Vasilisa the Fair

  “My lady looks every bit a warrior,” Austeja said.

  “It’s one thing to look, another to fight.”

  The Vorodzhi chieftain’s daughter had brought her a mix of scavenged armor: a rusted hauberk, leather-and-iron vambraces, and a nasal helmet with a maille curtain that made her look like an owl. None of it fit—made for shorter, wider men—and none of it matched. She clattered like a pantry as she rode, leading the druzhina down from the keep toward the gatehouse.

  On the approach, Vasilisa saw the militia gathering at Serhij’s side while the refugees and Nesha fled for shelter. She rode past them without sparing them a glance, and wondered if they even recognized her beneath the iron and leather.

  Near the gatehouse, the druzhina cried “Rovetshi!” and the militia answered in kind. She dismounted, pushing past the soldiers to find Serhij leaning on the battlements, sweat beading his brow. He flinched as she touched his shoulder.

  “My lady, you should be—”

  “In the keep?” she interrupted. “A ruler defends her people, Magister, as much as she governs them.”

  Her gaze flicked over his unarmored, heavyset frame. Unlike his men in maille and gambesons, Serhij wore only a tunic and cloak. A sword, its blade untouched by battle, hung at his hip - ceremonial more than anything else. “And of the two of us, I think I’m the better dressed for the occasion.”

  Serhij swallowed his retort, turning back to the walls.

  Gaunt figures loomed out from the haze of the hanging mists, shambling without coughing, arguing, or any sort of talk. Women and men approached, heads lowered, as though they were walking half-asleep, or in prayer. Some wielded pitchforks and daggers, others only rocks and branches, and none carried shields or wore armor. Crossbowmen would cut them down with ease. And yet, if Serhij’s men were to be believed, they would not die so easily. Even a rock in the hand of a man who fought on beyond mortal wounds could still bring down a spearman. A dozen could rip him apart.

  And the dead were already piling outside Rovetshi’s walls - the second wave was just more meat to feed the festival of cruelty, all of it in service to the ones above.

  That is why the skies are open. Chirlan’s voice murmured, sounding just over her shoulder. They are waiting. They are hungry.

  The staggering horde of sleeping men and women numbered only two or three hundred—but beyond them, thousands of flickering lights bobbed in the mist. A sea of shifting shadows emerged, reeds and bushes at first glance—until they came closer. A helmet rusted red through and through gleamed among them.

  By the moon’s wan light, the skull beneath the helmet seemed to glow. The walking skeleton that wore the helm, caked in dried mud and flotsam, moved with the rigid gait of a soldier. Moving in lockstep with it were the many others drowned—hundreds of dead, long buried in the Gravemarsh, now rising for one last war. In their hands, they clutched ancient, rusted blades and axes pulled from the muck.

  And in the hollows of their eyes…twinkling starlight.

  “Gods above… look…” Serhij stammered, face pale. “Gods of heaven and below… what are—how—”

  “Harvest,” Vasilisa whispered. “You repelled it once. Now it returns with more.”

  “How do you kill dead men?” Serhij asked, looking to her for answers.

  Vasilisa barely heard him. Her ill-fitting armor weighed on her as she leaned over the battlements, searching beyond the mist. Then she saw it—the towering figure leading the horde from behind.

  It rode a great, ugly plow horse that sagged under its weight. The Dreamer was broad-shouldered, and shrouded in a blood-soaked shawl. And on its forearms, bracers of iridescent glass shimmered in the moonlight. Its face, split and broken, bore two empty hollows where eyes should be. Yet as Vasilisa studied it, the monster beheld her as well. She felt its gaze - and then its spirit. Vast, terrible domination swept over her, nearly forcing her to her knees. But her crystal heart burned in defiance, warding away the cold, twisting darkness that flooded her vision.

  “The time has come.”

  Its voice was both a howl and a song, a melody of countless heavenly tones blended into the music of the stars. It would have brought her to tears—had it not come from a nightmare.

  Militiamen and druzhinniks trembled. They saw it now - and now would come the challenge. Break or stand.

  The Dreamer halted just beyond crossbow range, and as one, the horde stopped with it. Silence fell—the marsh, the water, the night held its breath.

