Whispers on the Outskirts

The house on the edge of the village had always been cold, but today the chill was different. It didn't come from the hearth or a draft. It came from within—from the skin itself. On the back of the hand lay a white patch. It didn't ache. It was smooth as parchment, and it radiated such an icy cold that the fingers went numb.

The candlelight on the rough wooden table flickered, casting long shadows against the log walls. Outside the window lay a thick, impenetrable darkness. Even the village dogs were silent.

A knock came at the door. Three short raps, a pause, then two more. Only one person knocks quite like that.

The door opens, and Dobrynya appears on the threshold. He is covered in soot, a heavy sheepskin coat draped over his shoulders, clutching a heavy basket of firewood. His face is gaunt, dark circles hollowed beneath his eyes. He steps inside quickly and slides the bolt shut.

— I brought you some wood. — he says hoarsely, setting the basket on the floor. — And Agafya... she sent some herbs. Said to brew them.

His gaze falls upon the white skin. Dobrynya freezes. A couple of logs slip from the basket, thudding dully against the floor.

— This... When did it start? — he asks, devoid of emotion, though his voice still falters.

He frowns, averting his eyes as if the sight itself is painful. Then, he lets out a heavy sigh and rubs his face with a grime-stained palm.

— Listen... — he says, without looking up. — You ought to go to Veda. She lives out in the marsh, past the outskirts. She has herbs there, brews decoctions... Maybe she'll know something. Otherwise, God help us if the Priest catches wind of it. He doesn't know the difference between a sickness and a curse. Just go.