❝ DEATH IS COMING.
BUT SHE DOESN'T FEAR HIM. ❞
For the people of Khaya's little village living amidst the woods is quiet, and even more, so it became since the creatures lurking in its shadows turned into mere fairytales. Little does Khaya know that...
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WHAT DEATH CANNOT TOUCH iv. spells and prayers
❆ ❆ ❆
The priest told them a tale so wicked Khaya could have never imagined it. A tale of chaos, death, and terror rummaging through the lands that resurrected Karachun from the realm of myths and awoke the deepest fears from their light slumber.
Ulyana buried her tear-stained face in Khaya's dress and Ilya, lips white, reached for his sister's hand, as did Majda for hers. Under the dining table, stiff fingers inter-tangled as if afraid they would lose each other the next moment. Dorka fell to her knees, praying. Her whole body trembled with voiceless sobs. Abram grimly watched the scene, ready to protect his family at all costs.
And when they were on the brink of falling into terror's dark abyss, the priest led them back to light. He reached out for Dorka, placed his gnarled fingers on her head, and smiled softly.
"You need not fear, child. For Svet sent us to you to protect you. He watches over all of us," he spoke with a voice so warm and bright as if coming from Svet himself. And just as though the priest was indeed his embodiment, Dorka clenched his kaftan and soaked its fabric with childly tears.
The scene still lingered in Khaya's mind, when sleep had already laid its calming hand over the house. Even Ulya cuddled up in her warm bed on the oven, hid in her dreams from all her fright of Karachun, evil witches, and loss. But to her, it did not want to come.
Maybe because Khaya could not stop to think about this witch, Lasow was supposed to harbor. Maybe because the presence of the nameless priest and his soldier Davor Kazminov weighed down too heavily on this house, lingering in each of their breaths drawn inside its walls. Maybe because she, despite not wanting to admit it, was afraid, too.
Karachun back to bring harm and death—could that be? Khaya knew very well that part of him was real. He was the famine starving, the cold freezing, the fever carrying off. Death had many faces. However, he was bound to these shapes to take a human life and came always, no matter how cruel, naturally.
But could he be the stranger knocking at the door at midnight, summoned by a vyed'ma? Did the Old Gods hear the voices of a simple witch? When she herself had cried for him in anger, Karachun had not come, whether to give back what he had taken or to punish her for deviance. Neither did Svet.
Khaya nestled down deeper in her sheets that weren't able to grant her warmth, for a certain cold had manifested too deep inside of her to be driven away by mere furs. Outside, the wind wept like a motherless child.
Khaya. Khaya, it whispered.
She stiffened, wide eyes frantically searching the room. A breath captured undrawn in her throat. Was there a strange shadow on that wall? Too dark, shaped like an ominous hand reaching for her?