  “Hold!” Vasilisa called out. No one can deny it now. No one can close their eyes. “Fear will be your end! Do not let it drown you!”

  The Dreamer raised its hand. Another song followed.

  “The Heralds call. The Majesties awaken. And we are coming home.”

  The hand fell.

  The dead and the sleepers charged, their rattling shrieks filling the night.

  The crossbowmen on the walls hesitated, shaken by terror—until Vasilisa’s voice cut through. “Do not be afraid! Give them steel!” A warrior’s voice, a lord’s voice.

  The dead and the Sleepers waded through sucking mud, closing in. The first rank of Rovetshi men pressed their cheeks to their crossbow stocks, waiting…waiting…

  “Shoot!” cried Serhij. “Shoot, damn it!”

  A hundred bolts sang through the air. Dozens of Balai townsfolk fell, but the tide did not slow. Those who collapsed were crushed underfoot, swallowed whole by the muck.

  “My lady, they’re not stopping!” a crossbowman cried. Another pointed south. “More, coming from the trees!”

  From her perch on the watchtower, Vasilisa saw them—another swarm of shadows emerging from the woods, moonlight gleaming off skulls, scythes, and pitchforks. The militia loosed, but they were too few, and the dead too many. Everywhere. They were coming from everywhere.

  No—do not let it break you. Do not let your spirit die.

  “Keep shooting!” she ordered. “Words won’t send them back to their graves - keep shooting!”

  The second volley struck down dozens, yet the swarm surged on. By the third, they were so close Vasilisa could feel their shrieks, a rotting blast against her skin. Then they struck the palisade—a battering ram of flesh and bone.

  The wooden battlements groaned and trembled beneath the impact. For a breathless moment, it seemed they would collapse altogether—but the ancient defenses held. Vasilisa saw several crossbowmen flinch, some stepping back - fear threatened to break them. But when the dead grasped only at air, the lot of them held firm, leaning over the battlements to shoot again.

  Bolts thrummed in a steady rhythm, a grim melody against the ceaseless charge. And te dead fell in droves about the base of the walls, piling higher…higher…

  No, came the thought with the realization. The bodies weren’t just falling. A ramp. They’re building a ramp.

  A skeleton scrambled over the piling corpses and lunged for the walls. Its bony fingers gripped the battlements before a militiaman rushed to shove it off—but too late. The dead man's rusted axe split the soldier’s face, then dragged him over the walls and into the howling mass below.

  Behind the lone ancient warrior, more of the dead began to climb. One militiaman crushed the axe-wielding skeleton’s skull with his club, sending fragments of starlight drifting into the night. He laughed—until a spear ripped through his chest, turning joy into gurgling death.

  Another skeleton thrust its sword through a soldier’s gut and lifted him into the air, showering the militiamen with blood.

  It happened quickly, just as she descended from the watchtower. One crossbowman fled, then two…and then all along the eastern wall men were throwing down their crossbows and running.

  The dead tore through those who lagged behind with bony claws, ripping armor and flesh. Below the walls she saw Austeja trying to rally the retreating militia. Instead, they shoved past her, fleeing deeper into the town. Townsfolk joined the rout, and the swell of terrified bodies grew.

  When she landed on the battlements, men shoved past her in their flight. One man fell at her feet, but before she could help him up, skeletal fingers clawed over the wall. No time to think. She wrenched the Shargaz from her back and struck. The toothed blade shattered through bone and rusted steel alike, scattering skull fragments like falling stars.

  "Stand and fight!" Her voice rang like grinding stone, like breaking glass.

  Her soul swelled outwards with power, dread. The men nearest her faltered—then they turned back. Axes, clubs, and cleavers rose as they faced the dead men by their lady’s side.

  The living fought, screamed, and died in the streets below. Some reached the barricades, standing their ground as they saw their comrades rally on the walls. Vasilisa shattered another skeleton, and her cleaver carried through one skull into the next. A dead man’s axe struck her arm, a sword sliced at her stomach—but the ill-fitting maille turned away each blow with a rattle as she pushed on.

