“Fear is a blade sharper than any sword. It does not strike, it festers and weakens before the first wound is ever made. A warrior must decide: Will she wield it, or will it wield her?”
—Láda Veléša, Goddess of Leadership and War
Noël
“Are you sure this is a good idea?”
“Of course it is. The wench needs to know her place. I don’t give a flying boar shit that she’s the only female in the military. Even better, this will be a lesson to others that there’s no place for a woman in the army.”
Arnold’s voice would wake me from the dead. Even half-conscious, I’d recognize that sound anywhere.
My pulse quickens, and my head throbs in time with each word I hear. My skull feels like it’s being split open from the inside, and for some reason I feel weak. It’s hard to move—physically. A deep, burning anger bubbles up, cutting through the sting of pain. How did I end up at his mercy?
I don’t know if it’s the fear of what he’s planning or the pure rage of being in this situation that stirs me more, but I know one thing: He’ll regret this. I’ll make sure of it.
My eyes are heavy, and it takes every drop of effort to open them. It’s even harder as the carriage jolts side to side over uneven ground. What happened?
“Oh come on, don’t be so harsh. Everyone knows you have your eyes on her.”
That voice, it’s not Arnold. Someone else is with him. I try to focus. My memories are vague, flashing through my mind in broken fragments. And then it hits me.
Right. I punched Arnold in the face, and then someone knocked me out from behind.
“I’m not being harsh!” Arnold laughs. “Well, maybe I am. Who else would’ve thought to drug her like that? Had to slip the innkeeper a few pretty silvers. Though I’m surprised she’s still breathing. I heard this herb is deadly, but somehow she’s managed to survive.”
I think I might throw up. What a sick?—
“That’s why she hasn’t woken up yet? It’s been days and nights, Arnold, and she’s still asleep.”
Days? How long have I been unconscious?
I try to shake my head out of habit, but it hurts, so I stop moving and focus on my surroundings.
The carriage is old, dark, and musty. The air hangs so thick with the smell of worn leather that it clings to my throat. My fingers graze the rough wooden walls, tracing the scratches and grooves gouged into its surface. Thin light seeps through torn curtains, barely enough to cut through the gloom and leaving most of the carriage swallowed by shadows. It’s disturbingly quiet, save for the murmurs of my captors outside. And the horses. My heartbeat fills the silence, pounding in my ears. I feel a sick unease, like I’m being buried alive.
“I still think throwing her to the vólkins is way too harsh, Arnold. The poor girl just didn’t want to talk to you. Besides, you know it’s illegal to get close to their territory, not to mention to let a woman outside the gates. If the knyaz finds out, we could be jailed for the rest of our lives.”
“That’s why you’ll keep your mouth shut. Once we toss her to the vólkins, they’ll tear her apart, and no one will ever know she was here. Let them do the dirty work.”
Arnold, you sick, sick man.
The military painted a clear picture: Vólkins are savage, bloodthirsty beasts created from cursed wolves of old. I still remember the day during our early lessons, back when I had just joined the ranks, when one of the commanders drilled it into us. We stood in formation, the cold biting through our uniforms as he paced.
“You think you can survive out there? You think your swords or strength will protect you from a vólkin?”he said and his voice boomed, silencing the yard. “These monsters don’t care about rank or skill. They’ll tear you apart before you can even lift your blade.”
We were always told that no human could match one of those creatures, that we must stay away from them. Once, while I was checking to make sure all the candles were extinguished in the rookies’ barracks, I overheard a soldier say the tsar couldn’t be that powerful if he was so afraid of the vólkins. He was hushed immediately by his roommates. Speaking negatively about the tsar is a serious crime in Vathéria. When I stomped my foot, they all fell silent.
These monsters... The colonel described them in detail that day. Their bodies are hulking, fur matted with blood, glowing eyes that pierced the night, always lurking just beyond the edge of Ávera, their home. “They’re territorial,” he’d warned, lookinginto every soldier’s eyes. “They’ll kill anyone who crosses into their land without hesitation. And no one ever returns.”
It was a lesson meant to scare us into submission, a warning to stay far from their territory. Even though, as a woman, I’d never left the village, the stories of soldiers who strayed too close and vanished without a trace lingered in my mind. They were supposed to keep us in line, to keep us afraid.
But my mother told a different story. To her, the vólkins were not monsters, but guardians—ancient beings who watched over the land, protected the balance between nature and humanity. She always said they aren’t beasts, they are part of the earth, the forest’s soul. They keep the wilds in check, ensuring that the land thrives.
“You don’t fear them, you honor them.”
But now, as I sit here, bound, hearing Arnold talk of throwing me to them, doubt claws at my chest. What if my mother was wrong?
Mother was never wrong.
