The Vixen - House of Danu

When faced with mortal danger, people either fight or flee. I froze when it mattered most.

Rohan! Granny’s voice slammed into my mind with uncanny insistence. Bogatyrs!

Before it could slip from my fingers, the bucket’s rough wooden handle pressed into my palm. The water splashed and spread over the cracked ground as if fresh blood stained the earth. I shuddered. Vivid and dark, the sight was a stark contrast to the serenity of the meadow.

The air seemed to thrum with rising intensity, a subtle vibration that brushed over my skin, making the hairs on my arms stand on end.

Clinging to habit, I checked my concealment in jiva. Intact. Jiva, the life force that courses through all living things, granted me the ability to obscure my essence from those who sought to harm me. As an ancient and mystical energy, it allowed me to meld seamlessly with the natural world around me, rendering me almost invisible. However, with each passing second I remained concealed, it drew a little of my strength away, a price I had to pay for fading into the shadows.

But I was young.

Still, a chill slithered up my spine, enveloping my senses with an unsettling clarity. My heart thrummed in an odd rhythm.

I should move.

Heavy, my feet remained glued to the spot. My eyes darted wide and panicked.

Dark and watchful, the pine forest loomed at the edges of the meadow. Lazy bees buzzed in the summer stillness. Birds shuffled in the trees. The spring still twisted between ferns.

All normal and empty.

I clutched at the tiny braid of scented herbs in my pocket, a talisman against monsters. And bogatyrs.

Or so Granny had claimed.

A witch fetched a king’s ransom if she was reported to and confirmed by the Order of the Brotherhood. They still chased us after all those centuries, fearing another upheaval. My parents were killed by them, too—sold by unscrupulous people who loved money more than integrity. Wasn’t it enough?

Tirnanog had so many large cities, making it a more likely location to hide witches. Why here? Perhaps the bounty posters of the bogatyrs promising generous rewards for our capture overrode a villager’s conscience, calling them here.

Someone close to us.

It made the situation even worse.

I shook my head, trying to wake from this nightmare.

Then, the world slowed under the weight of dread. Oppressive silence fell over the clearing. Somewhere in the distance, a twig snapped.

The bogatyrs! For a moment, I thought I would faint. Too numb, my brain stalled.

Rigid, but watchful, my grandmother didn’t move from the doorway of our cottage—a black silhouette carved from stone, sniffing danger from afar. Her posture betrayed the pressure building within her.

Granny feared nothing. Now, she seemed petrified.

Come here! Loud and with renewed urgency, her message rushed, breaking through my foggy head.

Nestled among wild roses and cloaked in the gnarled oak tree’s shadow, our house hid from view. If I reached the cottage, we stood a chance.

Perhaps.

She’s the strongest. Yet, I had never seen her do anything other than heal. And teach. Could my grandma’s ageing body overpower them or be destroyed by the prolonged effort?

Run.

Leaden legs. A struggle against the inertia. An impossible task hammered in my head. If we took the tunnel to the forest...

One step, then another. Finally released from the strange predicament, I sprinted toward the old whitewashed dwelling. What I most wanted was a caress on the head and reassurance that all would be well.

As soon as I approached, the familiar smells welcomed me—those of bread, soup and pine. If peace and stability were a perfume, that would be it.

Yet, everything could flip in the blink of an eye.

As soon as I crossed the threshold, Granny shut the door and threw the bolt. The wood groaned.

Granny’s voice turned ominous and ancient, as if drawn from the depths of time. “To the cellar, child,” she intoned, each word heavy with purpose. “Now.”

Tense, her hands shook too much. Yet, she grasped with firmness the hand-woven carpet, peeling it back.

It was all happening for real. I had never thought I’d have to hide from humans. Granny was a revered healer and a respected advisor.

The trapdoor creaked open, revealing the gaping maw of the hole beneath. Cool, damp air hit my face. Her hand gripped my shoulder, digging into my flesh, then pushed me forward.

