Ninka, who had fallen to the ground, sat up, taking stock of the situation. Then she scrambled for her satchel, searching frantically for the one weapon that could truly end these cursed creatures. The crossbow bolt struck deep into the nightmare's neck, lodging itself in place. The creature shriekedâand then unraveled into nothing. But before its silhouette had fully vanished, another shadow steed surged into the space it had left behind, lunging straight at Ivan.
The boy staggered back, raising his round shield and keeping his axe close, ready to strike. But before the beast could make contact, a blinding light exploded across the clearing. It was as if the sun itself had descended upon them.
The only instinctive reaction was to shield their eyesâwhether with their hands or the backs of their arms. The creatures' pained, agonized cries echoed from all directions, an unbearable sound.
As the nightmares disintegrated, the flames left in their wake, which had threatened to devour the forest, were extinguished along with themâas if they had never existed.
The entire event lasted only moments. Then, the light faded, taking the cursed mares with it. Slowly, the group uncovered their eyes, their expressions tense as they surveyed their surroundings.
"By the Celestial, what in blazes just happened?"
Yasen muttered, his voice heavy with disbelief.
The young witch, as he liked to call her, was crouched on one knee, arm outstretched, holding the finest lantern he had ever laid eyes on.
"Just a borrowed light... from a man who gave his last breath for it,"
Ninka said, breathless.
She paused, then murmured,
"May the Celestial embrace him."