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Chapter Text

Crispy autumn leaves littered the trees, and just like that, summer was over. A cool autumn breeze wrapped around Katerina’s thighs like a possessive, jealous lover, claiming she was nothing more than a mere fool for still entertaining the idea of dresses and silken slippers. She liked to think of herself as merely stubborn, but chilling whispers in her ears and goosebumps crawling up and down her spine made the woman betray such optimistic notions and arm herself with the truth - she was a fool.

As the light vanished from the sky, and the one that followed her from the village behind slowly retreated into the shadows of the forest, she felt not only cold but also quite uneasy. These were not the times of war anymore, but ghosts of it still remained, crawling in the darkness, watching from behind the trees.

Too much blood had been spilled in the outskirts of Ravensdeep, too many good people lost to not feel the grief whilst trudging through the mess of earth and roots, and bones.

Hugging herself, she hurried, lithe fingers flexing, digging into her upper arms, trying to hug the cold away even if that was nothing more than a fool’s folly.

“Satan, spare me.” Words came masked as an exhale, barely audible, but they were not meant for anyone’s ears but hers and the Dark Lord’s. Brigitte would’ve slapped her silly if she heard Katerina asking for anything from him - specifically something so insignificant - but Brigitte was not around to hear it, and Katerina barely believed Satan was either. Such blasphemous thoughts were better off left unspoken, especially in a village full of zealots, claiming their faith was what kept them alive during the war. And after the sounds of iron clashing against iron ended and children screaming too, all who remained clung to what little wisps of faith they still had in order to keep moving forward.

Katerina had had so very little faith from the moment she saw blood and guts running down the forest floor.

She shook her head, trying to keep the dire thoughts as far away as possible - preferably together with the mass grave that to this day attracted ghouls and mire hags that desecrated it long after the flesh and bones had seeped into the soil. And though the bodies were buried kilometers away from the village, sometimes on evenings as glum as this, she swore she heard them screeching and cackling like malignant spirits, like flesh-hungry cockroaches that infested every nook and cranny until there was nothing left but fear.

Darkness enveloped her fully now, clinging to her skin like a cloak of thick, suffocating mist - humid and freezing. She had nothing else to do but shrink into her flimsy coat that had long since overstayed its welcome and should have been retired to the back of her closet until spring came. A tiny wicker basket full of herbs Brigitte requested dangled from Katerina’s wrist, banging against her stomach as she hugged herself even tighter.

A branch snapping - or what she swore was exactly what she heard - had the woman spinning around, wide green eyes scanning into the darkness, narrowing only slightly to make sense of what was a branch and a tree trunk from what her panicked mind injected into her peripheral vision: something always there, something stalking.

A silent caw of a crow in the distance set her skin into a never-ending canvas for goosebumps, unease raking down her throat. But she had taken this path back home for as long as she could remember and never once had she seen anything else but a bird or a rabbit scurrying away from someone they did not expect to meet this deep into the forest.

If only Brigitte was sensible enough to move into the village after the war, after there were so many empty houses left, all far more accommodating and better situated than her little, nearly-rotten cottage. ‘No creek, no deal,’ Katerina remembered Brigitte saying before an almost villainous cackle escaped her. Whilst it earned only an eye roll from Katerina back then, now it deserved some unsavory words muttered into the wind.

Cold remained stronger than paranoid fear, and with newfound dedication Katerina continued on, albeit faster and angrier than before.

She knew there was no reasoning with Brigitte. Her great-aunt was as stubborn as a mule and, after Katerina’s parents’ death, she also grew a single maternal bone in her body-  which had never existed when Katerina’s mother was still alive - that she didn’t really know what to do with apart from smacking her on top of the head with it every single day. And even if Katerina was not a kid anymore, far from it at her twenty-five years of age, that instinct auntie dearest displayed never went away.

Thoughts dripping with slight discontent were far more preferable to those of things lurking in the shadows; those thoughts brought Katerina closer to the cottage she now called home. She saw warm light seeping through the windows and painting some of the dull brown leaves in warm shades of orange and gold. If she listened really carefully, she would’ve heard Brigitte carrying on with her pots and pans and vials full of dark grey sludge that reeked whenever she crafted it. If she listened, she would’ve heard her great-aunt cursing under her crooked nose, talking to the herbs and potions as if they were her little pets capable of understanding every single word.

But Katerina didn’t listen. Instead, she broke into an almost-run, closing whatever distance remained between the front door and the muggy, foggy forest that surrounded their cottage, keeping them as far away as possible from whatever civilization - no matter how shrunken - of Ravensdeep.

“Praise Satan, child, I was growing worried,” Brigitte greeted her from the kitchen the first thing after Katerina stepped across the threshold and bolted the door shut. A puff of condensation escaped her mouth, a last reminder for that night of the chill that enveloped them.

“Praise Satan,” Katerina muttered, earning a loud disappointed “humph” coming from the same direction that the greeting had.

Brigitte was not one that Katerina referred to as a zealot, but her faith in their Dark Lord never waned, not even when the tip of a soldier’s sword grazed her great-aunt’s throat, drawing blood. If anything, she only closed her eyes and remained unmoving, praying.

Katerina shook her head, ridding herself of yet another thought that had no place. Not tonight.

“Arabella was incredibly chatty today, you know how she gets when I come to her with that list of yours.” She would not mention the time spent in the middle of the forest trying to either see or chase away the ghosts, nor the fear that rooted her to the spot like it would a child lost in the forest. There was no need to divulge such information, and Katerina was not ready for the lecture.

Instead, making her way into the kitchen she sighed in contentment, feeling the warmth licking her nearly frozen thighs, kissing her face and slowly working to dry the dampness coating her skin. “Which begs the question, auntie, whose army are you trying to heal, for what other need would there be for all those herbs?”

“Heal? Oh, sweet child, who ever thought I would heal any armies?” Brigitte’s hands went for the basket that Katerina parted with willingly. Crooked fingers lifted and smelled every pouch, every bundle of herbs as if they were the best perfume brought from across the sea.

“Poison them, then?” Popping a piece of yesterday’s bread into her mouth, Katerina prodded with a grin.

“Well, not without belladonna.” Raking fingers through the contents of the basket, her great-aunt scowled, clearly missing the pinnacle ingredient in whatever devious brew she had her mind set on.

Katerina was never good with potions, no matter how long Brigitte insisted she was supposed to have a gene for it. After all, great-great-grandmother and all the women before her were potion makers, their fingers blue and green from all the stems and leaves and roots they picked and ground daily. She harumphed a lot and often when Katerina was younger, trying to make sense of what was what, trying to scrape the black congealed glue from the bottom of the pot, silently cursing all the good spirits that must’ve snagged Katerina’s talent for something that was supposed to be granted to her from birth. But apart from an amateur healing potion, that craft was not something the woman could boast of having, which earned many a side-eye from her great-aunt when she thought Katerina was not looking.

“Arabella promised to have it tomorrow. Apparently belladonna flowers are few and far between, though I suspect she found some wealthier patrons to provide those to instead.”

The village did not have a flourishing economy - far from it - but little by little the roads became busier with travelers and peddlers after enough time since the war had passed. It was as if someone dotted Ravensdeep back on the map, sensing that the roads were yet again safe, from soldiers and ghouls both.

“Satan forbid, páiste.” It was not uncommon to hear Brigitte still speak the old tongue, though her calling Katerina a child in whichever language of her great-aunt’s choosing was never met with applause. “Remind Arabella tomorrow that if it wasn't for me, she would still be snuggling to her husband’s limp cock every night.”

Well, that earned a snort and an image in Katerina’s mind she prayed Satan (and would pray to god if only he was the one to help her too) would pluck out immediately.

No such luck.

“In not so many words, auntie, but I will.” Promise crossed above her heart with the tip of her finger. “I will go to the village before the Night of Black Thorns tomorrow, and if she does not provide, well, she better hope that her name will not be the one to come out of your mouth when you prick your finger.”

“Hush, Katerina, the Night is nothing to joke about.”