I hesitated. The terror emanating from her was a thick mud drowning me in. Her eyes narrowed, stern. “Down!”

I slid inside the musky, narrow space, my eyes filling with water.

“Are you not coming?” I asked. My voice came broken and whiny through the cracks in the floor.

“No,” she whispered. “Too late. They already know I’m here.” Her words carried a bitter tang of hopelessness and betrayal.

Of despair.

I understood. The bogatyrs had sensed her life signature.

“I’m afraid, Granny.” I sniffled, ready to spill into sobs.

Her gaze was filled with love and regret.

“I’ll be with you forever. Now, hurry!” She hissed. Her tone changed, rushed and cold. “Keep your mental shield. And pile the roots.”

I did as told, barricading the tunnel entrance with burlap sacks filled with bulbs, onions, beets, and carrots, praying she was right and their essence would shield me. We had practised the escape in case it was needed, but I had hoped it would never happen. Only then did I close my eyes, letting jiva surge through my veins, bonding to Granny’s awareness. The mental bond allowed me to share her presence and sensations, forming a link through which we could communicate without words. While this bond enhanced our emotional connection, it weakened over long distances or under stress. Despite these limits, her presence folded into mine, her sensations becoming my own.

Although far underground, the thickness of the soil concealed my signature in jiva somewhat; I still maintained my veil. Already on full alert, my senses sharpened even more when enhanced with the cosmic energy. Then, I crawled along the dark, endless tunnel.

I heard a short, assured knock, and then her slow, measured steps crossing the cottage. The door creaked open.

Instead of crawling faster, I stopped, curious to see those monsters. I could not grasp the concept of a normal person being so terrible towards others.

Two of them blocked the entrance.

My instincts screamed to run, to meld with nature. Yet, I gawked at them through Granny’s gaze, transfixed by horror and awe. Yes, they were massive and muscular, and their ample bodies stretched the fabric of the clothes, but they were ordinary, human men. Nothing more.

I eyed them again, assessing. New hope invaded my heart, an expectation that she’d prevail.

The first was silver-haired with skin the colour of an oak bark and pale grey eyes shining with retained power. His features, creased with the lines of old age, might have appeared benign on a normal person. But he was a full-fledged bogatyr—his pristine overcoat proved his status as such.

White meant purity.

Right now, I saw it as a symbol of death.

The second was taller and young, but not yet an adult. Seventeen, perhaps? He exuded a striking, unnatural beauty: sharp-featured and elegant, with golden hair like the finest silk. Alert and intelligent, his intense grey eyes gleamed with a promise of cruelty.

Pale-skinned, a rare feature in a world where whiteness was considered a flaw, he seemed an otherworldly prince from a ruined fable, alluring and cold. The contrast between his refined features and the coarse, dark brown apprentice garb only heightened the dissonance.

Though only a novice, an aura of danger clung to him. Like a god of war and destruction, he remained a distant, untouchable presence. Nothing remotely human would cause him to hesitate before acting aggressively. How could I perceive him as similar to me?

As I stared at him, a fleeting sense of enthrallment mingled with repulsion churned within me. Or was it only due to prejudices so deeply buried in society, dividing us?

Go, child! Granny’s message seemed distant and disjointed, as if someone used jiva to prevent her from reaching me.

It broke my fascination with the murderers. I slid deeper into the tunnel.

“What do you want, strangers?” Granny asked, her body tense but her voice quivering from perceived age. By employing glamour on them, her appearance was of a frail, old woman—curved shoulders, rheumy eyes, trembling hands.

“You stand accused of witchcraft,” the elder declared. “Where is the other one?”

“Who?” my grandma blinked, confused. “I live alone.”

Despite the mask of resolve, I sensed a flicker of uncertainty in her. Run, Rohan! she shouted through our bond, the message surging with fervour.

I crawled fast, the gravel tearing at my knees. Scratched and bleeding, I sped up, adrenaline feeding my brain and numbing the sensations.

