The forest was silent.
Not in its usual way—this was not the thick, suffocating silence of threat or shadow. This was the hush of reverence. Mourning. The kind of silence that follows after the final note of a song too beautiful to repeat.
Kyi still knelt at the river's edge, clutching the Holy book to his chest, his face wet with tears and mist. The warmth from his healed hand pulsed gently, like a heartbeat shared with someone now beyond reach.
The others stood behind him, unsure whether to approach. Yurko was the most stunned by what he had witnessed.
Maksym put a hand on his shoulder but said nothing.
Methodius crossed himself slowly. "She was delivered. And she remembered… love. That is the truest proof of light."
No one spoke.
Finally, Lybid knelt beside Kyi, placing a hand gently on his shoulder. "She led us to the next step. I saw it in the way her spirit rose."
She pointed deeper into the woods, toward a path none had dared approach until now.
"Your mother wanted to help us. Don't give your mother efforts go in vain."
—
After having a simple burial ritual of Martyn, they continued, not daring to delay anymore.
The path twisted like an old wound. The light grew thinner. The trees leaned inward.
Every step was heavier. Each breath was met with resistance, as if the forest wanted to swallow their courage.
Darkness came faster than expected.
The shadows stretched unnaturally long, as though something unseen were tugging them across the moss and roots. The river had long faded behind them, but its chill lingered in their bones. None spoke of what happened earlier by the willows. They carried that silence like a wound.
"Not near water," Maksym muttered. "We sleep far from it tonight."
No one argued.
They found a patch of higher ground—a ring of trees with gnarled roots large enough to sit on, a bed of dry needles beneath their feet. Shchek gathered wood in silence while Yurko and Kyi built the fire. Lybid took out bone-charms and placed them in a protective circle. Methodius, characteristically quiet, murmured scripture as he walked the perimeter, cross in hand.
"Do you feel it?" Lybid asked as she lit the fire.
Methodius nodded grimly. "It watches. But it waits."
By the time flames flickered to life, night had fallen completely. The woods beyond were thick with dark, but no mist. No whispers. Only quiet tension.
As an experienced hunter, Maksym felt a sense of déjà vu.
A growl—deep and close—broke the silence.
Maksym was the first to rise. His hand went to his knife, but before he could move, something slammed into the fire, scattering embers.
A massive wolf.
But not any wolf.
Its body was long and distorted, limbs too thick with muscle, its fur knotted and dark with sap or blood. Its eyes burned red. Its breath steamed even in the summer air.
Shchek swung his axe, but the beast dodged unnaturally fast, snapping toward his throat.
Kyi grabbed a burning branch and thrust it between them. The wolf recoiled—but not in fear. It studied him.
Yurko gasped.
The beast growled again—this time a sound almost like a word. Not language. But intent.
"Get behind me!" Methodius shouted, lifting his cross.
The wolf turned and smiled. Its mouth didn't bend right, its teeth too human, too many.
Then it lunged.
Lybid shouted in the old tongue. Vines surged from the ground, grabbing one of the wolf's legs mid-pounce. It twisted, snarling, slashing at the roots.
Maksym buried his blade into its flank. It yelped—then retaliated, hurling him across the camp.
"Flame! Fire!" Lybid shouted.
Kyi and Yurko threw burning branches at it. One caught the creature's fur.
The beast shrieked—not in pain, but in rage.
It turned toward the trees and vanished into the dark, its cries echoing until they became nothing.
Only the fire crackled.