YAGA | ✓

TEN

•••

WHEN LILYANA WOKE UP, the other side of the bed was cold, the canvas cover creased with aged wrinkles.

Kazimir had left without saying goodbye.

When she got up, the house was completely silent. The witchhunters had already made their exit, not waking her. She was angry. How could they, not even knowing how long it would be till they came home?

It could be months, and she would have no contact, unless by some miracle carrier pigeons dawned into existence. Lily already wagered that they would certainly not. So here she would be, wandering the house like a lost soul, a ghost of a bride.

She'd planned to tell him in the morning, to give him some good news. To put some meaning in his life, a need to stay alive. All of the men had gotten terribly drunk last night, downing rakia till it was practically dawn.

Even after she'd taken him to bed, laid him down like a child with a damp cloth on his forehead and pail of water beside his side of the bed, he still hadn't bothered to say goodbye.

Lily couldn't deny that it stung, though she tried to reason with herself, defend her husband.

He's scared. He's exhausted. He's Kazimir Olyen.

What did she expect was going to happen?

She wanted to believe that her husband was unafraid, noble and courageous. Everyone seemed to think so, but she knew his secret, and it was one that she would take to her grave, how soon or far that would be.

Despite his lacklustre everything, she still loved him, undeniably and unconditionally. He was caring, funny and gentle. They'd been at each other's sides for as long as she could remember, him and her and Dimitri and Yaga.

Her mind lingered on the latter, and sharp nails dug into her palms as she shuddered. Now that was unexpected, monstrous in its dwellings and a beautiful tragedy in its grandeur. She should've known that something so perfect couldn't last, couldn't have a happy ending.

Their story, of gods and queens, was poison. It was a throne of thorns, dwarfing even that of the Czar's in comparison. Roses bloomed from it, dark and pristine, until she looked closer and she realised that the red roses were actually stained with blood. The throne dropped blood, from that smudged on the seat to the protruding daggers on the arms.

With that, Lilyana realised that she'd pricked her finger on the needle by her bed. Forgetting about the hole in the stocking that she'd been patching up a few nights before, she'd instinctively reached into the lace to pull it onto her bare foot.

Only the tip of the needle had pierced the soft pad of her ring finger.

A bead of blood travelled down her skin, coming to a rest as it slid down the curve of her wedding band. As she made the bed, she noticed Kazimir's own ring, placed by the candle-holder. He hadn't even taken it with him.

Lilyana couldn't help it anymore - she wept for the husband that didn't seem to love her, the father-in-law that was too gruff to love, heart hardened with the loss of his wife decades ago. She wept for the child in her womb, for the uncertainty that she could offer her a good life.

After all, she was, in her most simple form, a ragged youth. She hadn't wanted to get married, though she loved Kazimir. She wanted to go on carriage rides, buy silks and go to bustling cities. Not sit in Salovo with a child on her lap.

Now, she had no choice. Exhaling, she laughed humourlessly. Her hair had fallen out of its thick braid, now in tangled curls down her back. There were only two emotions in her: sadness and exhaustion.

She took the fabric scissors and seized a hunk of hair, watching the black almost-ringlet fall onto the wooden floor. They floated downwards in a coal-coloured circle around her. When she'd finished, she felt a little less sad, a little less tired. Her hair now rested on her shoulders, instead of at her hips.

It was...nice.

She didn't want to clean it up. She wanted to leave it there, a memoir of broken memories, of the girl she'd been, years ago. The girl that she no longer was.

The face appeared in the mirror before she heard the footsteps. Instantly, she screamed, but not before the person pressed a blade against her throat. It was a tiny little dagger, used for slitting the throats of animals during a hunt.

Now, it would be used to slit Lilyana's throat.

Her attacker made no sound, but as she looked in the mirror, Lily's blood ran cold. The young woman's flesh looked like skin, but her touch was instead like a shock of icy water. There was only one word in Lilyana's mind: witch.

And her watery flesh was the least concerning aspect of her attacker, for her face was not her own. Lily wondered if she was losing her mind, whether the baby was meddling with her imagination. The baby.

Belobog, protect me.

I beg you.

The attacker wore Lilyana's face.

The same long nose, almond-shaped brown eyes, soft jaw and delicately slanting cheekbones. Even the lips, with their spiky cupid's bow, were exactly the same. Lilyana struggled to get the attacker's arms from her neck, panting between each movement.

"Please. Please. I'm pregnant. Will you kill an innocent child?"

The woman laughed. "No." Her voice hardened. "No. I will not."

"Let's make a deal, then."

The blade pressed deeper into her skin, making a shallow slash. Lilyana's vision blurred.

"What is your deal?" the attacker had a familiar accent, even perhaps from here.

"My child lives. Kill me. Let my child live."

For a moment, the woman stiffened, regarding her. Lily felt her eyes travel down her body, coming to a rest at her abdomen.

"Fine. But you die slowly and painfully. The child has an extremely low chance of survival. Is that what you want, Lilyana?"

"Yes."

"Very well. Do as I say, and do not make a sound. You die tonight."

•••

IT TOOK HER TOO LONG to die. Far too long, really -- another person would've been much easier, for this woman was strong. Far too strong. There hadn't been anyone with as much willpower as she had for a long time. The forest swallowed people like her up, jaws opening till only the crunch of jagged teeth on bone could be heard.

Death came down like a god itself -- but not Morana nor the Chernobog. Those were children's gods, two-dimensional cutouts of what real gods were to be. Real gods exploded like the blood of kingdoms, cannonballs battering the city walls, the slashes of swords and the heavy clink of metal on armour. Real gods were everything and nothing, as was everything else in their fragile existence, for once they were forgotten, replaced by new beliefs, they were dead.

Death was beautiful in its own way, Johana thought as she sat in her tent. Blood spilled from the throat of the young woman. She was dead. Tragic, undeniably so. An uneasy household, divided with feelings and lack thereof. She almost felt sorry for her.

There was a sound lingering in the air.

Murdered, murdered, murdered.

It droned on.

Johana shed her mask.

•••