The bogatyrs looked at each other.

“Do you sense any residual energy?” said the old man.

“No,” replied the boy.

“Were we misled?” grumbled the master under his breath, then he flicked his chin at Granny. “Check the cottage.”

The youth advanced.

Granny stepped in his path. “No one is inside.”

Uncaring, he shoved her to the side and glanced without entering, then shook his head. “Empty.”

My grandma staggered, and then, with exaggerated slowness, straightened herself. Her deception dropped like a veil, and she redressed her crooked back. A trickle of blood ran from her right nostril. Her strength drained too fast. Age gave wisdom but took physical strength—what she needed now.

Still fiery, she glared at her enemies, but her hands trembled. “You dare strike me in my home?”

A flicker of fear rattled the bogatyrs, and its flare brushed my awareness.

They unclipped weapons from their belts, choosing the advantage of arms over jiva.

In a flash, the plasma blades ignited in the same bright, pale yellow.

Claiomh Solais. The name suited them well—swords of light, but bringing death.

Weapons of pure jiva, binding with their wielder, and changing configuration by mental command.

We called them rogatinas.

My heart stopped.

After adopting battle stances, the elite soldiers surrounded her. The weapons hissed with contained power.

Granny, unarmed and old, faced them alone.

“Let me be, bogatyrs!” she tried one last time. “What danger am I to you?”

“Knowledge and practice,” the elder growled. He didn’t say “wisdom.” That would be too close to reverence.

They feared what they could not control—truth and facts.

And then they charged.

Granny lifted her hands and closed her eyes, drawing power from her surroundings. With fluid movements, she wove a protective bubble of jiva, her gestures invoking ancient traditions. Her hands trembled slightly, betraying the strain on her ageing body. The energy pull began to dim her eyesight, causing her to blink rapidly, as if trying to clear a haze from her vision. A cold sweat broke on her brow, proof of the exhaustive toll the casting was taking on her. Each moment of resistance heightened her body’s limitations.

The bogatyrs struck from two opposite sides. The energies connected, crackling in an electrical discharge—the blue of the sphere resisting and repelling the pale yellow of the blades.

“Surrender,” barked the master, pausing for a heartbeat. “We can yet show you mercy.”

I sensed anger flaring in her veins. She spat on the floor. “Live as your prisoner? Never. You wield jiva no less than I.”

“You, witches, hunger for power, and it shall be your death!” the novice roared.

What power did we have, hiding like vermin from them since the brutal witch-hunting wars four hundred years ago?!

Intense brazier consumed my reason just beneath my skin. I felt as if I’d erupt in flames.

Rage.

While her assailants jumped high and flipped in mid-air, aided by jiva. My poor grandmother flung an invisible wave of energy, repelling them. Would her body endure the effort?

The electricity crackled in the air, hitting them at chest height. On one knee, they landed with force on the ground. Their boots lifted dirt.

Their blades remaining raised, they rose faster than men should move.

Then, they closed in on her.

My heart thrashed in my chest.

She freed another surge of power, fending off their assault, but I sensed her life essence dwindling more. In a futile effort to defend herself, she barely maintained the bubble. My own emotions mirrored her struggle, anger seething beneath my surface. Without realizing it, my rage flared just briefly, causing my mental shield to flicker. The brief disruption of my veil was enough for one of the bogatyrs to glance in my direction, his attention piqued. Quickly, I tightened my focus, reinstating my concealment with a new intensity. The close call reinforced the necessity for control, underlining how emotions could jeopardize my safety. My heart pounded erratically, echoing her desperate struggle. The visceral connection to her fading strength sparked a shiver creeping down my spine. I felt her frustration and despair. Still connected to her awareness and unable to tear my eyes away, I stared, breathless.

I had to know. To witness. To remember.

And then, her aged body betrayed her.

Twin flashes of yellow tore into the blue of her shield.