The Night of Black Thorns had been an unholy tradition of Ravensdeep for as long as Katerina could remember. One night when the village tumbled into an eerie silence, yet the fields nearby burned bright with bonfires and the forest grew even darker, watered by blood. Since the time she could walk, Katerina remembered pricking her finger and dripping generous drops of crimson onto the roots of old oaks, whispering first and later begging for them to awaken her powers.

For what is a witch with none?

“Is it not, auntie?” Defeat and ire marked her words as she lifted slender fingers and gazed upon them, willing for but a spark or something equally infantile to graze their tips. All for naught, and so it had been for all those twenty-five years. Katerina saw babes produce little wisps of smoke or splashes of water already in their cribs. And yet here she was, neither a potion maker nor a magic wielder. “For Satan himself must be laughing or else how would you explain this?”

Silence grazed the kitchen, only timid crackles in the hearth remained, and yet none between Katerina’s fingers.

She knew her great-aunt, could sense that deep wrinkle setting between her brows, itching to chide Katerina for using the Dark Lord’s name in vain, but as sacrilegious as it was, Brigitte didn’t dare.

“That’s what I thought.” With a sigh, she walked around the table, planting a soft kiss on her great-aunt’s cheek. “I shall retire now. After all, tomorrow will be such an important night.” Heavy sarcasm twined and clung to each word. She heard it earning a mumble from Brigitte, but by that time Katerina was out of the kitchen already and walking up the creaky steps to her bedroom.

Tomorrow she would prick her finger - all ten of them if she needed to - wishing the Dark Lord choked.

Chapter Text

“I bet she did not hear a word I said.” A displeased mumble coming from her friend’s lips pulled Katerina out of that murky haze called her mind.

Head turned to the side was greeted by a warm smile coming from Alexei and a scowl gifted by Alina, both of them so unceremoniously wrapped in the moment, something that could not be said for Katerina herself. Somewhere along the road leading to stories of copious amounts of mead and unsavory gentlemen that Alina had some colourful words about, Katerina’s attention ran free towards the thoughts of the night before.

The night had been a violent one, plagued by nightmares and howls outside the window that Katerina swore were real and not a figment of her imagination, not something that came as an aftertaste of her dreams. Dreams where she was running barefoot through the woods, chased by a faceless, nameless someone, their hands ending in sharp talon-like tips grazing Katerina’s skin enough times to draw blood until the back of her dress clung to her skin, drenched in it. Just like sweat did when she finally gasped awake, sitting straight in her bed and listening to the howls and shrieks coming from the forest.

The one chasing her could’ve caught her numerous times, could’ve sliced those razor-sharp tips right across her jugular, but never did, instead teasing possible demise but never giving one, as if clinging to it, reminding Katerina that it belonged to no one else but the entity itself.

And those dreams painted dark shadows under Katerina’s eyes, standing out starkly against her pale skin. And yet the biggest damage they did was to her jumbled mind that now was incapable of focusing on the conversation, instead raking through every little detail of the nightmare, trying to decipher its meaning.

Veynar women, Katerina’s family women, believed dreams of any kind to be prophetic, studying them in their circles, drawing maps of what could’ve been. She found many books from her great-great-great-grandmother where most common signs and actions were deciphered and strung together into vague explanations. And if Katerina had to take a bet herself, she would bet that dark murderous pursuers were not signs of good tidings.

But she knew Brigitte would brush it off, for magic never graced Katerina’s body and thus her dreams were nothing else but empty nuisances.

“Something about Callum’s wandering hands?” A shrug that accompanied a guess that was as good as any finally tipped Alexei towards bubbling laughter and sent another wave of displeased mumbles past Alina’s lips. First, about Katerina’s attention span, but then it turned towards the main man of the story himself.

“Oi, you,” one angry finger dangerously close to Alexei’s face had him clasping a hand on his mouth. “Do not encourage her. Whatever would the others think if they heard we were discussing the elder’s son himself?” Alina’s question earned a very dramatic eyeroll from him, but his shaking shoulders finally stopped and the hand dropped, releasing no accompanying waves of laughter.

“They would think the same as they do daily, seeing as he is not so discreet with neither his hands nor his cock.”

This earned a loud thump of Alina’s fist colliding with Alexei’s chest, drawing a silent ouch from him.

This Katerina watched intensely, pushing her thoughts and nightmares aside. Being around two of her oldest friends brought some eerie taste of normalcy atop the tip of her tongue that she drank as if it was a nectar of gods, lapping up every little drop.

She met them both even before the war, their parents attending the same unholy communion for the Dark Lord himself every Friday. But where the grown-ups were praying and offering blood and sin for their savior, the children found other ways to occupy themselves, stealing little trinkets and cuddling behind thick dark curtains in a perpetual game of hide and seek.

When the war came, both Alina and Alexei lost their parents too, seeing as they were powerful witches and thus a priority for the king’s crusade to eradicate, wipe from the face of the earth completely.

The war ravaged the land thirteen years ago, and yet some of it was just as fresh in their minds as if it happened yesterday.

Surely calling it war was giving it more power than it actually had, for it was nothing but a mindless slaughter of every man, woman, and child in their houses, in their beds, in the village markets. The soldiers clad in white and gold rolled through the lands like an angry ocean wave and in one fell sweep cut down everything that they feared.

Every witch, every priest, every member of the Dark Church. Those who were not beheaded were found with rosaries crammed so deep down their throats that only a little cross remained dangling past their blue lips.

It was but a reminder that one God, their God, did not share affection, nor did he wish to see anyone else drinking in the wealth and riches, and prayers meant for him.

Those who remained were either lucky to be able to hide through the worst of it, or those with so little or no power at all that they were of no interest to the king or his men.

Pushing her fingers through her dark unruly locks, Katerina sighed, for once feeling just a touch grateful for having no power at all.

Her friends, however, had plenty of it, most siphoned and cloaked by their parents when the words of the crusade reached Ravensdeep, so as to protect at least their children and some others that they could before violence took its toll, sparing not even themselves.

But even if the war was thirteen years ago, to this day none dared to show their magic, not to breathe about it to anyone.

Katerina only learned of Alexei’s magic when they were eighteen and too drunk on cheap wine. When his fingers trailed under Katerina’s dress in the dark stables and their eyes shone in foolish drunken desire that they felt they owed to one another and themselves to finally succumb to.

And when he entered her, clumsily and quickly, sparks seared her skin where he held onto her hips for balance, leaving blisters and later scars that took a while to disappear, even with Brigitte’s tinctures.

Alina was more forthcoming about her own, digging her fingers into Katerina’s great-aunt’s soil and helping vegetables sprout before what many expected to be a very cruel winter. Alina, the kind and tender-hearted girl, never lost her desire to help those who needed it, even if it meant showing them who she was and, as such, baring her neck to those who wanted to jam a knife there.

Not Katerina, never her. Her friends’ secrets were to be kept and dragged into her grave.

Fire, earth, and nothing.

“Alright, so what about…” Casting a quick look around them as they trudged across the village square, Katerina chose to lower her voice, and leaned in a bit closer to her friend. “You-know-who’s hands or cock, Lin? Do not tell me you still see redeeming qualities in that man?”

A pout formed on Alina’s lips, that exhale that followed Katerina could only call hopeful.

“We’ve all had tough lives, Katerina. Some chose to move on, others chose other ways of dealing with it. Do you really believe him that far gone?”

“Yes!” Both Katerina and Alexei nearly roared, causing people to turn their heads at the commotion.

“Did you forget how he brought you flowers but then the moment you said no to his sloppy advances he took the next girl home, making sure you saw that?” Alexei practically hissed, both in an attempt to keep his voice down and in a form of venom-letting.

Ever the knight in shining black armor.

“Alright, enough.” The defeated slump of Alina’s shoulders betrayed her, but Katerina knew better than to believe it, for the next day would come and the same tale would rewind. “What’s going on with you?”

Put in the spotlight, Katerina blinked. “Whatever do you mean?”

“Oh, do not give me that. You are barely listening to us and your under-eyes look like someone dragged a finger dipped in nightshade juice.”

A quick glance towards Alexei in a silent plea to help earned nothing.

“No valorous tale to tell, Lin. Didn’t sleep well, that is it.”

“Nightmares?” Alina was one of those who believed in the power brought forth from unconsciousness, regarding dreams like one would written tales.

