Actually, we don't really grow up.
Maria studied her reflection in the elevator's narrow mirror. No loose sweater or flowing dress could disguise her rounded belly anymore; curious eyes would see the truth. A new life was growing inside her, and she waited for her daughter's birth with equal parts impatience and dread.
It was a fear born of joy she had once believed impossible. The doctors' verdicts still echoed in her mind, sharp and final as a sentence: infertile. She had learned to live with it, or at least to pretend she had. She had even managed to marry, despite her mother's warning that no one would want someone "defective" like her. Cruel words, yes — but Masha had believed them. She had poured herself into her studies at the art institute and clung to her fragile dream of illustrating children's books. In that way, she told herself, she could at least touch the celebration of life that nature had denied her.
Everything changed the day she met Kostya. Their eyes met at one of the small home concerts a mutual friend loved to host, and in that instant, the thread of fate bound them tightly together. Masha had not yet turned twenty, and until then she had never felt drawn to a man. But she wanted to see him, to hear him, to be near him — and she would have sacrificed anything for those moments, though she never had to. He felt the same. Within six months their unconditional, all-consuming love carried them to the registry office. Even when Maria confessed the truth she carried like a stone on her heart, Kostya never flinched. For him, a future without her was no future at all.
Perhaps it was for her acceptance of life's cruelty that the world rewarded her with its most precious miracle.
But fate, as it often does, had other plans.
The elevator inched upward with agonizing slowness, each moment winding Maria's nerves tighter. Her palms grew damp; she wiped them against her skirt.
Ding.
The doors slid open, spilling her into the half-darkness of the stairwell — yet she couldn't make herself move. The fear of rejection rooted her in place. She would rather have been anywhere than here, at the door of her former best friend. They hadn't spoken since Maria's wedding. That silence was the price she had knowingly paid for loving Kostya.
She forced herself forward and pressed the doorbell twice, short and sharp. From inside came the mechanical trill of birds, followed by the creak of floorboards. Maria silently prayed that Lyudmila — not her husband — would answer. He wouldn't even let her speak.
The lock clicked. The door opened to reveal Lyudmila's startled face. She moved to close it without a word, and Maria's heart lurched. There would be no second chance. Acting on instinct, Maria caught the door with her foot.
"Lyudmila, wait!" Her voice cracked. Pain shot through her foot.
"What are you doing?" Lyudmila shoved the door just enough to free her and immediately crouched to inspect the bruise. "You shouldn't be here."
The words were gentler now, edged with regret Maria couldn't miss.
"I have nowhere else to go."
"And that's by your choice. You knew the coven would turn its back the moment you married that—" Lyudmila cut herself off, lips pressed tight against the curse that wanted to escape. "You have to leave."
Lyudmila straightened, reaching for the handle, but Maria seized her hand and pressed it to her belly.
For a moment Lyudmila's expression was unreadable. Then the child stirred, delivering a small kick against her palm. Her eyes widened. She looked from Maria's face to her stomach, back and forth, as if trying to decide which stirred more strongly within her — joy or fear.
"But… you couldn't get pregnant."
"I thought so too. But, as you can see…"
"How far along?"
"Thirty-four weeks."
Something behind Maria caught Lyudmila's eye, but when she turned back, her hand was on Maria's shoulder, and she nodded toward the open door.
"Come in."
They walked in silence to the kitchen, the quiet so dense it seemed to swallow even the small sounds of movement. Lyudmila drew the curtains, filled the kettle, and set it on to boil. Maria sat in a chair against the wall, her bag in her lap, fingers twisting at its edges. Being here should have calmed her, but the anxiety inside her only sharpened. She searched for the right words, afraid of finally speaking aloud the reason she had come, biting her lip until she tasted blood.
"Damn," she murmured, pressing her sleeve to her mouth.
"Did you say something?" Lyudmila asked, measuring tea leaves into the pot.
"No. Nothing."
The kettle whistled. Lyudmila poured the water, filling the teapot to the brim, and waited as the steam curled upward. Her palms rested flat on either side of the counter. To anyone else, it was a casual pose, but Maria knew better — her friend was as tense as she was.
"What can I do for you?" Lyudmila asked softly, still turned away. "I can't get rid of the baby. Don't even ask."
"No, of course not. Would I have come all this way at this stage for that?"
Maria hesitated, fingers gripping the leather strap of her bag. There was no going back.
"I need a prophecy."
Lyudmila turned, startled.
"A prophecy? You know what that means. Once spoken, fate is bound. Yours was given long ago — and no one's has ever changed."
Maria's smile was faint, almost wistful. She set the bag on the table.
"I've made my peace with my fate. It doesn't trouble me anymore." She stroked her belly in slow, tender circles. "I want one for my daughter."