A high-pitched, painful scream cut through the air, and the stench of scorched flesh reached even here. I gagged and doubled over in the dark while gripping my breast where an invisible, searing blade had pierced me.

Granny collapsed while her consciousness drifted towards eternal darkness.

The agony slowly ebbed away, leaving me numb. The taste of copper lingered on my tongue, a metallic reminder of my fear. In the dark, claustrophobic space, I curled on the ground while silent tears streaked my cheeks. I would never hear her voice again, sharing forbidden knowledge. Teaching me to heal.

I touched the braided red and white bracelet she had made with blessings to bring me health. Tears welled, and I swept them away with anger before resuming my desperate flight underground.

Then, a shift in the flow scattered my grief, bringing me back to a state of alertness. Already suspecting my existence, the soldiers sniffed through the life force like bloodhounds, hunting me. Even though I could no longer see them, their muted, energetic presences pressed against the fringes of my awareness, searching.

A few pebbles rolled over one wall of the tunnel, pulling my thoughts back to the harsh reality of my situation, reminding me of how exposed I was. I grappled with uncertainty, my nerves on edge as I awaited the next betrayal of sound to disclose my presence.

Underground, the thick soil offered some protection by blocking somewhat jiva, but my emotional state created a dangerous weakness. A single slip of my focus, a hesitation in my protective veil, and they’d sense me. I pulled the energy tight around me, forcing my unique life signature to scatter.

Above me, they entered the house. Would they find the tunnel?

“Search everywhere,” ordered the master.

“A cellar,” the youth called and yanked on the hinges.

“Check it.”

“No one there. Only peasants’ hoard.” The boy scoffed and kicked the wooden shelves. Granny’s jars exploded into a thousand shards. Pickles, beets and eggs rolled on the floor, splattering red and green liquids.

“Damn villagers!” snarled the apprentice. “I stained my cloak!”

“Your fault,” replied the master. “Lose your temper again, and you’ll be court-martialed.”

The boy muttered a curse.

I clenched my jaw. Rage pulsed through my veins, but I dared not move. The bags had fooled them—for now. My heart fell.

They scoured the house, ransacking every corner, leaving my home defiled while I cowered further away.

I waited until the shadows grew long and twilight shrouded the ground. Hours later, when the forest felt alive with the sounds of birds and insects, I crawled out from my hiding place. The scent of pine, moss, and damp earth rooted me to a world where everything seemed alien and dangerous. Under the dim sky streaked with coppery blood, I felt the weight of all I had lost and knew the forest held my grief. I slid down, hugged my knees, and rocked back and forth. Memories of happier days floated behind my eyes, things I would never again experience: when she told me old stories in the evenings while she spun linen, or the gentleness of her hands applying cold compresses when I burned with fever.

I stood alone.

No more hugs and caresses, of garments crafted with love, or bedtime tucking.

No more laughter or safety.

Darkness stretched ahead of me. How would I survive?

“Granny, Granny!” I howled and pleaded, hoping she’d honour her promise and come back to me somehow.

No answer came. Only the breeze ruffled my hair, like the caress of an invisible hand.

A pair of fresian owls called to each other in the night, and their familiar sounds anchored me to reality. Despite my exhaustion and shaky, restless muscles, a relative calm settled over me. The forest luminescence shifted from green and pink to red. Were the trees reading my emotions? I embraced the closest one, my forehead against its trunk, finding some solace in its living presence.

After centuries of targeted genocide, perhaps I remained the last one…

The weight of countless slaughtered generations leaned over my shoulders, obliging me to survive if only to mock the efforts of the bogatyrs. The Order couldn’t take the legacy I already possessed. Neither could the Khanate.

All her life, Granny had laboured in dismantling the prejudices that had oppressed us. Despite the sad outcome, I had to follow in her footsteps. It was the only way to save myself and ensure that no other witch would suffer a similar fate.

But before that, I must survive.

I was the last receptacle of ancestral memories of witches sitting in a circle under a starry sky, holding hands and raising power.