Vasilisa’s eyes shot open.

She took another gasp, yearning for another lungful of fresh air, but suddenly sensed the metallic scent of blood. The bright, enticing colors of the outdoors suddenly faded, replaced by the drab wooden interior of a humble commoner’s home. The chirping of songbirds died away, replaced by a sudden crescendo of high-pitched caws from distant crows. The world that the stone doors promised melted away like ever more paint before Vasilisa’s eyes, and she found herself standing in the middle of a house. Looking behind her for the serpent and the heavy stone doors, all she saw was a plain, uneven wooden wall through which a light draft blew in.

Vasilisa shivered as she cast her glance about the room before her - an overturned table lay on the floor, a half-shattered bed frame sat propped up against one wall, and a snuffed cooking fire in the middle of the home waited cold and damp for an owner that she sensed would never return. She gripped the saber tighter in her bleeding hand, and nearly jumped when she heard the muffled sound of voices filter through the walls.

Through a crack in the wooden boards of the house, Vasilisa carefully peered outside. Through the narrow crack she saw several figures walk through a wooden gate, and her aching chest tightened with fear as she saw the glint of steel. Weapons. Armed marauders.

She cast her gaze elsewhere, trying to figure out where the stone doors had transported her, and her breath caught as she beheld the pile of corpses that lay stacked high at the base of a stone obelisk. The glassy eyes of old, bearded grandfathers, young girls, and rough-shaved men seemed to stare through the crack in the wall, fixing her with their collective dead gaze. Their mouths were packed full of rocks, and Vasilisa felt the rising acidic urge to vomit come up to her throat as she turned her gaze away from the dead.

She continued to stand deathly still as she heard one of the marauders whisper something in a strange, guttural tongue. The voice was close, just near the door, and Vasilisa saw a shadow play across the cracks of the wooden boards and block out the rays of light from the outside. She gripped her stolen saber tighter, prepared to slash at whoever emerged through the doors, but one of the other marauders hissed something to his comrade, and the man near the door stepped away.

Once she was sure the marauder had gone far enough, Vasilisa drew closer to the peephole and studied the marauders in turn. The one closest with his back facing her was dressed in a plain red robe, and wore a ratty leather vest and a pointed iron helmet. Another warrior dressed in heavy scaled armor lingered close by, his eyes scanning about the empty village as he leaned against the shaft of a mean-looking glaive.

Three other men stood before the great stone obelisk. One of them, a long-haired man much older than the others and clad in strange religious garb, was crouched examining one of the dead women in the pile of pale corpses. The other two whose backs were also turned to Vasilisa had a regal, noble appearance in contrast to the three others who by and large resembled her imagination of savage Khormchak raiders. One was short, black-haired, and muscular, wearing a dark blue silk robe with gold and white embroidery and wielding a silvered saber. The other was tall, red-haired, and wore a long dark-green tunic which brushed against the dirt as the man squatted in impatience, leaning against a long nine-foot spear planted firmly in the ground.

All five were Khormchaks, doubtlessly, but their whispered talking and careful, respectful examination of the dead made Vasilisa think that they were not the ones who had caused the mayhem that sat on display before her. She saw every Khormchak cast an occasional glance up at the dark stone obelisk, and she strained her neck as she tried to look up at whatever caught the Khormchaks’ attention.

Gods…I’ve never left. This is still a dream, it must be.

Vasilisa felt herself gasp as she beheld the gigantic stone obelisk - beyond its base, the towering stone was pointed like a massive spike driven into the earth. The stone seemed to radiate darkness, consuming all light around it. Within the core of the twisting void, Vasilisa saw specks of light and swirling hints of the mauve and violet clouds she had seen in her vision, her nightmare, of Chirlan. The crystals in her chest hummed uncomfortably, sending a soft pulse through her chest that carried to the bone - did the crystals sense something she did not?

Suddenly, one of the warriors spoke a pointed, short word that could only have been an order. She saw the warriors were all looking in her direction, at the ransacked house. In the direction of the light gasp that escaped her lips.

Gods…they’ve seen me. They heard me.

The armored warrior stomped across the village square towards her, glaive at the ready. Vasilisa stepped back, and wildly searched for an exit - a window, a hole in the wall through which she could crawl - but found nothing. As the armored footsteps drew closer she walked silently across the house and jammed her fingernails in between two of the boards in the wall opposite her, trying to work it loose. No luck.