  As Vasilisa smashed another dead man into bone dust, she heard the terrible groan of splintering wood behind her—then shouts: “Below! Watch out below!”

  When she looked back, she saw the dead swarming over the watchtower where she had just stood. The whole structure lurched beneath the rotting bulk—and then it collapsed, careening for the militia and townsfolk below.

  Time, it seemed, slowed to a painful crawl.

  No.

  The thought rang out like a command from the heavens. As if in answer, a presence stirred within her—something vast and ancient. From her outstretched hand a ripple tore through the air, twisting the darkness and moonlight into solid form. A serpent, glistening and shimmering like starlight on black water, coiled around the falling watchtower.

  Time ground to a halt. Dust, debris, and the colossus of the watchtower hung suspended.

  The serpent’s form was gigantic, sharpening into reality with every breath. Each scale was the size of a shield, and the deep colors within shifted like flowing paint.

  "Vraactan." No other serpent could it be.

  You've grown again, it seems, she whispered. She recalled when their paths had first crossed - when the serpent could coil comfortably around her fingers. Their form was no coincidence. Now I know what feeds you, and where you dwell. Were you drawn to this place, or drawn out?

  You already know this, the serpent replied. Their eyes flickered with a very human glint of knowing. Have you forgotten our pact? My endless wisdom, your gentle hand.

  You showed me the way out of Chirlan’s tomb.

  But I have not yet shown you where you need to be. Vraactan’s hiss reverberated inside her skull. Where you belong.

  “Then help me,” she replied, pressing her lips into a thin line as she beheld Rovetshi in stillness. In the shadow of the falling watchtower she saw the Vorodzhi chieftain’s daughter helping a peasant up off the ground, surrounded by half a dozen druzhinniks. “Help me save these people- my people. Help me save them all, and I’ll see this madness through to the end.”

  Your gentle hand, my endless wisdom.

  The cruel wheel of time began to move once more.

  The shriek of steel, the clatter of bone, the rush of battle all roared back to Vasilisa’s ears. A massive weight suddenly pressed down on her outstretched hand, bringing her to her knees. The weight of the tower fell into her grasp, even as Vraactan remained coiled around it.

  It is your strength to command. The serpent’s voice coiled around her mind like a vice. Embrace it. Know it.

  Remember who you are.

  Slowly, she raised her hand higher, guiding the form of the serpent like a puppeteer holding the world's heaviest cross. Vraactan moved by her will, and the crumbling tower rose as those down below looked on in awe. Inch by inch, the weight lessened - not because the burden had grown lighter, but because Vasilisa felt herself growing stronger.

  She clenched her hand into a fist, and hurled the tower as far as she could. It crashed down onto the horde pouring over the battlements, flattening dozens of screamers into bone dust. Militiamen and druzhinniks looked up at her in awe, but strangely…

  "Why... why can’t they see you?" she asked as she looked down at the gaping men.

  Men do not see many things they would rather be blind to. Vraactan’s shadowless form twisted lazily through the air, hovering over thatched roofs idly. Or things they have forgotten.

  A high screech cut through the air. The dead men surged forward anew. Vasilisa clenched the Shargaz tight, and called down to the druzhinniks, “Rovetshi, with me!” They followed her in a clattering metal tide, rushing to the walls.

  Vraactan swooped down above her head, filling her with a queer sense of thrill and wonder amidst the carnage. It was like the first time she learned to ride a horse, and now she was galloping on her own, pushing this new strength faster, harder.

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  She swept her hand to the side as another horde came up over the walls. The great serpent’s tail flashed a moment later, scattering the dead men across the marshes and the town. Those who clambered up in the serpent’s wake were met by axe and mace, sword and spear. Her whole world shrank down to the terror, the intoxicating fear of battle, and the cleaver in her hands. Every sweep of Vraactan’s tail crushed dozens of the dead men into dust while she hacked down at grasping hands and leering skulls, pushing on and on.

  At her side, men screamed, men fought, and men died in droves. She drank in their terror - it fed into her burning heart like kindling, and the crystal roared with power. Nothing could stop her now, nothing could kill her as she drank in the death all around. Spears and rusted axes hacked and ripped into her armor, but she felt no pain - only mindless, black rage that drove the Shargaz ever forward, ever towards battle.

