“It’s a good story for you, I think,” an old woman said as she pushed a plate of cookies across the table. Late fall snow began to fall outside. Wet clumps obscuring the beauty of singular snowflakes. A mash of fate down the river of circumstance.

“Let’s not,” the man said as he dunked a ginger cookie into some milk. The woman looked across the table at him.

“I think we will.”

He shook his head and broke another cookie in half before dunking it, “Fine.”

“It started with the burying of an ash tree. Eight lightning strikes, a lost marten, and the last nightmare of a broken man.”

“What kind of story is this?”

“The kind that changes the future once you’ve heard it.” The house shifted underneath them. A flash of terror crossed the man’s face as he raced to the window. He saw a pair of giant, yellow chicken legs below— and the ground further beyond them. The old woman gave a wide smile and gestured to his seat. He sat back down. “Drink your milk. It’s good for the stomach. Calms the nerves.” He listened. “This is a special story. One that hasn’t been told for an entire age. But you bear the mark of the last Volhv to hear it. So you must hear it too.”

The man took in the room around him as he felt it spin in fear. Nothing inside could have been from the modern age— he didn’t know how he didn’t see it before. Black iron and bright silver decorated the main room— a giant cauldron peeked out from the kitchen alcove. “Kasimir, would you please pay attention. You can stare at the cauldron later. You might even learn something.”

Beginning’s

She kissed his crown as he knelt at her feet. Her hands grasped his head—

“I will bring you such pain that you will wish madness may obscure it. That death might pardon it. And you will love every moment.” Her lips left a crimson mark. The lipstick was a promise of the future.

“I will tear your mind asunder.”

***

The hero of Kyiv slipped into the forests. A bow at his back and enemies close behind. Vitaly had rescued Countess Terez, only to face accusations from her father that he sullied her honor during the extraction from the besieged fortress. Not even Terez’s protests were enough to stop the Count from loosing his dogs on Vitaly. He killed two of the monstrous Kavkazskaya Ovcharka dogs before a third shredded his shooting arm. Vitaly cut the last one and scrambled away into the night. Men at arms rallied behind him at the Count’s call and followed the bloody trail. They were eager to claim the bragging rights and gold prize. It’s not often you get to dangle a hero over the coals.

Unfortunately for the Count’s men, they followed the descendant of Ilya Muromets. You can’t catch monster hunters in the forests their legends were born in. Vitaly’s ancestor killed the Nightingale. A chimera-like creature— with its blend of human and avian features. Its deadly whistle once leveled the palace of Prince Vladimir. Not that the Count cared for legends or heroes. If he did, he would have recognized the Muromets emblem on Vitaly’s chest and bowed. The men at arms lost Vitaly’s tracks as he wove his way amongst the thick brush. The cover of night erased any hope the men might have had before Vitaly crippled the dogs. Don’t chase a Muromets into the woods. These things are known.

The young hero holed up in a hidden cave some miles beyond the city. His grandfather, Oleksander, taught him about the secret places within the woods. He taught him the bow, the hunt, and the last vestiges of the Nightingale whistle. Forbidden magic to anyone without Muromets blood. Even Baba Yaga did not practice it. The forest mother did not need a sonic whistle to split the bodies of men. Vitaly made sure he did not venture near her hollow. He prayed to Chernobog that her house did not feel restless and relocate. He shuddered at the thought of its giant, yellowed legs.

The cool air in the cave let Vitaly slip into a deep slumber. The fear and adrenaline from his escape finally wore off. A women’s voice sang a haunting melody. A dark cloud released a torrent of water and black snakes writhed within it. Vitaly woke with a gasp. Signs from Chernobog. Ill tidings come closer. The young man was not as steeped in dream lore as his grandmother, Alina, but he remembered her warnings of prophecies from the Black God. Chernobog protected his own, but the God of evil was a fickle deity. Vitaly knew he served to appease, not to trust.

The shrill cry of morning birds met Vitaly’s ears. He rolled off the damp ground and got ready for a long trek back to Lukomorye. He had sacrifices to make if he was to slip the yolk of the Black God. His forehead pulsed with warmth where he had been kissed. Vitaly shuddered at the thought of her lips leaving their mark. His grandfather would have been ashamed— A Muromets under the spell of another? It would have been better to die.