Novak

The campfires were dying down, casting flickering glimmers onto blackened faces. The air smelled of soot, dampness, and that cloying sweetness—the scent that arrives with the fog. The festivities had ended with a scream. Vereya was found near the village outskirts, where the earth breathes cold. Her eyes were open, but they reflected neither the moon nor the stars—only a grey haze. Dragan tore at his shirt and howled, but there was no grief in his cry—only terror. Everyone saw that terror, and everyone remained silent.

In the corner, Hanna’s lips moved soundlessly as she stared into the void. Her mother wept; her father gripped his axe so tightly his knuckles cracked. Yaga, blind in one eye, stepped out into the street leaning on her staff, staring longingly into the fog. Her lips moved, but no one could catch her words. The Volkhv, wearing a horned mask, stood on the edge of the village, keeping his distance, a knife glinting in his hand.

Then, the fog beyond the outskirts began to churn, as if something massive and hungry had overturned in its depths. A howl drifted from the gloom—neither wolf nor human. It was the voice of spirits that come during a blood moon. But the moon was pale, ordinary, and that made it all the more terrifying.

People spilled into the street with pitchforks and spears. And then, they began to fall. One man glanced toward the forest—he fell. Another turned toward a rustle—he froze, as if his very soul had been wrenched out. Panic surged through the village. Feet sank into the fog; screams drowned in the white wool of the mist.

And then, he stepped out from the gloom. First, a shadow—tall, broad-shouldered, alien. Then, Novak himself. His shirt was torn, his trousers caked in marsh mud. His eyes were bound in black cloth, and a sack of herbs and bones hung at his back. He walked slowly, yet not a single spirit dared approach. The howling ceased. The silence grew thick; one could hear nothing but the crackle of dying embers.

He stopped in the middle of the village. Slowly, he unwound the blindfold. His eyes were grey as the mist—devoid of fear or malice, carrying only an endless weariness and something as deep as a dark pool. He swept his gaze over the houses and the faces, lingering on the torn circles around the wrists, on the frozen Dragan, and on Yaga, who did not lower her staff.

— I followed the voice, — he said hoarsely. — Every night. I thought Morok was calling me. But now I see—it is not Morok.

He took a step forward. No one moved. Novak tilted his head, listening to a distant howl, and spoke again, his gaze shifting from Yaga to the Volkhv, then to Dragan:

— Your priestess is dead. The circle is broken. The spirits have emerged out of season. I have seen this before—in the fog, in the bones. Someone violated the rite. Someone failed to bring the sacrifice to the gods.

He fell silent, letting the words settle. Somewhere beyond the outskirts, the fog stirred once more, and from its depths, a new howl was born—dull and drawn-out. Novak clenched the blindfold in his fist.

— We have little time. Before the fog returns, answer me: what happened to your priestess? Who saw her last? And why does the earth at the edge of the village smell of death, rather than blood?

He waited. In the distance, screams could be heard; the air grew heavy, and the fog pressed closer. Yaga remained silent, staring at the ground. The Volkhv did not move. Dragan clenched his fists. Novak did not avert his gaze from the houses, as if searching for the one who would be the first to answer.