As she felt the armored warrior bearing down upon her, almost at the door, Vasilisa threw herself behind the overturned dining table. She held her breath as she heard the wooden door creak open, followed by a groan from the old floorboards as the heavyset warrior stepped indoors.

A haunting silence filled the air as Vasilisa felt the warrior’s eyes searching the room, heard his labored breathing and the creaking of old leather as he adjusted his grip on the lethal, shining glaive. Then, another noise cut through the silence. A sound Vasilisa heard many times watching her father’s guards in the training yard: the sharp whistling of a soaring arrow.

A choked cry suddenly came from the armored warrior as an arrow struck him in his armored back, and Vasilisa heard shouts and calls come from outside as the glaive-wielder stumbled out of the house to meet an unseen foe. Vasilisa waited for a moment before peeking out from behind the table and beyond the opened door.

The Khormchaks stood arrayed in fighting formation, back-to-back as hissing arrows fell around them. Vasilisa saw several other doors fly open, and charging out of them came black-cloaked figures wearing silver masked helmets. More of Chirlan’s killers. She saw the red-robed archer swiftly bring down two of the masked archers with arrows, while the tall spearman blocked a heavy greataxe with his wicker shield, dropping to one knee as he drove a foot of steel and oak through his attacker’s unguarded stomach.

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More and more cloaked cultists streamed out from the houses - their flowing robes making them seem like an endless river of black and silver that bore down upon the Khormchaks. Vasilisa hesitated for another moment before gingerly crouching by the open doorway, her eyes searching for an opportunity to make herself scarce. A part of her hesitated to flee - the Khormchaks seemed to be enemies of whatever cult Chirlan’s killers were a part of. She recalled her mother’s words to her father: the posol, the emissary of the Great Khormchak Horde, was an ally to her and her family. Could the same be said for the Khormchak warriors that now fought those loyal to her kidnappers?

A dozen silver-masked killers now remained, stepping around and over the four bodies of their dead or dying comrades who littered the ground around the obelisk. The crimson life essence of the dying cultists snaked across the ground beneath the Khormchaks’ feet, trailing towards the stone obelisk whose dark aura seemed to swell with the bloodshed as if drinking itself full from the fallen. As Vasilisa spotted an opening she heard a cry come from the surrounded Khormchaks - a looped rope fell around the neck of the armored glaive-wielder, pulling the heavyset man to the ground and yanking him away from the formation as cultists descended upon him like steel-clawed wolves.

The short, blue-robed Khormchak charged out, calling for the warrior whose name was Khenbish. Vasilisa saw the blue-robed man - Yesugei, by the alarmed cries of his allies - whirl his jeweled saber through the air and force back two cultists who stood before him as he got a firm hold on his strangled comrade and cut him free of the lasso. The cultists moved quickly and silently, shifting in battle with the fluidity of water as they quickly moved to cut off the two Khormchaks from their allies. The blue-robed Yesugei fought valiantly, scything his saber in a silver blur as he stood tall and covered Khenbish’s scrambling retreat, deflecting one blow after another that came from every which angle as his armored ally drew back to his allies, only for three cultists to close the gap and surround Yesugei fully. The nomad swordsman now fought one against three, and fell to the ground as a sword cut found the back of his leg. As he writhed in agony, weakly bringing his saber up as a shield, another cut ripped across the front of the nomad’s chest, staining the ground and the elegant silk robe with crimson.

Vasilisa stepped out of the doorway, careful not to catch the attention of the battling cultists. She walked slowly at first, then broke into a huffing, heaving sprint, saber clutched firmly in both hands. Three silver-masked killers hovered over Yesugei who looked desperately to his allies for help, only to see them being hemmed in and driven back by the cultists’ own renewed, surging assault. A polished, glinting sword hovered in the air over Yesugei’s bleeding chest as its wielder gave a low-muted chant - a final dirge to a valiant warrior.

Vasilisa threw all her weight behind a wild, cleaving strike aimed at the chanting cultist’s back. The curved, bloodied blade stained itself again as it bit deep through silk and flesh and carved a jagged red line across the cultist’s spine. As the first man collapsed to his knees with a dying gasp Vasilisa drove her shoulder into the chest of the second cultist, shoving him back as she threw a rising cut at his leg. The heavy saber tip tore straight through tendon and bone, and the second cultist collapsed to the ground in screaming agony as he clutched at his leg - half-severed at the knee.

