On Kupala Night, Jagoda and Kacper enter a forest that should not be trusted and meet a stranger who knows the old rites better than he should.
Deep in the forest, where birches leaned white and uneasy over the mist and the aspens shivered at the slightest breath of wind, Jagoda and Kacper followed the narrow path with torches in their hands and excitement in their throats. It was Kupala Night, and even the bravest stories seemed less like stories here, under the black branches and the restless sky.
They tried to laugh at their own nerves. Jagoda spoke of rusalki with a smile too sharp to be entirely real, and Kacper answered with a careless joke about wolves, though both of them kept glancing into the undergrowth whenever the darkness shifted. Somewhere beyond the trees an owl called once, then fell silent. A little farther on, something moved between the ferns, and two pale eyes caught the firelight before vanishing again.
The trail brought them to a clearing ringed by old stones. Moss clung to them like damp skin, and strange marks were cut into their sides, worn deep enough to have survived years of rain and winter. The air there felt different. Heavier. As if the forest itself had drawn a breath and was holding it.
Jagoda stopped first. Kacper followed, lowering his torch. Before either of them could speak, a figure stepped out from behind the trees. He was tall, dark-haired, and dressed so plainly that at first glance he seemed made of shadow. Then he lifted his face, and the amber gleam of his eyes made Kacper tighten his grip on the torch.
“Looking for a fire?” the stranger asked, smiling as if he knew exactly how close they were to turning back.
Kacper took a cautious step forward. “Who are you?”
The stranger ignored the question and looked instead at the stone circle. “You’ve come to the right place,” he said quietly. “But not at the right hour. Only tonight does this circle wake. And when it does, it never asks for less than it takes.”
The ground gave a low shudder beneath their feet. Somewhere in the forest, a wolf howled, long and mournful, close enough to raise the hair on Jagoda’s neck. Then the firelight bent strangely, as if something unseen had moved through it. Jagoda felt fingers close around her wrist, cold and certain, and she turned toward the touch just as the torch in Kacper’s hand burst out with a hard crack of sparks and went dead.
Darkness swallowed the clearing. In it, something breathed.