The handle is cold in my grip, and as the door creaks open, the sound is a twisting knife in my gut. I will walk in, and she won’t be there. Because she is gone.
Bracing for something that will never come, I step inside. No scolding. Notskas she eyes the dirt on my gown. She’s supposed to be here, supposed to tell me not to walk around like this.
But the silence is too loud.
Every step I take feels like a violation, like I don’t belong in this space anymore. The familiar scent of herbs lingers in the air with the cold seeping in from outside. It’s comforting and painful all at once. It reminds me too much of her. It feels like she’s still here, just out of reach, tending to her herbs.
But she isnot.
The kitchen. It’s filled with herbs and flowers, exactly like it was a few months ago when I last visited. Tears blur my vision.
I would complain about the pain in my neck, or the smack these soldiers gave me just a few minutes ago. But who will hear my pain if not her?
My hands on the counter, my arms holding my full weight, I lean forward, and my tears fall into the sink to darken the wood with every drop. Could it be the colonel? Maybe any of the soldiers?
Impossible. They were all with me at the base. Then what happened?
But the blood outside . . .
Shaking my head, I walk into the living room. Her sanctuary, the place where she’d sit by the fire, read to me, teach me everything I know.
I can almost see her there, curled up in her chair by the hearth, her fingers tracing the pages of the book she read so often. The same book that sits there now, left open, as if she had just been reading it again.
My hands tremble as I pick it up and flip through the pages. One of them is marked with a folded piece of paper. Carefully, I pull it free and read the passage she bookmarked.
It describes an ancient ritual, one designed to undo the most binding of enchantments. The text speaks of breaking the “chains of blood” that hold entire forces at bay, forces so strong they can only be contained by spells woven from ancient bloodlines. The final passage hints at a great cost, a sacrifice required to unravel such powerful magic, followed by crossing a path of blood.
I swallow hard.
Why did my mother mark this?
She always spoke in riddles, said things I struggled to understand, did things I never dared to ask about. My every question was left unanswered.
After I close the book and set it back in its place, I move deeper into the house, and with every step, the air gets colder.
When I reach her bedroom, the door creaks as I push it open. My breath catches at the sight of her bed, unmade, the furs still piled where she last lay. I freeze.
Mother never left her bed like this. It was one of her rules: everything in order,always. Seeing it now, messy and abandoned, sends a shiver down my body. It’s wrong.
Swallowing hard again, I rush to make the bed. I pull the white blanket neatly into place, smoothing the plush furs on top.
My eyes move to her bedside drawer, one I never touched. My fingers brush over the wood, rough and worn from years of use. Maybe there’s something inside. A clue? A sign? Because I refuse to believe she died of heart failure.
Hesitating, I pull the drawer open to find empty envelopes and a bit of white fabric. My gaze softens. It’s her embroidered handkerchief, the one she sewed herself, with blue rose petals stitched into it. Her favorite flowers.
My throat tightens as I take it out and hold it close, pressing the fabric against my chest. It feels like the last piece of her I can cling to. The last part of her in a world that suddenly feels so empty. I stare at it longer than I should before shoving it into my pocket. I don’t know why... it just feels right. Like keeping her with me, even in the smallest way, is something I need to do. My vision blurs again.
It’s too much. The scent of herbs in the air, the unbearable silence of the house, the way everything still feels like it’s waiting for her to return—it’s too much.
I can’t stay here.
My legs shake as I make my way out of the house, wiping my tears as I go. The air outside is biting and cold, but it’s nothing compared to the void she left behind.
The soldiers are gone, and the village of Tárnov is bathed in the dull light of a pale moon struggling to pierce theclouds above. Even the stone buildings, which have stood for generations, seem lifeless, like cold statues in the night.
When I first joined the army, they told us Tárnov was one of the largest villages in the world. A place shaped by the great tsar himself, who, as the stories go, poured his soul into its very foundation, making it second only to the capital, Velháven, in size and resources.
His influence is etched into every stone, every road paved with care, not for beauty, but for control. Every path, every towering wall designed to ensure that no woman escapes. Our lives dictated by rules we did not create.