Vasilisa heard a gurgling cry behind her and saw the third and final cultist collapse as Yesugei’s own blade found the killer’s throat. The injured nomad muttered something at her in Khormchak before staggering past her and thrusting the deadly point of his saber into the belly of the injured cultist in front of her. Vasilisa gave a reassuring nod to the nomad as the two of them caught their breath, and Yesugei’s look of incredulity and confusion at the sword-wielding woman who saved his life melted back into one of steel-eyed, resolute calm. An understanding passed between them - the silver-masked killers were both their enemy, and that was all that mattered for now.

The four other Khormchaks fought like cornered, tired animals - the red archer’s bow lay forgotten in the dirt as he defended himself with a long, curved knife in one hand as the other nursed a deep wound at his side. Blocking blow after blow with his cracking shield the green-clothed spearman gave ground little by little, his back edging closer and closer to the obelisk behind him. The armored Khenbish whirled his glaive wildly through the air as he tried to ward the cultists away from himself and the unarmed shaman behind him, but he too soon found himself pressed close to the obelisk, tripping over the pile of severed limbs and pale corpses that seemed to reach out to the overwhelmed warrior in eagerness.

Yesugei gave a shout, then unholstered his bow and nocked an arrow in a single smooth motion. One feathered shot hissed through the air and brought down an axe-wielder. A second embedded itself between the shoulder-blades of a swordsman, bringing him to his knees before a Khormchak spear pierced through his chest. Vasilisa moved forward carefully, and startled as one of the cultists suddenly broke away to charge at her. She slashed at the rushing cultist, and her eyes widened as the saber bit into the wooden shaft of the cultist’s spear, but didn’t cleave the man wielding it. The cultist’s flowing robes flew before her face as he threw a heavy kick to Vasilisa’s stomach. Both spear and saber fell to the ground, joined by their wielders as Vasilisa gasped for breath. She felt gnarled hands suddenly seize her throat, and immediately her lungs screamed and burned for air as golden eyes glinted menacingly at her behind a twisted, demonic visage. Vasilisa wildly threw her hands forward at the cultist’s face to blind him, but her nails only scrabbled uselessly across the mask’s polished surface. She felt herself weakening, her mind screaming to fight while her body grew heavy and useless. Her vision began to distort - the silver visage twisted and warped before her eyes - and the sounds of battle around her slowly faded away, replaced by the low, constant buzzing of the crystals in her chest.

Warm blood splashed onto her face as a silver fang pierced through the cultist’s flowing robe. The cultist’s grip on her bruised throat weakened, and his fingers slipped away as a hand took hold of the dying man and shoved him aside to the dirt.

Yesugei’s face appeared before Vasilisa as her vision cleared, and she took a deep, life-affirming breath of the blood-tainted air before breaking out into a shuddering cough. As the nomad extended a hand to help her off the ground Vasilisa suddenly felt a rumble beneath their feet. Both Khormchaks and cultists gave pause as the earth trembled beneath them, and Vasilisa craned her neck upwards as she looked upon the stone obelisk. The yawning darkness had swollen to nearly cover the entire outpost, shrouding them all in shadow as they fought. The tendrils crept across the gray skies, and swallowed the sun.

A burning symbol appeared with a flash on the polished face of the stone obelisk, which began to transform as it took on a strange, jagged appearance. The sigil burned furiously, giving off a blinding light, and then the flames died down to reveal a smoldering sign - a twisted, feathered serpent eating its own tail. No beginning, and no end.

“Master Chirlan…” croaked the cultist whom Yesugei stabbed in the back. The cultist’s blood flowed freely from his chest, through the mouth of the silver mask, twisting and slithering towards the stone obelisk. He spoke in the Common Tongue firmly, resolutely, even as he sputtered on his own blood. “Gods of mine…fire…earth…stars above. Deliver us.”

The final slithering coil of crimson disappeared beneath the stacked pile of corpses. The roiling darkness suddenly retreated with a roar, violently sucking back into the obelisk which had now transformed into a great, jagged black crystal.

Cracks began to spiderweb across the smooth face of the black crystal.

And then it shattered.