“Pleasant ones, if you must know. Where no one was interrogating me and my friends lived happily ever after.”

Subconsciously, Katerina’s fingers skimmed the back of her neck, almost feeling those deep gashes from her dream oozing blood. But apart from soft skin and stray locks, it was unmarred, unlike her mind.

“Yes, of course, I also look like this after my pleasant dreams.”

“Of Callum’s cock, I bet.” Here Alexei finally decided to chime in, earning a groan from Alina and a face buried in her hands.

It was rough around the edges, but she appreciated the change of subject that earned another silent hissing rant from Alina that Alexei absorbed like forest moss – gallantly but not without a grin meant only for Katerina.

Leaving them in a heated debate about who’s the villain – Callum or Alexei – Katerina skimmed the measly crowd gathering in the square, looking through the nearly empty stalls whilst trying to purchase something that would last them through winter.

Fewer people meant fewer mouths the soil had to feed, but at the same time it meant fewer hands to work that soil.

The town was not doing so bad if one was to believe the tales brought by peddlers, of Duskvale and Starfen, and Blackmere, all but ghosts now with only a handful of people still trying to survive, trying to rebuild what was left of their villages.

All while Veloria, the city of the king, prospered.

Some tried to escape the villages and move closer to civilization even if it meant cooping up in the outskirts and only seeing the royalty through their murky, sooty windows. None returned, still chasing the dream, but the same peddlers and merchants brought stories which they made sure to recite with a disgusted frown, of dark and dirty neighborhoods sprouting next to the capital like warts.

Katerina believed that would be the closest those people would ever get to grandeur, but hope alone was enough to nourish them.

As the fight behind her was already diminishing and Katerina was in no mood to reignite the questions, she spoke. “I need to visit Arabella, she still owes auntie something. I’ll find you soon.”

“Do not take too long, we still have the Night to prepare for.”

A nod towards Alina and Alexei and then an eyeroll once her back was yet again upon them followed.

Walking on grimy cobblestones, Katerina marveled at people’s undying faith, yet she was not foolish enough to dismiss it or fault them for trying to cling onto some kind of remaining normalcy.

Many of their old traditions had died since the war. Black Mass was no more as no one was brave enough to proclaim themselves the High Priest, as that was nothing else but painting a target on their foreheads. Desecration Feast, Harvest of Crows, the Inverted Baptism — all such rites had also been buried beneath ash, bone, and soil; they remained only in stories that Brigitte was generous with after ingesting a little bit too much of fire wine.

The only one the villagers still clung to was the Night of Black Thorns, for it was the one where blood granted wishes and the villagers wished for nothing more but the King’s death and their past brought forward again.

Taking another sweep of the square, Katerina saw people stuffing their baskets with bread rolls and thin cuts of meat, preparing for a modest feast after blood was shed and wishes were muttered into the soil.

Silent greetings and quiet nods met her as she walked past every single vendor, eyes glued on the sooty brick wall of the apothecary where Arabella sold humble medicine over the counter and herbs from under it. Potion making was not deemed worthy of an execution, but the line was very fine and oftentimes crossed as it came to potions that were a bit more unsavory.

The King and his men found healing salves necessary during and after their crusades; however, anything that would serve to weaken, poison, or kill them was an offense worth beheading.

And that was why Arabella was still able to keep her store’s front door open, but many of the shadier dealings that benefited Katerina’s great-aunt greatly were to be murmured, not spoken, in one of Arabella’s dark backrooms.

A bell hanging above the door informed the healer of Katerina’s arrival, and the woman scurried from behind the thick dark curtains separating the store from the rest of the house.

She was a tiny old woman, hair white as snow and skin marred in thousands of shallow wrinkles, deepest ones etched between her brows and around the corners of her eyes. Almost as old as the village itself, Katerina swore, the woman was able to survive the war leaning on her two greatest weapons – sharp sweet tongue and healing potions she promised every soldier if they spared her.

This earned discontent from every remaining villager which, after all these years, even if more shallow, still remained in their blood. But she was the only option around, and even if every single villager decided not to entertain her trade, there were still plenty of peddlers and merchants swarming from the surrounding villages, keeping Arabella’s business alive.

Part of it Katerina could understand – half of those who remained alive promised or gave the soldiers whatever they needed in exchange for their lives. Potions, food, shelter, steel, some even their bodies to warm the fanatics through the night, no matter how much they boasted purity as a virtue instilled by their God.

When a cunt was presented to them, neither was strong enough to refuse.

“Oh dear, Brigitte must be seriously desperate for that belladonna if she sent you here this early.” The woman croaked.

Arabella and Brigitte were two different sides of the same coin. One a potion maker able to brew strings of healing potions and salves able to cure almost everything, the other – able to make a concoction of living dead and bottle plague.

Well, figuratively. Katerina hoped to never come across a bubbling pot full of the latter.

They disliked each other greatly, but every meeting was coated in sugary sweet pleasantries, like two hens clucking to one another. Maybe that was why Brigitte slunk more into the hermit life in the deep of the forest and Katerina was the one to make rounds once her great-aunt ran out of the things she needed.

“She is a strong believer of first come first serve.” It was a hint but not so hidden, not buried under heaps of vagueness. Katerina wished to make this visit shorter than the last and going straight to business could’ve been the right way to do it.

It made Arabella stumble on her next comment about Katerina’s great-aunt or her desperation, or anything of the sort.

It also made the potion maker’s lips draw even tighter, highlighting a web of wrinkles around her mouth. “I hate to send you back empty-handed, but I have yet to get the delivery myself, child.”

“Arabella, we both know you’re no middle-woman.” Katerina’s voice dropped lower into a murmur which she gifted to the crone, leaning in closer. “Your coffers must be full, but are you really prioritizing outsiders and their coin over people of your own?”

“Hush, child!” A hissed, snake-like warning whisper had Katerina’s eyebrows dropping and knitting together. “I must turn to being the middle-woman now, for my soil has been plagued and nothing lives in it anymore.”

This had Katerina caught off guard. For as long as she could remember, Arabella had the richest of gardens and rows of herbs. Before the war they were growing around and behind her house for as far as the eye could see. After the war she found a secluded plot of land far away from the village, and even if more modest, it was still a sight to behold.

“What do you mean?” For nearly a decade that plot of land was booming and nourishing various plants, and so Katerina had trouble wrapping her head around such a sudden decline.

“What do I mean, child? Roots rotten and stems black, there is nothing left of the soil but stench of death. First I thought ghouls had fought and vomited, and bled all over, but no ghoul blood remains so deep in the soil that even after digging, it is still black and dead.”

Lost in thought, Katerina dragged her fingers across the back of her neck again at the mention of fighting ghouls. Was that what plagued her nightmares? No. Ghouls are loud, their whines and screeches otherworldly. Her intruder was silent. Too silent.

“Satan bless us, child, but you and Brigitte will have to wait until the merchant arrives,” Arabella’s narrow eyes focused on the sun peeking from behind the clouds outside. “Lousy bastard is already late.”

“Fine.” Katerina finally spoke with a nod, deciding there was no need to fight a battle already lost.

Spinning on her heel, she proceeded towards the exit, muttering a quiet “Sorry about your garden” to Arabella over her shoulder, to which the healer responded only with a flick of her wrist, dismissing Katerina’s pity.

The sun outside hid behind yet another grey cloud, the warmth of the apothecary swiftly leaving the woman’s bones in favor of a chilly autumn wind that seemed unable to let go. This time she was better dressed to greet it, but the shiver still rolled down her spine.

This time maybe not because of the cold, but because of a string of unexplainable events springing up like spring flowers.

Even if not a believer of dream reading, nor was she arrogant enough to pretend something so vague and obscure, and living merely in her unconscious, powerless mind was worthy of being treated like anything prophetic, it was yet another cinder into a simmering fire.

Odd death of Arabella’s garden, incurable soil that had no explanation, late merchants, and then her dreams.

Not enough to send Katerina into panic, but enough to plant itself in the back of her mind as a silent threat that something was not entirely well.

Chapter Text

Branches hanging low from the tired trunks of old oaks trembled as the tremors of hooves beating against the weathered road in the distance grew ever closer.

