I found myself inexplicably perched upon an extraordinary chair, one fashioned entirely from brown roots and green moss for padding.

I noted that I was also somehow face to face with none other than Yaga Grandhilda.

As my gaze wandered around, I took in the sight of the snug and homely interior of what was most likely her dwelling. The Yaga’s hut was filled with hanging dried herbs that tickled my nose with a thousand smells. Root-woven shelves all around me were filled with countless potions inside organic-looking semi-transparent bottles.

"So, what do you wish to know about witchcraft, young Ioan?" the witch inquired, her eyes sparkling with an impish delight.

Feeling somewhat dazed, I blinked in confusion, still unsure of how I had gone to sleep and suddenly came to be in the Yaga’s abode.

“How did I get here?” I managed to articulate.

“The Astral Ocean served as a pathway, allowing me to weave my dream to yours” she revealed. “After all, I’ve created you, and so it falls to me to impart the wisdom necessary for you to become a true… witch.”

She snickered at the last word, amused by the fact that I wasn’t a girl. Were wizards not a thing in this world?

I searched my mind for such and found no references whatsoever to the word ‘wizard’ in the local tongue.

Presumably the gender distinction between hero and witch options had likely manifested through local cultural quirks and belief systems, similarly to how the roles of men and women were delineated in ancient Sparta. In Sparta, men were raised as warriors, dedicating their lives to state service and military prowess, while women were tasked with managing the household and raising strong children, but also enjoyed a level of social autonomy and respect not common in other parts of ancient Greece.

“Ah,” I nodded to the Yaga, resuming our conversation. “So, you’re communicating with me through my dream?”

The wrinkled woman nodded.

My next question revolved around a more immediate threat, relevant to my location and lack of fortifications.

“Master, is it safe for me to be in Svalbard?” I asked. “The village wall was torn down by the dragon.”

“It was your foolish decision to force me to align you with Mother Earth and to stake your claim upon the village,” the old crone replied with a shrug. “You should be fine for about a week, as the scent of the dragonfire will keep other predators at bay.”

“What are the chances of the dragon returning?” I asked.

“None,” the witch declared. “Dragons, much like lightning, don’t strike the same location twice.”

I squinted at her. I knew lightning could strike the same place twice if a tall metal pole was present.

“What was it exactly that attracted dragon Zarnitza to Svalbard to begin with?” I asked.

“Dragons sleep for decades or centuries upon their hoard. When they wake, they seek out the nearest village and feast upon the hearts of adults to extend their own lifespan,” the witch answered.

“Adults? What about the children?” I asked.

“Dragons do not consume children,” the Yaga intoned.

“Why?” I blinked.

“Because children like yourself are akin to empty vessels,” Grandhilda explained. “Waiting to be filled with power upon the ceremony of adulthood.”

I racked my brain about such a ceremony and found nothing there.

“Can an adult make a pact with a spirit?” I asked.

“They can,” the Yaga nodded. “However, the impact of such a pact won’t be as effective as with an unaligned soul of a child.”

“Uhhh,” I hummed. “So my soul wasn’t aligned yet?”

“Indeed. You were on the cusp of your adulthood, Ioan,” the witch affirmed. “The ceremony of Vigslodi is a ritualistic raid performed by the men of your village. You were supposed to go on yours in the upcoming spring and murder a beast larger than a man or slay a man during the raid and consume their heart. This act would have turned you into an adult man, aligned you to Perun as a warrior of Svalbard.”

I glanced at my skinny arms, uncertain as to how exactly Ioan would slay someone bigger than himself.

“Alas,” the Yaga sighed. “You were born during the decade of the great famine that spread white death far and wide across Thornwild. Zemliya’s blessings had failed and many crops and animals perished affected by the blight. Had you gone on a hunt or a raid, you would have most likely perished due to your frailty.”

“I see,” I said, shuddering slightly at the prospect of going on a murder-raid to eat a human/animal heart. “And how do girls become adults?”

“I see that you have forgotten much,” the Yaga said. “The girls of Svalbard undergo the Zemy’s band ritual of cultivation which takes them a year. They plant Linum flowers during the spring, harvest them in late summer, ret, dry, break, scutch and hack them during autumn, and spin and weave them into a banner during winter. By Zemy’s First Day of Spring, they present a tapestry to the village elders depicting their family’s history and their personal aspirations.”

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“That doesn’t seem as life-threatening as going on a raid,” I commented.