Lyudmila took two cups from the shelf, poured the tea. The scent of peppermint and the faintly sour tang of lemon balm filled the kitchen, making Maria's empty stomach twist with longing.
"Don't worry — she won't be the High Priestess," Lyudmila said, setting a cup in front of her before sitting down.
"That's not what I'm afraid of."
"Then what?"
Maria exhaled a long, weary sigh, pressing her chilled palms against the warmth of the porcelain cup. She avoided Lyudmila's gaze, shame coiling around her words as she confessed. A hereditary witch, who had never wished for motherhood, had bound herself to the coven's greatest enemy—and now might be carrying within her the seed of its destruction.
"I'm afraid my daughter will take after her father."
"You should have thought of that before marrying Konstantin."
"Lyuda…" Maria's voice faltered. "You know as well as I do—I was infertile."
"I was infertile."
Silence fell. The argument was as old as their friendship, replayed countless times with the same ending: Maria defending Kostya, and Lyudmila left to watch her best friend slip further away.
"I shouldn't help you. If the coven finds out…"
"You're not helping," Maria interrupted, her tone trembling yet firm. "You're simply giving a prophecy to an unborn child—by right of blood. She never made the choices that broke the code. I did."
"But you're the one asking for prophecy, not the child. And if it's a boy, inheritance is irrelevant."
"It's a girl." Maria's fingers tightened around the cup. "And she could become either the next High Priestess—or inherit her father's power. The sooner we know, the sooner we can prepare."
"Prepare for what, Maria? Once a prophecy is spoken, there's no taking it back. Sometimes it's better not to know…"
"But I have to know!" Maria caught Lyudmila's hand, desperation blazing in her eyes. "Please, Lyuda. I'm begging you."
Lyudmila's expression hardened. "You'll owe me."
"Anything," Maria whispered without hesitation.
With a slow, almost solemn nod, Lyudmila pulled her hand free.
"Then finish your tea. You know the ritual."
Maria quickly drained the cup until only a murky layer of tea leaves remained. She overturned it onto the saucer, sliding it closer. The two women clasped hands and whispered a short incantation in a tongue far older than either of them. Magic stirred—then cracked apart.
A sharp snap broke the stillness. The cup fractured into three jagged pieces.
Startled, Maria looked at Lyudmila, who merely shrugged.
"That's new. I feel nothing."
"Maybe because the child isn't born yet?"
"Unlikely. At this stage, the spirit is already whole. Her fate should be clear."
"Then why can't you go into trance?"
Lyudmila bent, picking up a shard, eyes narrowing as she read the shapes within the dregs.
"I don't know. Let's try the old way. Hm… I see forest and sun. Or… no, it looks more like a waxing moon. The circle is too broken."
"Kserton."
"Perhaps." She reached for the second shard and frowned. "I see lightning."
"An evil omen."
Lyudmila arched a brow. "Do you really need me here for this? You're interpreting faster than I can."
"Reading for myself is forbidden," Maria muttered.
"Then hush and listen. Lightning doesn't always foretell evil. It can mean upheaval, shocking revelations, a sudden choice."
Her fingers brushed the third shard. At once she hissed and snatched her hand back. A bead of crimson welled at her fingertip.
"A bad omen. Don't look."
But Maria was already reaching. She lifted the fragment, and when her eyes found the image, her throat went dry, lips trembling around the word that escaped like a curse.
"A wolf."
The apartment fell into a suffocating silence—until it was broken by a sudden cry from the next room. Sharp, raw, almost animal. It twisted mid-sound into something else: unmistakable, painfully familiar. Maria's heart clenched. Every instinct in her body urged her to rise, to run, to comfort. The rhythm of her pulse had already shifted into the strange frequency of motherhood, drawn helplessly toward the source of the cry.
Lyudmila's eyes fixed on Maria, wide with horror, and that gaze alone stopped Masha from rising. She froze, afraid even to breathe too loudly, watching as Lyuda's fingers spread across the tabletop like claws, pressing hard against the wood, tense and ready, a predator sensing threat.
Someone would have to speak first. Yet neither dared break the silence, as if even a single word could shatter the fragile balance and hurl them past the point of no return. The cruel truth was that time itself would not wait; the future Lyudmila so desperately wished to postpone was creeping toward them with relentless certainty.
A simple charm, a flash of wit, and the practiced reflexes honed by years of secrecy could have buried Maria's dangerous truth deep beneath the earth—at least until another hand unearthed it. Were it anyone else seated across from her, Lyudmila might not have hesitated. But to strike against her best friend, heavy with child—that was a price even she could not bear to pay.
