“It wasn’t just a snare,” Kazimir said under his breath, grim certainty hardening his tone. “It was live bait.”
Danica stared at him, her hands still tingling from the coarse wire. The horn sounded again, nearer now, a hunter's call. Her chest tightened, a cold dread replacing the warmth of helping the cub. She had been so sure she was doing good.
“We have to move, now,” Kazimir commanded, his eyes sweeping the dense undergrowth. He gripped her arm, not gently this time, and pulled her deeper into the thicket. “They’ll be scouting for tracks, any disturbance.”
They moved with a desperate urgency, the sounds of the forest blurring into a single, thrumming threat. Twigs snapped underfoot despite their caution, leaves rustled, and the distant shouts of the Brethren seemed to echo their every misstep. Danica’s lungs burned, her legs aching, but she kept pace with Kazimir, fueled by the image of the cleansing flames.
Suddenly, Kazimir halted, pressing himself against the gnarled bark of a colossal ancient oak. He held a hand up, motioning for silence. Danica froze, straining her ears. The patrol horn was directly behind them now, followed by the heavy tread of armored boots. Voices, rough and guttural, carried through the stillness.
“Check the ridge! The tracks lead this way!”
Kazimir’s gaze darted around, searching. His eyes landed on a massive, fallen log, hollowed out by time and rot, half-hidden by a curtain of drooping vines. It was barely wide enough for one, certainly not two.
“Here,” he hissed, pulling Danica towards it. “Quickly.”
He pushed aside the thick vines, revealing the dark maw of the hollowed trunk. Without hesitation, he ducked inside, pulling Danica in after him. It was a tight squeeze, the rough wood scraping against her clothes, smelling of damp earth and decay. She stumbled, pressing forward, until her back was flush against his chest, their bodies fitted together in the cramped space.
His warmth, unexpected and solid, enveloped her. She could feel the steady rhythm of his heart against her shoulder blade, the subtle tension in his muscles. Her own breath caught, a strange flutter in her stomach that had nothing to do with fear of discovery. She could smell the faint scent of woodsmoke and a clean, earthy scent unique to him.
Outside, the voices grew louder, clearer. Bootfalls crunched on the fallen leaves just meters away. Danica squeezed her eyes shut, trying to make herself smaller, to melt into the dark. Kazimir’s arm came up, his hand resting on the bark above her head, effectively pinning her, but also shielding her. He was utterly still, a predator in wait, his breathing shallow and controlled. She could feel the subtle tremor in her own hands, a stark contrast to his unyielding calm.
“Nothing here,” a voice grumbled, close enough to make Danica flinch. “Just old trees and rotten wood. They must have veered east.”
“The cub, Inquisitor Rylan noticed it,” another voice said. “Freshly snared. Likely a rebel sympathizer trying to lure us. They’ll have doubled back.”
“Keep searching!” a harsher voice commanded. “The Grand Inquisitor wants the Vatra found before the moon fully wanes. No stone unturned!”
The voices faded slowly, the bootfalls receding, but the tension inside the log remained, a taut, vibrating string. Danica stayed pressed against Kazimir, not daring to move, even after the last sound had vanished into the distance. It felt both terrifying and strangely safe, nestled against him in the dark, forgotten by the world outside.
Minutes stretched into an eternity. Then, Kazimir shifted, a low exhale escaping his lips. “They’re gone,” he murmured, his voice a low rumble against her ear. He pushed himself back, creating a sliver of space between them. Danica drew a shaky breath, turning slightly to face him in the dimness.
“My fault,” she muttered, the words tasting like ash. “I should have listened. I put us in danger.”
Kazimir’s eyes, usually sharp and wary, softened slightly. “You acted on instinct, Danica. A good instinct, for a different world. Not this one.” His hand, warm and calloused, brushed her cheek briefly, a feather-light touch before he drew it back. “But we’re safe, for now. That’s what matters.”
A sudden, soft pulse of warmth spread through Danica’s palm. She glanced down. Her hand-carved weaving shuttle, clutched in her grip, was glowing with a gentle, amber light. It wasn’t the searing, destructive fire of the sigil, but a steady, comforting radiance, like embers in a hearth. The light pulsed, once, twice, then rotated slowly, its pointed end drifting towards a section of the hollow log that appeared solid from the outside.
