The Moreska sword dance was Korčula's beating heart, a tradition older than the stone walls that encircled the old town. For one night, the main square was transformed. Flaming torches cast a wild, dancing light on the ancient facades, and the air thrummed with the frantic, percussive beat of drums and the wail of pipes. It was a reenactment of a battle between the Moors and the Christians, a stylized, violent ballet of clashing swords and spinning dancers in brilliant red and black costumes.
Ina had loved the Moreska her entire life. It was a part of her, as much as the lavender and the sea. This year, however, she was a stranger in her own skin. The festival's primal energy, usually so exhilarating, felt ominous, a mirror to the chaos churning within her. The suspicion that had taken root in her was now a fully grown, thorny vine, constricting her heart, making every breath a conscious effort.
Juraj stood beside her, a solid, warm presence in the press of the crowd. He was fascinated, his dark eyes reflecting the torchlight as he watched the dancers weave their complex patterns, their swords ringing like frantic bells. He saw not just a folk performance, but an echo of older, bloodier conflicts, a prayer for fertility and victory disguised as theater.
Ina watched him instead of the dance. She saw the way the firelight carved his features, making him look even more like a statue from a forgotten temple. She saw the crowd, a dense, jostling mass of humanity, and the strange, invisible bubble of space that always seemed to surround him. People bumped into each other, laughed, apologized, but no one bumped into Juraj. They flowed around him like water around a stone, without ever seeming to notice they were doing it.
The performance reached its climax. The Red King and the Black King faced off in the center of the circle, their swords a blur of deadly intent. The drums reached a fever pitch. The crowd, caught in the collective frenzy, surged forward.
Ina was separated from Juraj in an instant. The press of bodies was suffocating. An elbow dug into her ribs, a stranger's backpack shoved against her back. She was trapped, her feet trampled, panic rising like a cold tide in her throat. She couldn't breathe. She called out his name, but her voice was lost in the roar of the crowd and the cacophony of the drums.
"Juraj!"
Across the seething mass of people, his head snapped towards her. Their eyes met.
And in that moment, the last vestige of the man she thought she knew vanished.
His eyes, usually the warm, fertile brown of soil, flashed. It was not a trick of the torchlight. It was an internal, incandescent light, the color of molten gold and ancient, furious power. It was the light of a predator, a protector, a god whose territory had been breached. The look on his face was not one of human concern; it was a cold, terrifying wrath.
He didn't shove. He didn't yell. He simply took a step forward.
And the crowd… parted.
It was not a gentle yielding. It was as if an immense, invisible hand had simply pushed people aside, creating a clear, direct path from him to her. The movement was so smooth, so unnatural, that the people involved didn't even stumble; they were just… displaced, their attention still glued to the dance, completely unaware of the divine force that had just moved them like pawns on a chessboard.
He was at her side in two strides. His hand closed around her upper arm, his grip not painful, but absolute, immovable. The golden light in his eyes faded, replaced by a stormy, worried brown.
"Are you hurt?" he asked, his voice a low thrum that cut through the noise.
Ina could only stare at him, her mouth agape, her body trembling not from the crowd, but from him. The flashing eyes. The parting crowd. The chilling certainty that settled over her, cold and heavy as a shroud.
He is a god.
The thought was no longer a suspicion. It was a fact, as solid and unyielding as the stone walls of Korčula.
The rest of the Moreska was a blur. The vibrant colors, the clashing swords, the triumphant music—it all faded into a dull, meaningless roar. She was aware only of the hand holding her arm, of the powerful being walking beside her, of the terrifying truth that had just been revealed in a flash of golden light.
He led her away from the square, down the familiar, narrow street towards her cottage. The silence between them was thick, charged with the unspoken. She could feel his tension, his anticipation. He knew. He knew that she had seen.
The moment the cottage door closed behind them, shutting out the distant sounds of the festival, she wrenched her arm from his grasp. She backed away from him until her shoulders hit the cool stone of the wall. The small, cozy room that had been their sanctuary now felt like a cage.
"What are you?" The question tore from her, a raw, ragged whisper.
Juraj stood in the center of the room, the flickering light from the hearth casting long, dancing shadows behind him. He looked at her, his face a mask of sorrow and resignation. The time for lies, for half-truths, was over.
"Ina," he began, his voice heavy.
"No!" she cried, her voice gaining strength, fueled by a torrent of fear and betrayal. "Don't say my name like that! Not until you tell me the truth! The flowers. The tree. The water in the cove. The crowd tonight. Your eyes… What are you?"
He closed his eyes for a moment, as if gathering strength. When he opened them, they were filled with a pain so ancient it made her heart clench.
"You already know," he said softly.
"I want to hear you say it!" she demanded, tears starting to stream down her face. "I need to hear you say it!"
He took a slow, deep breath, and the air in the cottage seemed to grow still, waiting.
"I am Juraj," he said, and the name resonated with a power that shook the very dust motes in the air. "I was worshipped when these islands were young. I am the god of the quickening sap, of the tender shoot that breaks the winter soil. I am the passion that creates life, the force of rebirth that defies the grave. I am the spring, Ina. I am the spring given form."
The words hung in the air, impossible, terrifying, and undeniably true.