  As she cut her way to the gatehouse, a sudden, hard strike knocked the breath out of her. Icy cold fell over her, quenching the burning rage into ashes - when she turned to look, she saw a spear jutting out from her left side, dripping with blood. Her blood.

  The skeleton that wielded it seemed to smile, then twisted the shaft deeper.

  She moved on instinct, on power. She grabbed the rotting shaft of the spear, and summoned the last of her strength to snap it in half like a twig. The Shargaz swiped the dead man’s skull from his shoulders a moment later, and sent the body hurtling from the walls to join the pile of shattered bodies below.

  Blood gushed out of her side. Someone was screaming for a healer, someone else was crying that the princess was slain. Austeja’s voice rang in her ear, “My lady…my lady…”

  She sank to her knees before Vraactan. The serpent regarded her with cold, gold-speckled eyes. Remember who you are. The war is not yet done.

  No - not yet. She tenderly grasped the stuck shaft. Hot agony knifed through her whole body as she ripped it free, and cast the rotting spearhead to the ground. Blood gushed relentlessly from her side - but even as she stood shakily to her feet, the pain began to fade. She felt the queer feeling of her flesh knotting together - torn skin sewn tight by an invisible hand.

  When she stood upright, Austeja and the others looked on at her in silence. Then, a cry of, “Vasilisa! Vasilisa! Vasilisa!”

  She raised the Shargaz high, clenching her teeth through the pain. Rovetshi roared her name, and the legend swelled before her eyes - in their eyes, the chosen few, the surviving few. The Vorodzhi chieftain’s daughter reached out to examine the wound in her side, then looked up at her.

  “A miracle…”

  Vasilisa grinned, then looked up. The great serpent's presence began to fade as her spirits dimmed. The shimmering colors of their scales gave way to the waning silver light of the moon like ash in the wind. And then, just as suddenly as it has appeared, the divine serpent was gone - and exhaustion crashed over her in a flooding wave.

  Austeja caught her, barely, as she slumped against the battlements. The confines of her helmet became unbearably hot. She cast it off, and took in the air of the marsh - only to feel dreadful cold.

  Beside her, Austeja gasped and pointed past the walls. “It’s coming! The spirit is coming!”

  Vasilisa glanced up. The Dreamer walked slowly, gracefully over the piled corpses like a dancer entering the stage, its face staring dispassionately at the slaughter all around.

  A crossbow bolt whistled from the battlements - splintering when it hit the monster’s stony hide. Then, the crossbowman who loosed the offending bolt fell to his knees, his neck bulging with black rot that swelled up to his face and eyes. Cheers and relief bled away into terror once again - it spread like a miasma, and all around her more men began to drop like flies.

  She pulled Austeja close. “If you stay here, you will die. Abandon this place, seek refuge in the keep.”

  The Vorodzhi chieftain’s daughter grew pale. “What? My lady-”

  “No,” she shook Austeja. “Listen! The Dreamers laugh at blades and arrows - I need you all to live, not die like dogs for some useless honor!”

  Before Austeja could reply, Vasilisa released her. “Go, protect those who cannot protect themselves! Your lady commands it! Move!”

  The Dreamer drew ever closer. Austeja seized a long horn from the gatehouse and called the retreat - three long blasts. Confusion and sickness seized every face as the druzhina and Serhij’s men made their descent, following Austeja from the hard-won walls. “Gather your breath, but do it quickly!” Austeja cried to the warriors. “Get these folk out of here!”

  The last of the warriors beat a hasty retreat just as the Apostle reached the gates. A terrible shriek tore through the night as the iron bands bent and twisted on themselves, and the doors rumbled open. Before the Apostle flooded a wave of corpses, and a torrent of blood and filth that worked its way into every crevice of the cobblestones.

  The Apostle strode into town slowly, its empty eyes trailing after the fleeing warriors and townsfolk. Then they fell upon the lone girl who stood in its path, lit by a defiant stab of moonlight as the darkness encroached from all around.