Slowly, Lyudmila drew her hands from the table, brushing the back of her neck as though the motion itself could lend her strength. She exhaled, cheeks puffing, and for a brief instant averted her gaze, as if searching for courage somewhere in the shadowed corners of the room. Maria swallowed hard, her shoulders easing as the tension in Lyudmila shifted. The suffocating cloud of inevitability above them thinned, giving birth to a fragile hope that things might yet end differently. Still, the child's cries from the next room went on, unrelenting.
"Seems they're already calling for you," Maria murmured, her voice raw.
"Let's go," Lyudmila replied, rising swiftly and disappearing down the corridor.
Maria hesitated, then followed, her hand lifted before her in a protective gesture, three fingers pinched together in a spell she could still muster if cornered. Day by day her magic ebbed away, but enough remained for her to seize a moment's advantage—enough, perhaps, to flee if danger struck.
The door ahead stood ajar, and Maria caught sight of the white crib beyond. Lyudmila was already leaning over it, her voice soft, sweet, almost maternal as she cooed to the infant. The tone scarcely shifted when she called:
"Come closer. Closer." Supporting the baby's head with practiced care, Lyudmila lifted her into her arms. "I'll keep your secret—if you keep mine."
Maria's hand fell, powerless, and she stepped into the room. At Lyudmila's side, she gazed at the tiny creature, fists waving clumsily against round cheeks flushed with warmth. Gently, Lyuda tugged down the neckline of the baby's shirt, revealing the birthmark etched near the collarbone: a sharp, unmistakable star.
Maria gasped.
"The mark of the High Priestess!"
Lyudmila only nodded.
"But that means—"
"Shhh." Lyudmila hushed her quickly as the child stirred, eyes fluttering, then sank once more into sleep.
Relief and dread tangled inside Maria's chest. The discovery lifted one crushing burden only to replace it with another. Her child, she realized, would not be bound into the fate of multiple clans—yet the certainty of what awaited was no kinder. The idea of a normal childhood seemed as distant and impossible as the miracle of her pregnancy had once seemed.
Perhaps the girl would inherit fragments of magic. But they would fade, as Maria's had: she had tested this herself. The closer her due date approached, the weaker she became. And now, after the prophecy glimpsed in broken shards, Maria could no longer deny what she carried. The wolf's blood pulsed in her unborn daughter.
Lyudmila laid her baby back into the crib and crossed to the dresser, pressing the switch on a small mushroom-shaped nightlight. A faint lullaby filled the room, tender and unobtrusive. With a beckon, she urged Maria out, and together they slipped down the hall, careful not to wake the sleeping child.
Back in the kitchen, the silence between them broke once more.
"Does the coven know yet?" Maria asked.
Lyudmila shook her head.
"I pray they never do. Otherwise, she'll be robbed of any chance to grow, to simply be a child—even for a short while."
Maria sank into a chair, massaging her swollen ankles with a sigh.
"Don't you think you're exaggerating? Times have changed. The last High Priestess was born long before either of us."
"Do you even hear yourself?" Lyudmila shot back, pouring fresh tea. "Look how easily they cast you aside after your wedding. If that law holds stronger than blood itself, then what makes you think they'll soften when it comes to tradition?"
"Maybe you're right. But how long can you hide her? A month? A year? Two? She won't even know what's happening by then. Childhood won't even be a question."
Lyudmila set the kettle down.
"We could help each other."
Maria managed a faint smile.
"If it's a prophecy you want, I'll lend my hand in ritual. But honestly—your daughter's fate seems plain enough already."
"I mean something more."
Maria's brows drew together, her mind racing through every possible and impossible scenario, yet none of them touched the truth Lyudmila carried.
"But what can we do? My powers are nearly gone. And yours must be fading too. No mother comes away untouched after bearing a High Priestess."
"That's true. But if we joined forces in ritual, it might still work. We'd need a third for the triad—then it would be certain."
"I know where this is going. Don't even ask."
"Has your mother turned her back on you too?"
"No. Of course not."
"Then there it is!" Lyudmila's eyes flashed with triumph, as though she had just claimed a fortune. "The three of us could protect them both."
"How? Build a shield around them? Hide them from sight?"
"Almost." Lyudmila sipped her tea, voice lowering. "What if I told you I've found a way to seal their power? But the cost… will be high."
Maria's breath caught. The idea of involving her mother tugged at her heart with both fear and longing. She would give anything to keep her unborn daughter safe from the curse of inherited magic. Yet to place another life in the balance—it was a decision too heavy to bear alone. Still, she reasoned, asking was not a crime. Her mother could decide for herself, if told honestly, if warned of risks Maria could not yet imagine.
"Alright," she whispered at last. "Where's your phone?"
"In the living room."