The forest allowed them a clearing—small, encircled by crooked birches and the remains of what may have once been shrines or gallows. No birds sang. No insects buzzed. But it was dry, and for now, still.
They built the fire quickly. The flames crackled, throwing orange light onto tired faces and wide eyes. Smoke curled upward but seemed to vanish before reaching the twisted canopy.
Maksym sat cross-legged, sharpening his blade out of habit more than necessity. Yurko leaned against a rock, still pale and trembling. Kyi had his burned hand wrapped in cloth, the holy book cradled beside him like a wounded pet. Martyn picked his nails with a twig, mumbling to himself.
And Shchek stared into the fire, unmoving.
Methodius and Lybid returned after dark, their clothes stained with ash and chalk from rites they performed side by side, wordlessly. They sat among the others.
No one spoke for a long time.
Then Martyn, of all people, broke the silence. "My wife tried to stab me in my sleep once. Back before she drowned. I think she was already hearing the forest. Or something in it."
The others didn't laugh. No one mocked him.
Instead, Maksym added, "Mine just… faded. One day she stopped speaking. Then eating. She walked into the snow barefoot. I followed her tracks until they vanished in the trees. Never found her."
Kyi, after a long pause, said, "I don't even remember. My mother. Just stories. Dad said she was kind. She used to sing by the river."
Yurko was next. "My sister dared me to go into the reeds one night. She said she'd follow. I heard her scream. I ran. I never told our parents."
As they recalled the situations, it seemed that each in this group had something connecting them to the forest.
A breeze stirred the fire.
All eyes turned to Shchek.
He was quiet for a long time. Then, without blinking, he said, "I have no one here."
He looked into the fire, his face unreadable.
"I come from the eastern villages that believes in Veles, after the drought we had no choice but to move to other places," – he sighed, biting on a loaf of bread.
Methodius looked at the cross in his palm, then slowly closed his fingers over it. "Maybe that's why we're still here. Because we've already lost something."
No one argued.
The fire cracked. A log split, sending a spray of sparks into the black sky. In the distance, the river whispered its cold lullaby.
That night, no one slept easily.
Some not at all.