Kazimir saw it too, his gaze fixing on the wood. He stared in disbelief. “What in the Blazeforge…?”
Danica stared, mesmerized. The tool, a gift from her grandmother, had always been simple polished hornbeam, imbued with memories, not magic. Yet now, it felt alive, guiding her. The amber illumination intensified, painting the rough interior of the log in soft gold, and the section of timber it pointed to shimmered, almost imperceptibly.
“It’s… showing us something,” Danica murmured, reaching out with her free hand, her fingers brushing the luminous timber. The surface felt different, warmer, almost yielding.
***
The cliff face, scoured by ceaseless wind, offered a bleak panorama of the Rodina lowlands. Below, a gaunt prisoner hung suspended by his wrists from a rough-hewn crossbar, his bare chest bruised and bleeding. Grand Inquisitor Torian stood before him, a figure of icy authority, his black robes fluttering around him like a raven’s wings. His face, usually a mask of serene piety, was now etched with a chilling intensity.
“Speak the truth, Kordian,” Torian’s voice came smooth and steady, devoid of anger. “Where does the rebel captain Kazimir Jaskol lead the girl? What path would he choose to escape the eastern patrols?”
The captive spat, a thin stream of blood and phlegm splattering near Torian’s polished boots. “May the old gods consume you, Brethren dog. I’ll tell you nothing.”
Torian’s lips curved into a faint, humorless smile. “The old gods are dust,” Torian murmured. “Mere rumors in the minds of the weak. And your defiance, though admirable in its foolishness, will not last.” He raised a hand, and a squat, armored Inquisitor, whose face was obscured by his helm, stepped forward with a brazier of burning coals and a set of tongs.
“Kazimir Jaskol is a known quantity,” Torian continued, his eyes fixed on the man, ignoring the implements of torture. “He is pragmatic. He avoids direct confrontation when unnecessary. He cherishes his followers, even if he would never admit such sentiment aloud. He will seek to protect *her* above all else now.” The word ‘her’ was laced with a venomous disdain.
The prisoner's glare faltered for a fraction of a second at the rebel captain's name, a flicker of concern betraying his resolve.
“The girl, the so-called ‘Vatra’,” Torian mused, leaning in, his tone dropping to a quiet murmur. “A disease. A festering wound upon the purity of Rodina. Her ‘fire’ is not a divine spark, but a corrupting blight, a relic of a savage age. It pollutes the spirit, tempts the weak-willed, and threatens to unravel the delicate order we have so painstakingly established.”
The armored Inquisitor selected an iron rod from the coals, its tip radiant cherry-red. The captive shut his eyes tight, biting down on an outcry.
“Tell me,” Torian pressed, his voice smooth and cold, “Does Jaskol prefer the hidden pathways of the north forest, or the treacherous ascents of the Drakon’s Spine, knowing our patrols are heaviest there?”
The man clamped his teeth together, refusing to answer. The Inquisitor brought the red iron closer. The air sizzled. A faint smell of burning flesh began to waft on the wind.
Torian watched, unblinking, his gaze devoid of pity. “She is not a savior. She is an abomination. Her capture, her *purification*, is not merely a task, but a holy necessity. It will seal Rodina in an eternal embrace of righteous cold, free from the scorching heat of heresy. Tell me his likely path, and your suffering will end swiftly. Refuse, and you will know the full extent of the Brethren’s cleansing fire.”
The iron touched the prisoner's skin. A raw, guttural scream tore from his throat, carried on the cruel wind.
Torian drew near, speaking softly against the man’s agony. “Which way? Which way does Kazimir Jaskol take the Vatra?”
Back in the hollow log, Danica felt a faint vibration through the hornbeam spool in her hand. The amber light brightened, pulsing with a newfound urgency. She pressed her fingers against the shimmering wood, and to her astonishment, it gave way, revealing not solid timber, but a narrow, winding tunnel, barely wide enough for one person to crawl through. A faint, earthy breeze drifted from within, carrying the scent of damp moss and something ancient, something deeply hidden from the world.