They slept in turns.
Maksym sat first, weapon across his knees. Then Methodius, then Yurko, each taking their shift in silence. The trees were still. The wind didn't blow. But the forest didn't feel asleep—it felt like it was watching them sleep.
By morning, the fire had burned low. A damp mist clung to their cloaks. Shchek stirred slowly, letting out a harsh, rattling sneeze.
Lybid turned sharply.
"I'm fine," he said, voice hoarse.
He wasn't. His skin was pale, his eyes watery.
Recent events, especially getting drenched in cold water, resulted in him getting sick.
Still, they moved on.
They followed the prints the wolf left behind—deep gouges in the moss and claw marks carved into bark. The trail twisted and led them downward until trees gave way to reeds and the scent of wet decay.
A swamp.
It spread before them in all directions: gray-green water dotted with patches of floating moss, with thick roots curling up like the arms of the drowned.
The wolf tracks stopped here.
"I hate swamps," Yurko muttered, trying to shake off a black leech from his boot.
"Don't speak too loudly," Lybid warned. "This place listens differently."
They waded knee-deep through the muck. Dragonflies the size of hands darted overhead. Faint voices—too faint—buzzed just at the edge of hearing. Shchek sneezed again.
A shadow moved on the far side of the bog.
Not a creature.
A hut.
On chicken legs.
It loomed above the boggy ground, pacing in slow circles as if impatient. Smoke curled from a crooked chimney that bent like a finger. Bones hung from the eaves, clacking gently in the windless air.
The group froze.
"I thought she was only a tale," Maksym whispered.
"I've heard the stories," Kyi added. "Our mothers told them to keep us from wandering at night."
"Who?" Methodius frowned. "What are you talking about?"
They all looked at him.
"Baba Yaha," Yurko said. "The swamp witch."