Lone was the road, and quiet was the forest, were it not for that thundering sound rolling in like a storm brewing just below the horizon.

A strong mare, black as the starless night, emerged from beyond the thicket, carrying a man cloaked in black adorned with subtle embroidery of gold. He looked less a man and more a shadow, were it not for a twinkle of golden light catching in the few rays of sun strong enough to pierce the crown of branches overhead.

Tall and muscular he was, yet leaning into his horse with the poise of a skilled rider. He blended with the beast, seeming more a part of it than astride it, the two complementing one another rather than depending on one another. Gloved hands traced a patch of the mare’s neck almost lovingly, soothingly, earning a quiet sniff of approval from the nightmarish black beast that frothed at the mouth from running so fast and so long.

Kyren Malloch was a hunter — not one of the King’s men on his roster, but one the King had no qualms paying to ensure there was always someone patrolling his lands, reminding villages to remain fearful and ensuring the word of the King’s malice lingered even if his armies no longer marched. The lands were frightened enough not to breathe at ease even with the soldiers gone, but they still needed a reminder that their lives belonged to an eternal ruler — be it the King or God himself.

Kyren was his name, but the people called his kind hunters. For an extra coin - not from the King’s coffers - they sometimes rid village folk of monsters plaguing their forests, pastures, and homes. But only a generous coin could buy such help, and so few could afford it. Their steep price and other activities done by hunters earned them no grace in the eyes of fearful villagers.

Whenever Kyren’s mare’s hooves - or those of his brethren - shook the ground, anyone with sense bolted doors and shutters, desperate to avoid even a glimpse of those vicious dark shadows and their steeds.

The King was less concerned about monsters. His pouch opened generously only for the eradication of witches.

Every beheading or burning at a pyre paid handsomely. Hunters learned quickly that the more gruesome the execution, the wider the King’s grin - and the more generous the payment. What began as threats and swift death deteriorated into acts unspeakable, spectacles too vile to voice, too monstrous to watch.

It sowed panic across the lands, extinguishing whatever thoughts of uprising still flickered - no matter how few witches remained. And when none were found, the hunters made a spectacle nonetheless, sacrificing someone unworthy of such punishment but convenient enough to send the message of the King’s ruthlessness.

Kyren wet his lips, licking traces of salt and iron clean. The air was humming with past bloodshed, carried out not by his hand nor the tip of his sword. Yet blood and death he could taste everywhere he went, like a lingering reminder of the past - or a sweet promise of the future that was his for the taking.

Behind closed doors they didn’t call him Kyren. Not even a hunter. 

To them he was the Butcher.

Chapter Text

She chewed her lip raw and bloody on the way back to the cottage, pondering possible reasons behind Arabella’s blight and how woven together the sudden dream intrusions were. Foolish is the person who knits together two things that could barely even be called omens, let alone proof of something malignant, and clings onto them until desire and need alone is enough to make them stick. 

But odder things have happened.

Apart from war and the hunters brushing the lands like rakes in need of plucking out unruly weeds, the village’s - and those around it - fate often heavily relied on what her great-aunt referred to as Satan’s wrath. 

The Dark Lord oftentimes acted like what Katerina would refer to as an aggrieved mistress, earning more than just a dissatisfied look from Brigitte.

After prayers ceased and food went rather into empty screaming bellies than the dark altars erected for the Dark Lord, when time was spent raking the soil and making sure plants stuck instead of flogging themselves in Satan’s name, when prayers became hushed whispers instead of songs and processions, and celebrations going on for longer than a fortnight, their savior grew not even restless, but vengeful.

At least that was the explanation uttered in taverns and across the stalls in the market square, whenever a dead crow appeared as if it simply fell right from the sky or cabbages began to wilt and rot, or cows started giving sour milk. All of that had an explanation.

They were not worshipping Satan loud enough for him to grant any favors. 

And instead of being given, he simply took.

Making those few hundred remaining meters through the forest clearing leading back home, Katerina wondered whether the blight and her nightmares were just another expression of the Dark Lord’s displeasure for his flock.

“Shadows be with you, auntie.” Swallowing down that unease, Katerina called out the greeting after stepping through the threshold into the warm and minty house. Lack of the poisonous flower might’ve postponed whatever concoctions Brigitte might’ve been cooking right about now, but it didn’t stop the pot from bubbling, albeit with something a bit more pleasant.

The cottage was what Alina oftentimes referred to as cozy, even though Katerina suspected it was a filler pleasantry when none were there to spare. 

The entrance led into a tiny foyer that then opened into a huge kitchen - which Brigitte insisted was the main room in the whole house - and an adjacent tiny parlor room that, before the war, was used to welcome paying customers. 

Oh, the tales those walls have heard.

On the other side of the foyer was a little bathroom fitted with a washing basin, a small wooden washtub and a chamber pot for those freezing nights when going to the outhouse was not just madness but also a sin. 

A tiny wooden staircase from the foyer led upstairs where Katerina’s and Brigitte’s rooms were, even if more often than not she would find her great-aunt slouched on a dusty parlor couch.

Customers these days were few and far between, valuing coin more than they valued a tincture. Gone were the abusive husbands that earned a sip of sleeping draught every night to keep them tame, or demanding mistresses that earned themselves a rash. Those were things of vanity when they could afford it, but vanity these days was a luxury only a few could.

“Why do you come empty-handed, child?” Brigitte’s scrutinising gaze raked Katerina up and down as soon as she stepped into the kitchen before turning her attention back to the pot she was hunched over only seconds ago. Whatever was bubbling was a welcome distraction, for it took away some of that tension the woman was sure would’ve been instilled in a gaze alone.

“Would you consider blight and dead soil to be that which you call Devil’s wrath?” A question this vague earned her a quick glance from over Brigitte’s shoulder. “Apparently Arabella herself relies on other merchants to come bearing goods, for she has none of her own anymore.”

“Blight, Katerina?” She could almost taste a little tang of urgency marring her auntie’s words. “Tell me exactly what Arabella said.”

And so the woman indulged her aunt in the full story, no matter how short, sparing no details about potential ghoul blood assumption and land rotting from far below the first layer of soil. Somewhere in the middle of that story Brigitte’s hands stilled and the wooden spoon hung limp in her hand.

Silence ensued after the tale was over, an ever-curious eyebrow peaking up for a while until Katerina realised that the other had no answers to what ill will might’ve befallen their village outskirts where Arabella’s herbs had grown prosperously for nearly a decade.

This stillness was almost eerie, especially after a few more precious seconds ticked by, as if the woman was calculating something, trying to unravel a very thin web made out of practically nothing, trying to find a reason behind such sudden changes.

Katerina wondered whether that deep wrinkle between her great-aunt’s eyebrows was one of knowledge or one of utter loss.

But the thought was born and died just as fast as Brigitte huffed and released a slew of words, all in the old tongue that Katerina could neither understand nor even catch very well.

“This is no wrath, young one, the old hag is nearly blind as a bat these days. I would trust neither her sight nor her judgement as it comes to anything blight-related. She is one solstice away from turning all her healing salves into wart tonics by accident.”

Just like that the eerie stillness of the kitchen dissipated. Brigitte returned to stirring the pot, the ever-burning hearth crackled, and somewhere outside the windows an owl let out a mellow hoot as if calling the night closer.

“What does her blindness have to do with wilted herbs?” She was not buying this answer which, albeit passionate, didn’t pour trust down Katerina’s throat, no matter how hard the other tried.

“Herbs are fickle mistresses. Plant a couple of them too close to one another and the whole patch will rot.”

“So you really don’t find this suspicious at all?”

“Hush now, child, I will not listen to hearsay this close to the Night of Black Thorns. The Dark Lord is merciful and he knows of our struggles - what good would it bring him to bleed us even drier?”

There was no arguing on that front. Auntie remained ever vigilant when it came to defending Satan’s wrongdoings, perceived or not. Every fleeting moment spent trying to make her see sense, reminding her of a slew of other odd omens happening through the years, would only encourage her to direct that wooden spoon at Katerina’s forehead.

