The mist thickened.
It no longer clung to the forest floor. It rose, coiling around the legs of the group like sentient smoke, obscuring branches and blurring faces. Step by step, it wrapped the travelers in cold, damp veils that pressed against their skin like shrouds.
Lybid tried to stay focused on the path—though there was no path to follow. Her instincts guided her now, something ancient pulsing beneath her feet, like the forest was breathing through her soles. But even she was not immune to the whispers.
They came softly at first, like wind through reeds. Then more distinct. Each whisper meant only for one.
Maksym heard his wife.
She had died two winters ago, her lungs filled with blood and ice. Yet now, she called him by name, her voice clear and sweet.
Maksym, you left me. You let me freeze. Come to me. Just beyond the pine with the split bark. I'm waiting...
He turned his head. There it was—a pine tree, broken and bleeding sap. Behind it, a figure. Pale. Familiar.
He took one step.
"Don't," Lybid's voice snapped like a whip.
Maksym blinked, and the pine was just a tree.
Yurko heard laughter. His sister's.
She had drowned in the river last spring. But now she laughed as she used to, splashing in water, calling his name.
Yurko! Come swim! The water is warm!
He broke into a sweat, fists clenched. His feet shifted toward the sound.
Then a hand gripped his arm. Kyi.
"Stay close," Kyi said.
Yurko nodded, jaw tight, the sound vanishing like breath in cold air.
Kyi heard his mother.
Dead in childbirth, they had said. But he never heard her voice before.
I see you, son. You carry the book like your father. You were meant for light, not this mire. Cast the relic away. Come home. Let me hold you.
He wept silently but kept walking. The book in his hand grew heavier.
Shchek heard nothing.
He did not need to.
The voice was already inside.
It laughed softly, pleased.
"They are weak. You are stronger. You see them clearly now. Don't you?"
He nodded. Imperceptibly. He could see the flickering rot in Martyn's aura. The weight of guilt pressing on Maksym's back. The flickering doubt in Kyi's stride. Even Methodius glowed with brittle zealotry, as fragile as old stone.
"You will be my vessel when the moment comes."
Shchek smiled. His teeth didn't feel like his own.