Ina slid down the wall, her legs unable to hold her. She buried her face in her hands, sobs wracking her body. It was one thing to suspect; it was another to have it confirmed by the being you loved. The foundation of her reality had crumbled.
He took a step towards her, his hand outstretched. "Ina, please…"
"Don't touch me!" she shrieked, scrambling backward like a cornered animal.
A flash of pain, sharp and deep, crossed his face. He dropped his hand. "You asked for the truth."
"Show me," she whispered, her voice hoarse. She looked up at him, her sea-blue eyes blazing with a desperate, terrified challenge. "If you are what you say you are… show me."
Juraj's expression hardened, a grim acceptance settling over his features. He knew that words were not enough. She needed to see. She needed to be unmade, so that she could be remade with the truth.
He turned from her and walked to the cottage's back door, throwing it open to the night and her small, sleeping garden. He stood on the threshold, his back to her, and raised his hands to the sky.
He did not speak a spell. He did not chant. He simply… was.
And the garden… exploded.
It was not an explosion of destruction, but of creation. A riot of color and life erupted in the space of a single, gasping heartbeat. The lavender bushes, already in bloom, tripled in size, their purple spikes glowing with an unearthly luminescence. The vegetable patch became a jungle of oversized, ripe tomatoes, gleaming eggplants, and beans that twisted up their poles like emerald serpents. Roses the size of dinner plates burst from the ground, their petals a shocking, blood-red. Vines heavy with fat, golden grapes cascaded over the stone wall. Jasmine, honeysuckle, and night-blooming cereus flowered simultaneously, their combined scent so potent it was a physical presence in the air, a thick, sweet fog of life.
The very grass grew to her knees, studded with a thousand types of flowers that had no business growing together, in a harmony that defied nature. The air hummed, the same deep, earth-born hum she had felt that first day in the field, but now it was a deafening chorus.
It was the most beautiful, most terrifying thing Ina had ever witnessed.
She stared, paralyzed, at the impossible, thriving jungle that had once been her tidy garden. This was not a trick. This was not a dream. This was power on a scale she could not comprehend. The power of a god.
The fear won.
With a strangled cry, she stumbled to her feet. She didn't look at him. She couldn't. She ran. She fled out the front door, into the night, leaving the door swinging open behind her. She ran past the shimmering, monstrously beautiful garden, down the path, away from the cottage, away from him. She ran until her lungs burned and her legs gave way, collapsing on the cool, normal, unmagical marble of the old town streets.
The next morning, she was on the first ferry to Dubrovnik.
The stone city, with its formidable walls and orderly, geometric streets, felt like a refuge. Here, everything was man-made, logical, solid. There were no gods here, only history, commerce, and the relentless, predictable tide of tourists. She walked the Stradun, the main thoroughfare, surrounded by thousands of people, and felt utterly, completely alone.
She found a small, anonymous room in a pension in the Ploče district, with a window that looked out over the terracotta roofs towards the sea. For two days, she did not leave. She sat by the window, watching the light change on the ancient stones, her mind a battlefield.
On one side was the terror. The sheer, mind-numbing fear of the divine. He was not a man. He was an eternal, powerful entity. She had loved him, had let him touch her, had given him her body and her trust, and he was… something else entirely. The memory of the garden exploding into life replayed behind her eyes, a constant, horrifying loop. What else was he capable of? What was his true nature? The stories of capricious, vengeful gods flooded her mind.
On the other side was the love.
It was an undeniable, stubborn, passionate force. It was the memory of his laughter in the market, his confusion over the espresso machine, the tender way he had washed her after they made love, the awe in his voice when he called her his temple. It was the feeling of his arms around her, the sense of absolute rightness she felt when she was with him. It was the memory of the pleasure he had shown her, a pleasure that felt like a glimpse of heaven.
How could she be so terrified of the being who had made her feel so cherished? How could the source of such profound joy also be the source of such primal fear?
She was torn in two. The human part of her, the part that craved safety and understanding, screamed at her to stay away, to build a new life in this stone city, far from the terrifying magic of Korčula.
But the part of him that had taken root in her soul, the part that had bloomed under his attention, ached for him with a physical pain. The world without him felt grey, silent, and two-dimensional. The vibrant, humming, impossibly colorful world he had shown her was the real one, and this mundane reality was the pale imitation.
On the third day, she walked the city walls. The Adriatic stretched out before her, a breathtaking blue, and in the distance, she could just make out the hazy shape of the Korčula archipelago. Her home. His domain.
She thought of the withered olive tree, now bursting with life. She thought of his heavy heart as he revealed himself, the pain in his eyes when she had flinched from his touch. He had not wanted to frighten her. He had only shown her the truth because she had demanded it.
A god. She was in love with a god.
The truth was no longer a chilling certainty; it was simply the truth. And with that acceptance, the terror began, slowly, to recede, making room for a dawning, staggering wonder.
She had fled from the divine. But as she stood on the walls of Dubrovnik, looking towards the home she had shared with a force of nature, Ina knew that she could not outrun her own heart. The fear was real. The love was more real.
The confrontation had unmade her. The flight had been necessary. But now, it was time to decide what to do with the pieces. Would she let fear rebuild her into the woman she had been? Or would she allow herself to be remade into something new, something brave enough to love a god?