The ring of stones marked more than a border—it marked a change in the air, in the ground, in the rules. Time and sound warped beyond that threshold. Even the bravest among them—Maksym and Martyn—walked slower, eyes constantly scanning the trees, knuckles white around their weapons.
The group came upon the river suddenly. It cut through the woods like a wound, slow and gleaming, but thick as syrup and too dark. The water reflected nothing.
It was silent.
Too silent.
Lybid knelt by the edge, touching the surface with the tip of her finger. It stung, briefly, like winter burn. She recoiled.
"Don't drink it. Don't step in it," she warned.
Kyi crouched beside her. "The current's moving the wrong way."
She looked again—and he was right. The water curled upstream, as if dragging something unseen toward the forest's heart.
Then the air changed.
A scent of wildflowers. Wet moss. Lilac.
And singing.
A melody flowed up from the river, delicate as silk and sharp as hooks. Female voices, mournful and sweet. The melody wove between the trees like a spider's thread, brushing against their minds.
Maksym flinched. "We need to go. Now."
But it was too late.
A figure rose from the river—not walking, not swimming, but rising with the mist. She had long hair like algae, her skin pale green and glowing faintly. Her eyes were pools, black and endless. Water dripped from her limbs, each droplet hissing when it struck the earth.
She smiled.
And then another appeared.
And another.
Three Mavkas.
One stepped onto the shore, her bare feet leaving no imprint. Her voice coiled like a vine.
"Why do you come, blasphemers?"
Maksym drew his knife, while throwing bow to Yurko.
The Mavka's smile sharpened.
The river erupted.
One of them surged forward, leaping from the water and grabbing Yurko. He screamed as her arms coiled around his chest like serpents. Her mouth opened—too wide—and she hissed something ancient into his ear. His eyes rolled back.
"Yurko!" Kyi ran toward him.
"Don't touch her!" Lybid cried.
Too late.
Kyi grabbed the Mavka's shoulder, and his hand immediately blistered, other dropping an ancient holy book. She turned, her mouth dripping riverwater, her voice a shriek.
Methodius stepped forward, thrusting the cross before him. "Begone, foul creature! In the name of—"
The second Mavka turned toward him. Her body writhed unnaturally, water flowing over her like armor. She hissed.
But then she stopped.
Her eyes met Methodius's.
And something recognized him.
"Your God won't save you. Even Rod cannot suppress 'Her' now."
Then they turned and vanished into the river.
"We will meet again."
Yurko collapsed, gasping. Kyi pulled him back, ignoring the pain in his hand. His skin where he touched the Mavka was now gray.
"She whispered… something," Yurko gasped. "But… I don't remember what."
Everyone was silent.
Then Shchek finally spoke, his voice low.
"She lied."
Maksym stepped forward, his voice firm.
"We need to rest, let's stop here."
Lybid and Methodius nodded.
"I will go and purify the land around us." Methodius added.
"I'll go with you," Lybid sad indifferently, "You will need to help me set up the totems and idols."