Chapter 6

Chapter 6 Another five years slipped into the past, and by 1480, the air of the century had shifted. Seeking a new way to mask his longevity within the fabric of society, Anatoly chose a path of steel and discipline: he enlisted in the Russian military. He found himself stationed at the banks of the Ugra River under the banner of Grand Prince Ivan III, facing the looming threat of Akhmat Khan and the Great Horde. He was not alone in his secret; alongside him served a handful of low-level wizards, all weaving their lives into the infantry. Together, they worked in the shadows of the camp, subtly threading their magic through the Russian lines. They didn't cast fireballs or summon storms, but instead manipulated the environment by stiffening the soldiers' resolve, masking spies in the fog, and ensuring the standoff held firm. Through their hidden arts, they helped turn the river into an impassable wall, securing a victory that changed the course of history. While Anatoly was away at the front, Anastasia and Svetlana vanished into the grueling rhythm of peasant life—a facade that Svetlana had come to loathe. Despite the vast wealth the family had hoarded over the centuries, they remained anchored to the lower class, hiding their gold beneath floorboards to maintain their cover. By day, they were mere silhouettes in the fields, their backs bent under the sun as day laborers. By night, however, the world belonged to them; they practiced their craft at night while the people of the village slept. But for Svetlana, now over four centuries old, the novelty of the soil had rotted into a soul-crushing mundanity. She was no longer a child content with shadows. Yearning for a life that matched the magnitude of her power, she finally slipped away under the cover of a secret she kept even from her mother. Her magic was now a polished blade, fully under her command, and she knew that even if her parents tried to control her, they no longer possessed the power to hold her back. With a sharp pull of intent, Svetlana teleported out of Russia, casting herself across the map to see what lay beyond the horizon. She was careful to choose a desolate landing, a place where the air was empty of human breath. For all her rebellion, she was no fool; she would never invite the fire Anatoly had warned her about, nor would she ever truly betray the family she loved. But the centuries had weighed heavily, and the call of the unknown had finally outgrown the safety of her parents’ shadows. She loved them dearly, but the time had come to find out who she was when she wasn't hiding. She steered clear of the heart of Europe, avoiding the shadowed reaches of France and Germany. In those lands, the Church had turned its gaze toward heresy, and the scent of burning pyres hung heavy in the air for anyone with the sight to sense it. Instead, she chose the rugged isolation of Scandinavia, a place where the reach of centralized power faltered against ancient, untamed geography. When she arrived, the air was different. It was sharper, biting, and thick with the smell of pine and stone. Having never stepped beyond Russia’s borders, Svetlana found herself captivated. She wandered the dense, towering forests with an academic’s curiosity and a fugitive’s relief, finding the wild beauty of the North fascinating in a way her homeland had ceased to be. For the first time in her four centuries, the world felt vast. However, that sense of vastness soon curdled into something far more unpredictable. As Svetlana pushed deeper into the untamed wild, the lively chatter of the forest abruptly died away, replaced by a stagnant chill. She had stumbled upon an ancient burial site. Weathered stones, half-swallowed by moss and earth, stood like jagged teeth against the gray sky, marking a place where the veil between the living and the dead had worn dangerously thin. Svetlana moved toward the site, drawn by a pulse of energy that hummed in her very marrow. She was no stranger to hallowed ground or ritual altars, but the magic here was different—a suffocating, light-drinking weight that seemed to press the breath from her lungs. Yet, an undeniable gravity anchored her to the spot; she was caught in its orbit, unable to turn away. In the silence of her curiosity, Esphyr’s final words echoed in her mind: “Your light will not save the world. Your darkness will not end it. You will stand where all paths converge.” As the epitome of neutral magic, Svetlana usually held her balance between the scales, but this darkness was a siren’s song, beautiful and devastating. It tugged at the shadows within her like a moth drawn to a flame. Every time her resolve wavered and her steps faltered, the call intensified. It was like a haunting, melodic pull that promised to show her exactly where those paths converged. As Svetlana’s foot landed on the central slab, a stone stained black by centuries of rain and things far darker, the siren’s song stopped. In its place came a silence so absolute it felt like someone had slapped Svetlana in the face. Then, the shadows at the edge of the clearing didn't just move; they exhaled. In a fraction of a second, the woods were gone, replaced by a ring of figures draped in black silks. They rose from the earth like smoke, their faces obscured by masks and hoods. Before Svetlana could even draw breath to cast a counter-spell, their voices rose in a dissonant unison. The chant wasn't merely dark; it was a violation of the air itself. It sounded like the grinding of teeth and the wet snap of bones breaking. It was so evil that everything in Svetlana recoiled in disgust and fear. The ground beneath the altar began to vibrate, not with power, but with a hungry, hollow weeping. “Shto pro-is-khod-it?” (What’s happening?) Svetlana muttered as she looked at the figures and the ground opening up around her. From the center of the oily miasma, a new shadow bled into existence. It didn't rise from the ground or descend from the trees; it simply manifested, a hole in reality that was darker than the night around them. “Tvoyu zh mat'…” (Holy f*ck…)