Her great-aunt defending the Dark Lord was not new, but fleeting shadows of worry that graced her expression when she listened to the story - and some that still remained in that moment - didn’t sell all that nonchalance as well as Brigitte might’ve wanted.

“And I am sure the Dark Lord will reward you generously for your service, auntie.” Katerina’s remark earned the spoon slowly turning in Brigitte’s hand until it faced Katerina together with a slew of ramblings of how the Devil was no one to joke about.

Half of it died out in the distance as she made her way up the creaky stairs towards the bedroom with still a couple of hours to prepare for the festivities.

Though festive the Night was not, hadn’t been in quite a long time. With the village’s numbers dwindling and food scarce it neither looked nor felt the way Katerina remembered. Constant threats of King’s men and hunters alike also hovered just outside the village border, whispering threats of terrible tidings and bloodshed that was far beyond just a prick of a finger.

Bonfires shrunk into just regular fires, and what used to be a whole night-long affair flowing in wine, blood, and chatter turned into a couple of hours at best.

In her bedroom, with the door closed and keeping out the smell of mint and smoke, Katerina knew that memories aside, there was little left for her to lament when it came to their faith. Long ago she realised that there was nothing left she could give the Dark Lord, nor that she wanted to to begin with.

When his most faithful were cut down and laid atop each other like barrels of rotten fish, there was nothing, not even a flicker of his power to save them or at least to spur their faith further. Silence and misery was all that remained in the war’s wake, many still blaming themselves for the Dark Lord’s absence.

But he was never interested to begin with - of that Katerina was sure.

A black dress laid out neatly atop her bed was prepared for the night. Even if old, it was still beautiful - the bodice cut close to her figure like a corset, every inch of it and the long sleeves veiled in fine lace. From the narrow cinch of the waist the lace gave way to silk, smooth as water, the skirt spilling in dark, liquid folds until it brushed the floor. Tiny golden beads decorated the top of the dress like little stars spilled across the dark sky.

The dress once belonged to Katerina’s mother, and all she could remember when watching her wear it was that mysterious elegance the woman exuded. Every Night of the Black Thorns Katerina wore it, trying to keep her mother’s memory alive. But she never looked regal or mysterious in it, far from it.

Her mother had the most beautiful blond hair flowing almost to her lower back, straight and silken; it contrasted well with the dress, calling out that stark difference between her hair, tanned skin, and black lace. Katerina’s dark unruly hair spun into curls and coils that, if anything, contrasted only with the forest itself and its branches twisting every which way. Black lace and black hair only accentuated her pale skin and made her look like a strigoi in a dress. Even if Alexei made sure she saw him raking his eyes up and down her body whenever he saw her in it, she was sure it was, if not pity, then his kind heart ensuring she did not feel as out of her skin as she did.

Running her fingertips across the lace that with time became weathered and rough to the touch, Katerina rounded the bed and made her way towards the window, watching shadows dance between the trees outside, listening to the gurgle of the creek nearby.

The sun was beginning to set and the forest looked more alive than it did when the sun was at its highest. Branches swung together with the gusts of wind, carrying their dark imprints across the mossy forest floor. But apart from branches and shadows, there was nothing around them save for a bird or two pecking at the branches.

Katerina had lived there for the last thirteen years and never, not even once, had she heard a howl so close to the cottage, as loud as it was the night before when she awoke from her nightmares.

Fingers tracing invisible damage done to her skin, she wondered what creature was brave enough to get this close to civilization. Or were they simply getting braver because there was not much civilization left - which, if anything, called to them like one would call a lord to the dinner table.

Wolves she cared little about. Sightings of them, whilst rare, were not necessarily fear-inducing. But wolves and deer, and rabbits were not the only beasts that prowled those lands. Ghouls favoured gravesites and were pleasantly fed well throughout the war. Mire hags, even though corrupted beyond their human forms, were still once witches who went too far in their desire to cast spells using organs and dead rotting flesh. Strigoi favoured fresh blood but were rumoured to be extinct after draining some of the King’s precious men and earning a bounty on their heads.

There were more — draugrs and wendigos, and banshees, and nachzehrers… Katerina was sure there were tomes of books somewhere in her great-aunt’s room written by some witch in their family detailing each and every one.

Back then people feared the beasts, but oh how little did they know that their death would come from none else but a man.

Exhaling a breath she held in her lungs for a second longer, Katerina turned away from the window and dropped her hand from the back of her neck to her side. 

If a little shake of her head was all that it took to pluck thoughts from her mind, she would’ve been grateful.

The night was quiet. Even with wood tossed together into messy fires and waves of chatter flowing around her, Katerina felt a heavy silence hanging above them like an invisible dome knitted from inky blackness and clouds. 

The forest clearing that had once housed hundreds now saw only fifty or fewer. Some people still entered from the darkness surrounding them; others, however, had decided to stay behind. Every year since Ravensdeep chose to bring at least one of their rites back, fewer and fewer people showed up, fearing both the silence of the Dark Lord and the ever-present threat of execution. 

Ravensdeep had seen hunters twice since the war. The first time one passed through was less than a year after the bloodbath had ended. He was young, maybe twenty, with a sharp jaw cut from stone and covered in a gruff still too sparse for someone that young. Katerina remembered hiding behind a tree, watching as a brown stallion passed along the main road into the village square, the rider surveying everyone as if expecting them to start pulling bunnies out of their sleeves. 

Back then, hunters were still mere mercenaries fed by the King’s coin, not yet addicted to blood and gore. 

He left as soon as he arrived, leaving behind a trail of hope that things might be looking up. 

The second came five years after the first. Instead of riding, he walked beside his horse, reins in a gloved hand, a dark piece of cloth covering the lower part of his face. Only those pale blue eyes shone. He was a figure dressed in black, and after his visit Katerina insisted that his soul was just as well. 

Like the first, he made his rounds through the village, but once in the square the man - no, not a man but a beast - stopped, those steely eyes locking on one of the girls, Maria. She was quiet, barely fifteen back then, without a speck of power in those brittle, malnourished bones. 

But to him it did not matter. 

To this day Katerina remembered her screams as he dragged her across the cobblestones and took her head right there beside his horse. 

Peddlers and merchants had brought tales of hunters’ cruelty long before that day and continued long after, carrying Maria’s story with them as nothing more than a tale told to frighten children senseless. 

From that moment, fear lived in every villager’s bones, and the Dark Lord lost a few more attendees to his Night of Black Thorns.

“Praised be, children of the night.” Eamon Thorne, the village elder, spoke from behind Katerina, making her spin on her heel to watch him approach the sparse crowd. His son, Callum, walked beside him, and Ailis, Eamon’s wife, followed with her head held low, watching not the people but the roots beneath her feet. 

“Praise be to those of you who gathered tonight to offer yourselves to our Dark Lord and the beauty his unholiness created.” 

Katerina’s face twisted into a scowl, and if it weren’t for Brigitte pinching her hand, she would have voiced it too.

Beauty? Katerina failed to see any. 

All around them were sullen faces and sunken eyes, glittering only faintly as they tried to hold onto what was once familiar. 

Gone was the laughter of children that used to paint the night; now every one of the few remaining stood biting their lips, constantly silenced by their parents. Gone were the sky-high bonfires and girls dancing around them, gone the makeshift tables sagging beneath the feast. The only thing that remained were the oaks, still standing tall and unbroken - the sole living testament to whatever beauty the Elder rambled about. 

And ramble he did, delivering speeches meant to inspire faith; and while most drank up his words like honey, even Alexei and Alina - whom Katerina spotted on the far side of the clearing among other familiar faces - she herself couldn’t be bothered to listen. 

Her mind filled with venom, her tongue coated in it; though deadly, it tasted sweet, and she savored it. Like wood thrown into the fire, it did not ignite something new but stirred what already simmered. 

She had outgrown the village, outgrown the silly tradition that brought them no good, outgrown the Devil himself - for he failed to appear as anything but a monstrous entity no one should worship. And so she simmered and boiled in that realization throughout the speech others likely found eloquent and inspiring, for even Brigitte gasped and murmured in near happiness.

By the end of it, a foolish thought formed - one that sometimes reared its head but was always kept placid: she had to leave. 