  “You are strong…but this strength is not yours…” The song was gone from the Dreamer’s voice, replaced with a terrible contempt that sounded of howling wind and crushing rock.

  It drew a black-clawed finger across its face, shifting aside an errant braid from the hollows of its eyes. The cold had jolted her awake, but already her newfound strength was waning. The wound in her side burned, and the Apostle’s terrible presence pressed down on her, forcing her to kneel.

  But the crystals in her heart murmured their strength - what few embers remained. She trembled beneath the monster’s gaze, but did not let it break her, did not let herself be afraid.

  “Do not resist,” the Dreamer breathed as it took another step towards her. “Why do you resist paradise? Give yourself to me, to the Majesties, and there will be no more fear. No more sorrow. Nothing.”

  The monster’s bracers shimmered like fine glass, shards of crystal woven into ancient, flaking leather. With each heavy step the crystals took life of their own, sliding free from the monster’s arms. They slid together, fitting with crafted precision into a jagged blade that nestled tightly in the Dreamer’s hands.

  Beautiful…

  The blade shimmered with the majesty of the stars as it whistled through the air, cutting a rainbow flash across her vision.

  At the last moment, her mind broke from the beauty of the sailing death cutting for her head. She met the Dreamer’s blade with her own. The Shargaz and the glass sword clashed with a terrible, wavering scream, and the strength behind the checked blow sent her staggering. Lightning bolt of pain shot down both of her arms, and her hands trembled.

  The Dreamer leapt forward, pressing her hard. The glass blade formed a rainbow whirlwind as its wielder pirouetted, striking high and low, sweeping side to side. Every checked strike from the glass blade sent an unearthly wail through the town, and sent Vasilisa staggering perilously off balance. In the sudden cold her breath came out in silver clouds, and every move grew more and more sluggish as she tried to stand her ground.

  The Dreamer pressed her back to a peasant’s hovel. When she ducked beneath a swipe for her head, the glass blade carved apart the wall and collapsed the ancient shack in a cloud of dust.

  It’s playing with me.

  The realization came with a stab of dread as she slipped away, dodging into an alley. The fire within her heart had burned down to ashes - she had barely the strength to keep fighting, let alone bring Vraactan out. Dammit, why? Why won’t you appear? If the serpent were here, they would have crushed the Dreamer. But instead she was just an amusement for the beast, nothing more. If it wanted to finish the fight, it would have already moved on and slaughtered the others. But this was-

  “How humiliating!” The voice boomed. A black fist exploded out from the wall to her side, followed by the Apostle. The glass blade carved through the air, missing her by a hair’s breadth as she scrambled back into the town square.

  “So this is the Vessel?” The Apostle rumbled as it gave chase. “Is this the one we must raise most high?”

  Terror, sharp and naked, invaded her mind. She reached out with her mind towards an overturned wagon and hurled it into the Apostle’s path. The gray monster didn’t break its stride as it chopped apart the wagon in mid-air. Before the remains could hit the ground the monster came at her again, blade whirling.

  “You.”

  The sword carved across her helmet with a screech. Cold blossomed across her brow, followed by a tide of hot, burning blood that blinded her right eye.

  “Are.”

  The next cut raked her arm, sending the Shargaz tumbling to the ground. Before she could leap for it the Apostle kicked the cleaver away into the dust and ruin.

  “Pathetic.”

  A black-clawed hand seized her by the neck. With a contemptuous snarl, the monster slammed her into the looming belltower, sending stars floating before her eyes.

  "You are no prophet. You disgust me.” Its voice rumbled in her ears as its grip tightened, black nails digging deep into her throat. “All humans do, with their uselessness. The gods have given you everything, and you do not even know it. Freedom to laugh, to weep, to breathe...and to die.”

  Its grip tightened further. The broken face swam before her eyes, but through the haze of her tears, Vasilisa saw the beast’s lips curled up into a small, grim smile. “We cannot die. We cannot even live. So be grateful...I am giving you the gods' greatest gift. When I am done with you, I will grant every human here more of the gods' favors - terror, agony, fury...and then, death forever.”

