The woods beyond Drovetsk were not made for men.
They whispered. They breathed. They moved when you weren't looking.
Dmitri trudged through the snow-covered path, following the faintest hint of footprints—too small to belong to anyone grown. Katya had vanished too quickly, but he was certain she'd gone deeper into the forest. The deeper he went, the quieter the world became. Even the wind stopped howling. It was as though the trees were listening.
And watching.
Then he saw the cottage.
It was crooked and hunched like it had grown out of the ground. Ivy clung to its stone walls like veins, and wooden talismans hung from the roof—shapes carved into symbols he didn't recognize. Bones of birds. Dried flowers. Tiny glass jars filled with ash.
He knocked.
The door creaked open on its own.
Inside, the cottage smelled of herbs and smoke, warm but unsettling. The walls were lined with books in languages long dead. Vials glowed faintly in amber and violet. A cat with one green eye watched him from the rafters.
And there she was.
Madame Irina.
She sat beside a fire, cloaked in layers of dark velvet and furs, her gray hair braided down to her waist. Her eyes were mismatched—one blue, one black—and her hands trembled slightly as she stirred something in a pot that smelled of moss and blood.
"You've brought the storm with you," she said without looking up.
"I'm looking for a girl," Dmitri said. "Katya. She said she lives here."
"She sees what most are blind to," Irina replied. "Which is why she speaks little. And trusts less."
"She mentioned Vasilisa."
Irina stopped stirring.
The fire cracked.
"She sees her too," Dmitri continued. "Says Vasilisa is back."
"She never left," Irina said.
Dmitri stepped closer. "Then tell me the truth. Who was she?"
Irina turned her eyes to him. "You already know who she was. It is why you came. Blood calls to blood."
"What do you mean?"
Irina stood and shuffled to a tall cabinet, unlocking it with a key that hung from a chain around her neck. From inside, she withdrew a black mirror—polished obsidian framed with silver vines. The reflection in it shimmered strangely, not quite accurate.
"Look," she said.
Dmitri hesitated, then gazed into the mirror.
At first, he saw only himself. Then the background began to blur, darken, and change. He saw the estate—his uncle's manor. Candles blown out. A woman in red, walking the halls barefoot. Her veil trailed behind her like a shadow, and in her hands, she held—
His name.
He heard her whisper it.
"Dmitri…"
He jerked back.
"That's not possible," he breathed. "She's dead."
Irina nodded. "She was. Until the snow brought her back. Until you brought her back."
"Why me?"
"Because she died waiting for a man who never came. And you carry his blood."
Dmitri's pulse quickened. "You're saying I'm related to her?"
"Not quite," Irina said, voice now sharp like ice. "You are the echo. And echoes always return to the place they began."
Dmitri felt cold down to his spine. "Why is she here? What does she want?"
Irina's mismatched eyes darkened.
"She wants to finish what death interrupted."
Suddenly, the flames dimmed. A sound echoed through the cottage—a soft, breathy hum.
A woman's voice.
"Dmitri…"
He turned toward the door. Frost was spreading across the floorboards.
Outside, the trees began to move.
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