But then common sense crashed into her chest. Where would she go? She had no one and nowhere to turn to. Moving to the capital’s outskirts beside the royal sewage was hardly an idea worth entertaining.

And so, in that clearing surrounded by trees, Katerina felt more trapped than she ever did in her tiny little bedroom.

“Come now, children, pick up your branch and bleed for our savior.” None dared to clap or cheer him on, for fear of being heard, of being found. What kind of saving did Thorne truly expect? 

Silent murmurs and nods followed as all lined up before the Elder, waiting their turn to pick a dark branch littered with sharp thorns.

“Looking dashing as always, Veynar.” Alexei stood behind her, leaning close so only she could hear. She felt his warm breath on her skin, raising goosebumps where, only hours earlier, she had been nursing an invisible wound left by her dream intruder. Gone were the days when Alexei’s compliments stirred any warmth in her; the years had sucked even that feeling dry.

“I know the Dark Lord would encourage whatever it is you’re thinking of doing behind that tree instead of letting a little blood, but I’m sure Brigitte would not.” 

The warmth and desire they once shared still lived somewhere deep inside Alexei’s heart - perhaps somewhere even lower - but he knew better than to let it surface beyond their occasional banter that meant nothing. 

He huffed, and a lock of Katerina’s hair stirred in his breath before the warmth of him vanished, replaced by the cool, damp breeze.

“Blessed be, child,” Aemon murmured, handing her a particularly thorny branch, and his lusty beast of a son winked before watching her walk away. 

Choices were limited here, and those worshipping the Devil were not known for their chastity, but if it ever came to entertaining Callum or facing a ravenous ghoul, Katerina knew her answer before the question was even formed.

Figures began to vanish into the forest one by one. 

The rite was simple: find an oak no other had claimed, prick a finger on the thorns, and offer a few drops of blood to the Dark Lord - promising that, just as their blood, their souls too would one day sink into the ground and be his for the taking. 

Katerina trudged deeper into the forest, spotting a lone oak hidden in the shadows of others. No one else seemed to have ventured that far; it was as good a spot as any.

She remembered years ago, when the village still blossomed and buzzed, many offered far more than a drop or two. Some had to be carried out, sliced and bleeding, yet smiling blissfully as their blood seeped into the roots of every oak they passed. 

These days, even if faith lingered, it - like their safety - was as sheer as lace.

Standing before the tree, Katerina leaned in, resting her forehead against the smooth bark, one hand tracing a patch of moss sprouting where the sun often kissed the trunk. She twirled the branch in her other hand, wondering what wishes others made as they watered the soil with their blood. 

Riches, perhaps. Fields full of grain and pantries always stocked. The death of the King and his men, preferably slow. Revival of their society, their faith. Peace. Safety. Life instead of mere existence.

And what did she wish for? 

All of the above - and something more. A path. A lone guiding star to light it. Something to show her the way. Her powers. 

But she had asked since she was a babe, and none had ever come.

So this year, instead of pleading again, Katerina pricked her finger in quiet resolve. Then pricked it again, watching two crimson beads form, trembling before they fell. Mesmerizing, almost.

“You,” she addressed Satan himself, offering none of the pleasantries, none of the shining titles others lavished upon him, “deserve nothing. Not a drop of blood, not a sprig of herb, not a sliver of meat, not a moan in your name on a fevered night. You are the king with no crown, the ruler of no lands, the lord of nothing.”

And instead of letting that drop be claimed in his name, she put her bleeding finger to her lips and licked the crimson clean.

‘How deliciously unruly, Katerina.’ The voice in her head was like the whirring of metal. It made her squeeze her eyes shut and dig her fingers into her temples with a whine. ‘Be careful what you utter in the night.’ 

Then silence sliced through her mind like a sword, severing whatever connection had been there - if only for a moment.

Katerina’s hands shook. Her eyes darted from one dark corner to another, frantically searching for the source of the voice. There was no figure, no man - nothing at all. Someone must have been playing a foul trick on her, right? 

That was all she could allow herself to believe, because the alternative… Well, she would not let that thought bloom.

Even if she wanted to, the screams from the clearing yanked her back, tearing through the night like talons through canvas. 

Screams and cries, frantic pleas - all swallowed her as she slunk through the shadows, trying to get closer, to see what the commotion was about.

Hiding behind a tree, peering out when the clearing came into view, she saw bodies scurrying every which way, wailing and screaming. She saw no one else, nothing else - until, like a hand wrapping around her throat, a sense of dread froze her still.

From the treeline, a horse black as night emerged into the clearing, carrying a rider seemingly wrought of shadow. Tall he was - taller than any man - for he towered above his steed like one of the mighty oaks around them. One hand held the reins; the other hanging low by his side.

No. Not hanging.

Clutching a sword, its tip dragging through moss and leaves, cutting straight through the earth itself.

A hunter.

Chapter Text

Frozen to the spot she remained, hands clammy and freezing sweat rolling down her temples, inviting dark locks to stick to her skin. 

It had been years since the last hunter scarred their village to the core, and even if that violence was not something all of them experienced intimately, tales of it carried by peddlers never lost their rotten grandeur. How vicious most of them were, how bloodthirsty, how familiar with the act of inflicting death, and how hungry for it.

Katerina watched some people scramble away, dive into the forest for protection, but what was there to protect? The hunter was not a hungry ghoul that lost interest once fed, nor was he someone who lost interest just because his immediate vicinity was vacated; the hunter saw them, smelled them, knew where all of them lived. Running was only delaying the inevitable.

She watched some of the people still rooted to where they stood - the Elder’s family, Brigitte, Alina and Alexei, a couple more families shivering, eyes darting back and forth between the hunter and the oaks as if deciding which was the better way to go. Children wept and mothers brushed their cheeks, trying to console them, practically delivering their last lullaby in an act of impending heartbreak.

Finally Katerina peeled herself off the tree and slunk a little bit closer, still shrouded in shadow and thicket, but now the scene was unfolding closer.

“Welcome to our humble celebration.” She heard Aemon speak, his voice shaky and uneven, but oh how he tried to maintain that merry tinge twined into his words all whilst the hunter slowly inched closer and closer to him. “Today marks two of our members’ name days and whilst the feast is humble, we are happy to extend an invite.”

The man was trying to catch flies with honey.

The Night of Black Thorns could’ve never been mistaken for a name-day celebration back then; however, these days its humble standing might’ve been seen as whatever one wanted it to be.

Silence, apart from children’s sniffles and mothers’ whispers, graced the clearing, hanging heavy above everyone’s heads. The rider did not respond; he only closed the gap between himself and the Elder, monstrous black horse stopping only when its muzzle was centimeters away from the man, huffing a thick cloud of mist in Aemon’s face.

The sword in the hunter’s hand was what Katerina saw everyone glancing at; however, it had not yet been lifted, tip resting against the ground.

“As I’ve been saying…” Aemon started again, but a sudden flick of the hunter’s wrist, the one holding the reins, silenced him immediately. For a moment it sounded as if the man choked on his words.

“I have heard you well.” The hunter spoke, and his voice sounded like something that was trying to claw its way up from the very depths of hell. Low and gravelly, it was more felt than it was heard – not a voice rather than an echo in Katerina’s bones. “But it must not have been a very good celebration, for if it was, why would they run away?” Gloved hand motioned towards the shadows of the trees; a poisonous chuckle rumbled in the hunter’s chest.

He was coaxing a reaction, mocking the most powerful man in the village where he stood.

If Katerina was closer she would’ve seen the tension in the Elder’s jaw.

“Well, whose name day is it? I would love to extend my congratulations.”

For a moment Katerina wondered if this was not that bloodthirsty monster of a hunter; maybe instead they got someone with a heart. A beautiful thought it was and so short-lived, as instead of congratulations the only thing that was extended was his sword-wielding arm, dirty steel tip pressing against Callum’s throat, coaxing a tiny rivulet of crimson.

“Yours?”

“No, your lordship,” Aemon started frantically as his wife released a shocked gasp at the same time. Callum just stood there, unmoving, eyes wide.

“Yours, then?” The sword swung again, this time drawing the same blood from the blacksmith’s skin. 