  The monster forced her head upwards, pointing her eyes to the night sky above. Over her head, the great iron bell of the town assembly swayed perilously, booming her death knell. Dooom. Doooom. Dooooom.

  Her vision darkened. Her lungs burned, and her thoughts began to fray. Vraactan - where are you? Somewhere in the abyss of her mind, she heard Chirlan’s laughter—distant, amused.

  She denies her purpose until the end.

  So miserable.

  So weak.

  No—no longer. The monster would move on and kill the others without a second thought. She would not fail them. Not again.

  With the last fading remnants of strength, she pressed her bleeding palm against the cold stone of the belltower. She reached out—not with her fingers, but with her mind. She forced her presence into the cracks and crevices of the brick and mortar. Into the veins of the tower itself. The pain, the terror, the fury—she poured all of herself into the stone.

  Overhead, the great bell groaned.

  The Apostle’s grip faltered for a fraction of a second, its head tilting ever so slightly upward. She pulled in a breath, and clarity returned to her. Just enough. Just enough for her to act.

  With a final desperate push, she wrenched her mind into the tower, into the bell, into the trembling foundation beneath them both.

  A great rumble sounded through the night.

  The tower groaned and screamed as the mortar cracked and crumbled, bringing down a century of craftsmanship and tradition. The air filled with a deafening clamor as the great bell came loose, an iron titan falling from its perch. It struck the side of the tower on its way down, shattering stone and spraying debris into the square below. The whole world seemed to hold its breath for a single, terrible instant.

  Then the belltower collapsed.

  Desperate frenzy seized her every move, and Vasilisa wrenched herself free from the dark grasp. A tide of ancient stone roared down and swallowed the Apostle beneath its bulk. As she scrambled away from the collapse, a great cloud of dust washed over the town square, choking everything with gray. Half-blind, she groped about the ruin-strewn square, and eventually wrapped her fingers around the handle of the Shargaz.

  Not enough. Whispered the cleaver. Claim the head. Tear the divine light.

  Her vision swirled, fading in and out of exhausting oblivion as she struggled to stand. She tried to lift the Shargaz, but only dragged herself back down. Her lungs felt scarred, her throat ripped apart. Past the ruins of the belltower, hazy figures swam before her. Nesha. Fat Marmun. Wire-thin Gastya, Valishin and his wife, short Austeja with her wide, green eyes.

  "No..." she mumbled. "Get away...it's not...not..."

  Not dead yet. The mountain of rubble stirred. The Shargaz cried for divine blood. And Vasilisa could not bring herself to stand.

  Vraactan...where are you? The thought burned through her mind. Vraactan...little serpent...please, anyone...help me...

  Suddenly, she felt smooth scales brush along her body. Vraactan coiled around and through her - passing in and out of her chest like a bad dream. The serpent coiled tight around her in a reassuring hug - she felt the exhaustion briefly fall away, though terror lanced through her heart. About time you came. It's awakening - it'll kill them all. Help me, please. Help me stand.

  You will break yourself, the serpent hissed into her ear. You are not strong enough.

  "No, you are." She whispered back. "This sword...this power...it's yours, isn't it? Give me more."

  You know not what you ask.

  "Give. Me. More." she repeated, clenching her teeth so hard she felt they would crack. "Just enough to stand. Just enough to finish it. Please."

  The serpent's tail cupped her chin, bringing her eyes level to Vraactan's own. Their eyes were beautiful, desolate as the moon in a starless sky. The serpent studied her for a moment longer, then its eyes closed. There will be pain. And...fear. Do not fear what will come.

  The serpent's form began to fade away. The colors of the scales twisted, swirling into her breast, and the crystals burned.

  She gasped, unable to scream as divine fire surged through her, setting every nerve alight. The agony was unbearable, yet it was nothing compared to the power. It drowned her, dragged her under like a riptide, and still she begged for more. Her veins pulsed bright and golden, and blinding, overwhelming strength swelled in every muscle. And with that strength, her mind spun into a deep chasm of rage so vast she could not see the end. And she did not want to.

  Her vision sharpened to impossible clarity. She saw every dust mote, every quivering breath from the ruins, the smallest shifts of debris as the Apostle clawed its way free. Its stone form was half-shattered, riddled with fractures, but even now the black ichor crawled over its wounds, knitting it back together.

