“Cheat! The witch cheats!” The roar of the elder sliced through the thin, hungry air of Oprisha. Runa Vaidis didn’t flinch. Her calloused thumb, still hooked beneath the edge of the woven card, paused. The scent of stale peat smoke, desperation, and unwashed bodies thickened around the splintered table. Three pairs of eyes, bloodshot from hunger and fury, bore into her. She met them with a bland, almost bored, expression. “A bold accusation, Elder,” Runa drawled, her voice a low purr. She was thin, all sharp angles and quick movements, her dark braid tumbling over one shoulder like a coiled viper. “Maybe your eyesight simply falters in your advanced years. Or maybe your luck has merely run dry.” Her stack of copper krugs, paltry though it was, looked enormous compared to the meager coins remaining for the three men across from her. It was enough to buy a week’s worth of gruel. Enough to keep her heart beating for a few more rotations of the twin moons, Lada and Mara. Survival was a craft here, and Runa practiced it with cold discipline. The elder's face, weathered by harsh winters and harder decisions, turned a mottled crimson. He slammed a fist on the table, rattling the last few coins. “I saw it! A card from your sleeve, you cunning serpent! This isn’t coin you’re winning, Runa Vaidis, it’s life! Life you steal from honest folk!” Murmurs rippled through the onlookers. The settlement was a ghost of its former self, its fields barren, its livestock withered. Famine gnawed at every hearth. Cheating at cards, especially when the stakes were so dire, was a death sentence. Runa knew this. She had merely been too hungry to care. “And what is your punishment to be, witch?” a woman’s voice, sharp with resentment, cut through the crowd. “The Beast has not been appeased in a year. Time for a proper offering.” Runa kept her posture loose. The beast of the Ironwood was a shadowy terror whispered to stalk the primeval timber surrounding their homes. Every few years, when the harvests failed or the blizzards raged too long, an offering was made. Always a woman. Always young. Always beautiful, or at least, fertile. Runa was neither, by common standards. Her beauty was of a sharp, dangerous kind, not the soft, yielding sort they preferred for sacrifice. The old man's eyes, still narrowed with anger, slowly swept over her, then lingered. Drafts cut sharp through the timber seams behind her. The anger in the elder’s gaze softened, replaced by a calculating gleam. He saw not a cheat, but an opportunity. “Indeed,” he said, his voice dropping into sudden, grim composure. “A proper offering.” He stood, his gaunt frame casting a long shadow in the flickering lamplight. “Runa Vaidis, for your crimes against our people, and by our oldest laws, you are chosen. You will be delivered to the Fortress of Svarog’s Perch, to appease the creature of the timber.” The air left Runa’s lungs in a silent whoosh. Not a punishment, but a sacrifice. A communal sigh rattled through the gathered crowd. Their starvation remained, but the creature's hunger might be sated for a season. Before she could form a protest, before her quick wits could conjure a single, desperate lie, rough hands seized her. Her struggles were futile. The men, emboldened by the decree, dragged her from the hall, across the frozen, rutted path, and into the back of a creaking cart. They bound her wrists and ankles with heavy iron chains, clanking and cold against her skin. The journey to the Fortress of Svarog’s Perch was brutal, the wheels jolting over frost-hardened earth into the whispering gloom of the forest. The trees grew taller here, their branches laced with hard crusts of snow, trunks rising like gnarled titans. Svarog’s Perch loomed out of the swirling mist, a jagged silhouette against the bruised twilight sky. It was less a fortress, more a jagged scar carved into the mountainside—a sprawling redoubt of crumbling grey stone, its battlements toothy and broken. It seemed to exhale the cold, the very air around it heavier, older. They didn’t take her inside the main gates. Instead, they led her through a treacherous path around the south side, to a smaller, rusted iron door set deep into the rock. The old groundskeeper, Asta, waited for them, her face a web of wrinkles, her eyes sharp. She took the tallow lamp from the elder, her gaze lingering on Runa. “Leave her to me,” Asta’s voice was dry, like rustling leaves. “The Lord’s hunger will be met.” The escort shoved Runa forward into the dark, damp corridor. The door clanged shut, its echo swallowed by the stone. Asta didn’t speak, merely tilted her chin toward a small, cell-like chamber at the end of the hall. Runa felt the heavy chains on her. Iron against iron, a familiar, grating sound. “So, the monster's pantry,” Runa muttered, keeping her chin raised. “Charming. Do I get a last meal, old woman?” Asta set the lamp on a stone shelf. “You get what you deserve, girl. And maybe a chance.” She left without another word, the thick oak slab groaning shut, the bolt sliding home into place. Runa was alone in the gloom, save for the single flickering wick. Her wrists chafed against the cold iron cuffs, the chains too heavy, too thick. But her eyes, accustomed to the shadows, had already cataloged the chamber: damp stone walls, a thin, straw pallet, and a single, tiny window, barred, high above. And the lock. A simple, heavy tumbler lock, old and corroded. A challenge, but not an insurmountable one. She sank to the ground, her fingers, nimble from years of card manipulation, danced over the chain, exploring its length, its weaknesses. The cuffs were thick, but the links connecting them to the wall were weaker, older. And the lock, ah, the lock. A twist, a turn, a subtle pressure. Her gaze fell on a loose stone in the wall. With a grunt, she pried it free, revealing a hidden niche. Inside, a discarded hairpin, thin and strong, lay nestled. A smile, a flash of her usual cunning, touched Runa’s lips. This wasn't her first prison, and it wouldn't be her last. She’d cheated death before. She would do it again. The metal pick was cold in her fingers, but her touch was precise, practiced. A delicate click. Then another. The tumblers shifted, giving way. With a soft *snick*, the heavy iron shackle around her wrist sprang open. Freedom. Almost. She massaged her raw wrist, then slipped to the door. Her escape route. Back down the hall, past the groundskeeper, and out into the woods. The beast could take the settlement, for all she cared. She eased open the heavy oak door, then crept out along the flagstones, silent on bare soles. The flame she had left burning in the cell threw a weak, yellow slant against the masonry. One step. Two steps. Almost to the main door. And then, a shape. Vast. Impossibly tall, impossibly wide. It filled the archway, cutting off the faint yellow wash along the flags. The air turned foul, thick with the scent of damp earth, matted pelt, and raw musk. Two eyes, burning with an unnatural, hungry golden light, fixed on her. A towering beast, broad-shouldered and hunched beneath the low vault, choked the narrow space. Every instinct screamed at Runa to run, to flee, to throw herself against the stone walls until she broke free. Before she could retreat, a dry, elderly voice cut through the dark from the hall behind the creature. “He will not harm you. Not unless you run.”

The Price of Survival