Silence fell, because there was no right answer. Whoever confessed, Katerina feared, would’ve faced something graver than just a nip on their throats.

“No, I do not think so,” the hunter continued, voice turning slightly bored, low and shrouded in shadow.

“Yours.” This time it was less of a question and more of a death verdict, pulling a gasp out of Katerina’s throat as she watched the sword make its way towards Alexei.

Her gasp echoed in the silence; she saw the hunter’s shoulder twitch, his head turn only slightly, not enough to see her or even the general area of where she hid, but enough for her to know he was aware of someone else’s presence.

It felt as if the hunter was done with the game; Alexei’s verdict sounded like a death sentence.

And the thought itself made Katerina’s legs move from behind the thicket, from those safe and comfortable shadows, from her solitude and her safe haven, into the clearing.

‘Do not be a hero, Katerina. Oh, how I despise heroes.’ The same whirring metallic voice she had heard by the oak returned, this time less painful and resembling a man’s more than some dark nameless entity’s; it pounded in her head and against her temples, making the woman squeeze her eyes shut and draw a breath before resuming.

“It’s mine.” She called out, speaking into the hunter’s back, her voice not steel but a restless current, ebbing and flowing both in fear and determination. Wide green eyes never once looked away, focused on the sword, focused on Alexei’s face that, white as it was before, now looked more like a drained corpse.

In the corner of her eye she saw Brigitte, her great-aunt’s expression stoic, but she was sure the woman was grinding her molars to dust.

“Ah, here she is,” the Elder finally choked out, his fingers flexing into his palms and then releasing before flexing again. A faux smile lit up his face yet never reached his eyes; the man seemed awfully happy to have someone to toss at the hunter other than his family, other than his son who so narrowly escaped, standing there now, bleeding. “Well, come here, child, allow his lordship to extend his congratulations.”

“Yes, come.” The hunter’s voice was almost saccharine, so sweet it made Katerina’s lips clamp, drawing into a thin line. Her legs trembled, but nonetheless, little by little, she braved that distance, praying to neither God nor Satan for her safety.

One was a destroyer and the other was a coward.

‘A coward?’ The voice in her head returned, and she swore she also heard that displeased tsk that echoed. ‘Cowards are those standing in the clearing wetting themselves, little raven. Cowards are those happy to sell you instead of facing the tip of the blade themselves.’

The mystery voice kept her company, sounding almost offended. And if it were not for a shadow and his nightmarish horse, she would’ve paid more attention to the intruder. But a voice in her head right then was nothing more than a nuisance whilst sharp steel was a threat.

Her priorities were clear.

By the time she approached the horse, and circled it at a safe distance - for Katerina suspected the beast would not hesitate twice to kick her right into the fifth circle of hell if given a chance - a steady stream of blood was running down Alexei’s throat, painting his cream shirt crimson. It was not yet enough to kill him, but given slightly more time, she knew the hunter would.

“Release him.” She spoke after making it to the hunter’s side.

From there she still saw little, as the man’s body was turned to his left, focusing still on Alexei. But she saw enough to be twice as sure that there was no way she would ever be able to win any kind of fight against him.

Even seated he looked incredibly tall, his thighs muscular, and even if the man himself looked quite lean, she could almost see tight muscle covering every inch of him. Dressed all in black he looked almost like a wraith were it not for that golden decor across his cloak and leather that reminded her of her own.

“No.” The man finally spoke, and this close to him his voice felt like satin ribbons meant to choke her.

“No?” A question tumbled past Katerina’s lips, rushed and not graceful. Her eyes widened and, in terror, she watched Alexei through the little opening below the horse’s neck.

“I was told there are two I must congratulate. So I will wait.”

And wait he could have, but Katerina knew that time was not something Alexei had.

“They must’ve run away.”

‘Lie better, little raven.’ The voice in her head spoke, making Katerina grit her teeth.

“I saw them in the forest even before you came here. There is no one else to congratulate, just myself.”

“Them? How awfully vague of you.” He mocked, sweetly. But his sword dropped from Alexei’s throat and Katerina finally exhaled, her eyes fluttering shut if only for one relieved moment. “Do you not know whose name day it is?”

“Him. I saw him in the forest.” She sputtered, deciding that wherever this went, a man would be better equipped to withstand the hunter than a woman would be.

“How awfully cowardly, don’t you think?” At that the hunter turned his body towards Katerina, and the sight of him took whatever courage she had, peeled it off her skin in an instant.

He was beautiful in a way that felt wrong - the kind of beauty that made the air falter. His build was lean, all grace and quiet strength, the power of a serpent coiled beneath stillness. Long dark hair brushed just below his shoulders, some strands twisted into slender braids bound with golden loops that caught the faintest light like sparks on obsidian. His jaw was sharp, his nose perfectly straight, and a dark shadow of stubble traced his cheeks and chin, softening nothing. His skin was pale, smooth, untouched by sun or flaw – not lifeless, but something far more deliberate, as if crafted rather than born.

And then there were his eyes - dark and depthless, hollow at a glance, yet within them burned a reflection of distant fire, small embers caught in an endless night. There was no warmth in them, no kindness - only allure sharpened into danger, beauty sculpted into sin.

Watching him felt wrong and yet she couldn’t look away, as if fearing that for as little as that moment would last, were she to let him out of her gaze, he would strike her dead.

“The girl who was killed by one of your kind would not think it cowardly, but smart.” The retort pulled a quiet gasp from someone in whatever tiny crowd there was still left.

And as a smirk tugged at the hunter’s lips, he skimmed the people, forcing them into quiet submission once more before his hollow gaze returned to her.

“My kind? Do you believe us ghouls or demons, not humans at all?”

“Do you believe whatever has been done here by your sword is humane?” Her gaze fluttered towards Alexei, who had his hand clamped on his throat, for just a second.

“And what treatment do you believe witches deserve?”

His question followed by that tiny smirk knocked the air out of her lungs. Katerina never forgot he was a monster, but now she was reminded that he was a hunter too. All their existence, their usefulness, relied on there being witches, just like the one who beheaded Maria even if she was not. They needed them to remain well fed. 

“If I see one, I will ask them what they think they deserve.” Maybe she was not fooling him, but standing there and admitting the truth was surely one step closer to demise. This way at least she kept him occupied until…

‘Until what?’ The voice in her head questioned, and no matter how eerie and despicable it was, she had to admit - he was right.

“Very well.” The hunter finally responded, running his blade across his cloak, cleaning it of blood and grime.

And for one blissful moment Katerina thought it would all be over, but oh how wrong she was yet again.

The same blade rose but not a moment later, and she felt its icy cold tip against her throat.

Maybe she would’ve seen her life flash before her eyes right then and there, but what life did she live for it to be remembered? Only darkness and death, and sharp claws against her skin, all woven together into the darkest, deadliest sonata.

“Allow me to congratulate you on your name day.” His voice dropped, sounded like it was coming from the very bottom of his lungs. Low and smooth and quiet now. So quiet. “After all, such an occasion deserves nothing else but highest honors.”

She felt that unmistakable heat at her throat as the steel finally pierced skin; it was but a nick, nothing as serious as what Alexei was nursing, but it still made her jaw tighten, made her eyes water at the ignored desire to close them. To close them and just breathe in until all was over.

But Katerina never did; instead she held that all-consuming gaze of his, peered into the depths of hell and burned in that fire all the same.

The bastard dared to smile, mouth finally deforming, deconstructing that smirk until it stretched into something wider, showing sharp canines, only a touch longer than what they should’ve been.

And with time the pressure against her skin faded; his blade was removed and whilst the time stilled and then practically stopped, she watched the man sheathe it back.

He didn’t leave, not yet; instead, remained very still, observing her. She felt as if he was taking every piece of her skin and peeling it off layer by layer until his gaze could lavish nothing else but muscle, blood vessels, and bone.

“Too bad your friend was not here. I would have congratulated him as well. A cowardly lover, perhaps?” Another chuckle, dry like sandpaper against her skin.

