❝ 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 v. to tame the beast
❆ ❆ ❆
Never was the house of Abram Raskin that heaving. All of Lasow seemed to have gathered solely to find their way to the side of the priest. The house was all pushing and shoving of men, women, and children alike who came to speak thanks and warm welcomes to the two men of Svet.
Some brought with them little presents – fabrics ornamented by skillful maiden hands, talismans of Svets light caught in intertwined lines, and whatever else they could find—while others, cheeks red with shame, had nothing more to offer than reverential words and kisses on their hands and feet. With envy, they would stare at the ones bringing gifts like offerings to an altar as if earning the affection of the strangers was a war.
But the moment the priest blessingly laid his hand on their heads, whispering some soft words that to Khaya felt hollow, they forgot all resentment and smiled like love-struck youths. Mayhap some were. It was no feat that a man like Davor Kazminov would cause a stir beneath girls who knew nothing but Northern men built like oaks with their weather-beaten faces, rough hands, and a sturdy body. And even those who withstood Lasow's angry force to wither loveliness like Mladen still wore bland peasant clothes.
Lasowian beauty could not compete with those promises that lingered in fur and jewels, soft hands strong enough to masterfully wield a sword, demeanor, and address just like a grand prince.
It did not come as a surprise in any way. Had not Khaya herself seen the glances Majda's older brother caught every time he visited from Drehask with his fine horse? Still, it could not change that those dove-eyed looks through batted lashes, reddened cheeks, and pious whispers nauseated her now. All Khaya could think of was her alone with him in the church and what could've happened if Majda had not saved her from his wintry presence.
Like the priest, Davor gave the maidens nothing more than hallowed words with the same lips that formed threats before and polite nods and glimpses with the same eyes that stabbed her; all these little things meaning everything to them and nothing to him.
Only Mladen did not seem to engage in the universal euphoria, at least not when it came to Kazminov. While he knelt in front of the priest, kissing his hand and bidding his blessing, the boy shot Davor glances deadly as knives that gave the impression that his deepest wish, what the priest should really pray for when he mentioned Mladen in the presence of Svet, was his rival demise. Then, bowing for Abram and his family, he left, without having spoken a single word with the soldier.
"Please, will you pray for us, master?" an elderly woman asked with so much hope in her voice it hurt Khaya. A part of her wanted to shake these people who came to her family's house like pilgrims to make them see sense again.
