The dense Slavic wilderness enveloped the world with its damp aura. The leaves trembled gently, as if they were whispering ancient incantations forgotten by humans. Marek and Lena walked along a forest path, illuminated only by the silvery moonlight breaking through the treetops. The night in the forest was completely different from the day. Every step sounded like the sound of a broken spell. Marek had an old knife with him, inherited from his grandfather, and Lena blew on her fingers, warming them from the cold. The two of them went into the forest to find the legendary Holy Fern Glade - a place Lena's grandmother had told her about, claiming that on the Kupala Night, one could meet creatures there that philosophers had never dreamed of. When they reached the clearing, a fog obscured their view. A long moan cut the silence and the pungent smell of herbs permeated the air. Suddenly, from behind the twisted roots of an old oak tree, the figure of an old man emerged - his beard was as green as moss and his eyes glowed with a cool fire. - What are you looking for here, children of the forest? - asked the Boer Grandfather, in a voice reminiscent of rustling leaves. Marek and Lena exchanged glances. They wanted to answer something, but the words stuck in their throats. Then, from behind the old man's back, other silhouettes began to emerge: slender russets, meandering through the grass, and shaggy lechas. - 'If you have come for answers, you may regret them,' the Grandfather added, extending a hand towards them, on which the light of the holly torch pulsed. At that moment, the wind blew harder and the mist crested around their feet, revealing the outline of a mysterious, mossy gate leading deep into the wilderness. What was on the other side, they could only guess....