  With a wordless snarl, she lunged. Her fingers closed around its greasy, black braids, and she wrenched it from the wreckage. The Apostle let out a rasping cry as she swung it like a broken doll, smashing its head into the shattered stones. Cracks spiderwebbed through its face. Black fluid splattered across the ground. But it was not enough. The fury inside her howled for more.

  She hurled the Apostle through the remains of a building. The walls crumbled as the monster crashed through, sending dust and debris cascading down. She was already moving before it hit the ground.

  It struck out as she approached, claws aimed for her throat. She caught its arm mid-swing, then twisted the limb free with a sickening crack. The stone arm, severed at the elbow, flew through the air trailing dark blood in thick ribbons. The Apostle screamed. Vasilisa laughed—a laugh raw with rage, with dark delight in suffering. God’s gift indeed…let this never end!

  The monster reeled, clutching the stump of its arm. Her fist, burning with divine wrath, slammed into its face. Once. Twice. Again. Again. Again. The Apostle’s head caved inward - each shattering blow crushing deeper until only a gaping hollow remained. But still, it tried to mend. Still, the divine light did not flicker out. It defied her.

  She dragged the broken remnants of the beast into the town square, casting it before the townsfolk. Thoughts black and not wholly her own surged. They were so many - so helpless, so stupid as they gaped ignorantly in awe and fear. The Apostle lay twitching at her feet, its half-reformed lips moving in some silent prayer. Vasilisa lifted the Shargaz, and the blade whispered its sadistic delight.

  She stood over the ruined thing, breathing raggedly.

  “You are nothing to me,” she whispered. “A star before the sun. Now—love me. Fear me. See me.”

  The Apostle shuddered. It tried to speak.

  It failed.

  Vasilisa swung the cleaver, and the Apostle’s head rolled across the square. A moment later, as if finally realizing it was dead, body crumpled, lifeless at last. From the stump of its neck a tide of dark blood spilled across the stone, steaming in the cold air.

  She slammed the Shargaz into the stone ground, and closed her eyes. The world of living flame stretched out before her, and she saw the starlight of the Dreamer shuddering, coming apart into small pinpricks of light that lifted free from the monstrous vessel. They floated up, into darkness, into the cold, unfeeling heavens above - not dead, but chastened, and afraid.

  The Apostle was afraid.

  And yet within the glowing core, Vasilisa sensed another feeling she could hardly recognize. Hope? Joy?

  Relief…She realized as her rage burned away, and her mind became wholly her own once more. Bared naked, the Apostle’s thoughts came to her as a lonely, small voice. The world above is pale and cold. The world below is dark and warm…so warm…so…warm…

  The Apostle’s final thoughts drifted away. The gray skin and knotted flesh hardened, and then crumbled away into so much ash.

  The survivors of Rovetshi watched from the shadows, too afraid to approach. Too awed to look away.

  Vasilisa swayed uncertainly. The consuming fire was guttering out, and exhaustion reclaimed its hold once more. She remained barely upright, bracing herself against the Shargaz. And the silence pressed in.

  Eyes wide with horror carved into her like knives. This was not the awe of the refugees, clamouring in rapture from her song. It was cold, paralyzing fear. Even if they did not see the serpent, they saw her. Would they call her a witch? Would they run?

  Austeja stepped forward from the crowd, and Vasilisa tensed, swallowing down the fear crawling up her throat.

  The Vorodzhi chieftain’s daughter fell to her knees, and bowed her head. “All praise to the She-Bear of Belnopyl,” she whispered. “All praise to Vasilisa the Fair.”

  Others followed. At first a slow trickle, but then a stream of humanity. Men and women, young and old, sank to their knees alongside Austeja, whispering a prayer to the one that saved them. The only thing left to fear. She had won adoration before - this was fear, of a kind not even the old gods enjoyed.

  The Apostle’s ashes scattered with the wind, vanishing into the dark sky.

  Below the cold eyes of the stars, Vasilisa the Fair stood tall as the town knelt before her.

  And she did not know whether to weep, or to run.