Before an answer even started forming, he erased any notion of it by leaning to his side, closer to her. So close she could smell pines and citrus and fire on his skin. He reached out, and she stumbled back, but not fast enough before his gloved fingers tightened against her neck, thumb toying with the crimson drops he drew himself on her skin. “Such gracious hosts, my conscience would not allow me to leave so rudely without congratulations where such is due. I accept your invitation, Elder. I shall stay for a night or two until the cowardly man is also congratulated as is appropriate.”

Leaning back, he pulled his grip away as well, held Katerina’s gaze for another harrowing second as that crimson-glowed thumb traveled to his lips, and with an ever-growing pit in her stomach the woman watched him lick it clean before rearing his horse and galloping away.

Back into the shadows.

“How are you feeling?”

Carrying a mug to the parlor, Katerina questioned, her unyielding gaze fixed on Alexei who, still white as a ghost, looked slightly better - sprawled on an old wooden settee draped in furs and tiny pillows, his neck wrapped in white clean cloth, the bleeding under control.

Half of her mind still lived in that moment when the hunter left - all the people afraid to draw breath, too frightened even to put their thoughts into words as they watched the darkness for a generous minute or two, as if waiting for their intruder to gallop in once again, swinging his sword until heads rolled into the forest.

But the sound of hooves never came, and that stillness stretched for just a moment longer until Alina started weeping, her tiny hands clutching at Alexei’s throat, trying to catch every drop of blood and push it back in.

She had been the first to pull everyone else out of their daze. After that, voices echoed - orders and instructions - Alina and Katerina dragging Alexei toward the cottage, Brigitte marching in front of them, hissing and cursing in the old tongue.

Where everyone else went, Katerina did not know, but she assumed everyone had had enough of the Night to stick around and bleed some more for the Devil. If she had to guess, they all went home to bolt their doors shut and simply survive through the night.

The only unknown was the hunter’s whereabouts. He mentioned waiting the nonexistent man out - but where? And why?

What elaborate game was he playing?

The thought of him dragged the memory of his tongue and lips smeared in her blood back into Katerina’s mind, and she shivered, spilling drops of the foul-smelling brew down her palms and wrists.

The burn made her hiss but helped get her mind straight enough to finish those two remaining steps toward Alexei and hand him the cup.

“Like a strigoi’s snack, Katerina.” The man groaned, and Alina, who sat on the floor next to him, sniffled. “Satan protect us, who is he, and why is he here?”

‘Yes, Satan protect you, little mortal.’

That voice again, purring like a cat - so distant and yet with undertones oddly familiar, chilling her skin to her toes. One quick sweep around the parlor confirmed her suspicion: no one else heard him. The voice existed only in the confines of her mind, distant and frightening.

‘Of course I am in your head. Though maybe you would appreciate me more if I were there instead? After all, what will you do with the hunter all by your lonesome?’

“Silence!” Katerina snapped, and now two pairs of eyes were watching her as if she had lost her mind, while the voice in her head cackled.

“Sorry,” she whispered, and even if neither of her friends really bought it, she wasn’t offering any kind of explanation. Eyebrows that had risen high and wide-eyed expressions finally eased back into glum worry.

In the distance Katerina heard her great-aunt fussing in the kitchen - pot bubbling and jars opening. She hoped the woman was cooking the fastest, deadliest poison she could, for nothing else would get rid of the hunter if he truly meant to stay.

“He will kill someone, won’t he?”

Alina’s weak voice didn’t travel far, and Katerina slumped onto the ground next to her friend, one arm sliding around her shoulders, pulling the distraught woman close.

“He will not.”

Katerina tried to sound certain where she had very little, but for Alina’s sake she lied. Even Alexei kept quiet, though she knew there were more colorful expressions waiting on the tip of his tongue. Instead he sipped the brew and twisted his face in disgust.

“Oh, what in the Devil’s name is that?”

“Yarrow, tansy, and some other herbs. It should help with healing and prevent infection. That monster’s sword was dirtier than the outhouse.”

“Not for you it wasn’t,” Alexei hissed through his teeth, taking another sip. “Do you think he is some kind of vampire? What was that with your blood?”

A flash of sharp teeth rose in her mind and Katerina screwed her eyes shut. “A hunter who is also a vampire? Impossible. Though desirable - for we could stake him as soon as the sun comes up.”

“Do you even know where he went?” Alexei countered, and Alina shivered in Katerina’s arms.

“No.”

A defeated sigh, a bitter admission. It left her mouth before she could come up with the more colorful words that made that voice in her head chuckle again.

Was it - he - still there?

‘Why, little raven, do you want me to be?’

That sound made her shake her head as if to rid herself of a bad dream.

“No,” she continued, the word meant both for the intruder and her friends, fitting neatly within the shake of her head instead of once more showing her lunacy. “One of the abandoned homes, maybe. There are plenty to pick from, and I doubt he’d choose somewhere mundane like an inn.”

Alexei’s gaze traveled to the ceiling as he exhaled, pondering the same thing they all did - what it meant for the village if the hunter stayed.

“Sleep now.”

Brigitte’s booming voice cut through the tension as she stepped into the parlor, wiping her hands on her apron. “This night has been long enough, and we all might need strength for what tomorrow will bring. You two - ” pointing her fingers at Alina and Alexei, she motioned toward two of the settees in the parlor - “these might not be the most comfortable to sleep on, but they are better than walking back into the village right now.”

Agreement came in the form of silence as Katerina pulled herself up from the floor - not before placing a kiss on Alina’s tear-wet cheek - and walked over to squeeze Alexei’s shoulder gently. “Try to rest.”

Silent murmurs followed her as she walked into the kitchen and, for the first time in a long while, wrapped her arms around her great-aunt in an embrace. Silence settled between them, for there were no more words to speak.

It lasted for a minute before Katerina pulled away, teary-eyed, but Brigitte still held her close. One wrinkled hand cupped Katerina’s cheek, thumb gently wiping one lone tear away.

“Never forget your bravery, páiste, your strength. You will need it soon.”

A gentle tap against her cheek, and with that Brigitte turned away, muttering, before returning to the bubbling pot, leaving Katerina speechless.

And speechless she remained as she climbed up the stairs, wondering what kind of strength Brigitte saw where Katerina felt none.

‘Your kin seem to mistake foolishness for bravery, little raven.’

The voice made her skip two steps at a time, racing toward the bedroom where she shut the door and faced the dark emptiness.

“What are you?” The whispered words came out for a figure that was not there, one that did not exist anywhere but in her head.

And then she waited. And waited more. All that greeted her was silence - silence that didn’t form any answers at all. Minutes ticked by and Katerina gave up, blaming the magic of the Night and the fright that followed, convincing herself that was the reason for her broken mind.

‘You think me a figment of your imagination?’ Conveniently the voice chimed in only when he found it interesting to. ‘Oh, how you wound me.’

If he was wounded, he didn’t sound like it; rather gleeful, mocking, entertained.

Katerina noticed that with every word spoken since the very first, the voice had transformed - the tone turning almost human instead of the metallic noise she’d heard at first. The more it spoke, the more it sounded like a man.

“Either that or a soul I am willing to exorcise, you vile wretch,” she hissed, and instead of his previous cackle, the voice chuckled - almost softly.

‘But will you? For I am the only one who can help you in this…’ the voice hummed, as if searching for the right word, ‘predicament.’

“You? Help me? A faceless, shapeless voice? Can you hold a sword or pierce a heart? If not, you are of no help.”

‘Your hunter is not a vampire, darling.’ The word darling brought a shiver of disgust down Katerina’s back, no matter how gently it was uttered.

‘He is a living, breathing man with more experience, bloodshed, and sin on one tip of his finger than you have in your whole body. Approach him with a wooden stake and you die.’

“I will approach him with a steel one, then.”

She felt childish, talking back to the voice as if trying to prove something to him. She owed it nothing and cared not what he thought - but him painting her as incapable of anything wounded that little string of pride hidden deep within her chest.

‘Silly bird, if you have a death wish, you only had to tell me. I would gladly accept it.’ She imagined him licking his lips in anticipation, even if she could imagine no face at all.

“Get out.” She finally spoke, determination clear and twined into her words. “Get out. Get out. Get out!”

The last one she whisper-screamed into the silence of her room.

Silence.

If not for that deep chuckle that rumbled as if almost in her own chest.