“And yet when I was a young maiden I failed it repeatedly,” the Yaga commented with a wistful look.

“You did?” I asked.

“Do not mistake Zemy’s Band for an easy task, Ioan. The cultivation of Linum in the wild patches outside of the village walls is its own formidable challenge,” the witch said. “The Linum fields must be planted in ground that is both fertile and uncontaminated by the blight that has plagued much of our land. Finding such a patch of earth is a task in itself, but the real danger comes from the pests that are drawn to the Linum.”

“Ah,” I said, picturing Earth caterpillars.

“The Iron Needle Beetles, so named for their tough, metallic-looking carapaces, are particularly voracious pests. They can strip a field of Linum to the stalks overnight. These creatures are not only fast and ferocious but are also impossible to crush underfoot and covered in poisonous stingers. The young women must work together and secure their fields, crafting barriers from thorns, keeping constant vigil to protect the sprouting plants,” the Yaga intoned. “The girls must master the preparation of herbal repellents and poisons. They study the cycles of the wild, the passage of the moon and stars, as these influence the behaviour of a variety of pests and animals seeking to devour the Linum patch from Starmoths to HoarBoars.

“Right,” I nodded.

“The year-long endeavour teaches girls the value of perseverance, protection, and the deep connection to Mother Zemy who sustains all,” the witch intoned. “It’s a journey of growth, not just for the Linum they cultivate but for themselves as well. A girl’s journey to crafting the Band starts at seven winters time when their mother begins to feed them a variety of poisons in minute amounts to prepare them for the Band.”

“Oh,” I said, struck with a sudden understanding.

King Mithridates VI of Pontus cultivated an immunity to poisons by regularly ingesting sub-lethal doses; this practice was called mithridatism because of him.

“This is another reason why a man would not make a very good witch,” the Yaga sighed. “You have no resistance to poison whatsoever, haven’t been trained from childhood to identify specific insects or plants. Your path to crafting potions will be incredibly arduous.”

“Can you not assist me in my dreams as you are now?” I asked.

“Not like a mother would assist her daughter daily,” the Yaga shook her head. “It takes me a good amount of herbal tea and considerable effort to entwine our dreams because the connection between us is still strong. We have but a week at most to commune briefly. Soon enough, our connection will tear and I might not be able to contact you in the same way for a long time, until the next lunar alignment.”

I pursed my lips. So much for having effective long term witchy apprenticeship.

“So… how can I defend my domain?” I asked next.

“Take a nap on it just as you are doing now,” the witch advised. “The act of resting on your land deepens your bond with Mother Zemy. Should you require a formidable boundary, sow the seeds of sturdy trees or spiky, poisonous shrubs around the glade. With time, they will flourish into an impregnable fortress under your command. Trees nurtured from your land will obey your command, always standing steadfast in your defense.”

“I see,” I said, moving to my next topic of inquiry. “I don’t feel hunger or thirst when I’m on my domain. Does this mean that I don’t need to drink or eat while inside my glade?”

“No.” The Yaga laughed. “Your need for sustenance is merely temporarily pushed back by Zemy’s pact.”

“So how do I procure food without leaving my domain?” I asked.

Even though I now had access to the cold wells of the entire village thanks to my Witchy Mobility backpack with soil hack, I didn’t feel like revealing this fact to my maker.

“The land will provide,” Grandhilda answered with a sage look. “In less than a few weeks time berries will begin to sprout from your glade. They will sate you until a greater garden grows from your domain with large fruits and vegetables which will sustain you forevermore.”

“Do the plants grown on my glade require sunlight? Will they thrive even in winter?” I asked next.

“The sun is indeed their lifeblood,” she explained. “However, it’s your presence that mainly sustains them in autumn and winter, channelling the power of the Earth Goddess into their roots even in the darkest months when Perun splashes the heavens with violet and green sky-waves. Your essence imbibes the land beneath your feet with the impetus for transformation, acts as a catalyst for rapid growth of all wild things within the boundary of your domain.”

I nodded, noting her mystical divine-influenced explanation of auroras.

“Nurture your garden, and it will reciprocate in kind,” the witch imparted. “Feast on the roots and berries that sprout within, and the magic-infused sustenance will not just feed you—it will prolong your lifespan beyond that of mortals. Neglect your domain or step away from it, and your life will ebb away as you age just as swiftly as any mortal.”

“How far does my domain’s spiritual reach extend?” I asked, mostly to confirm my own findings.

“About sixteen elbows at most,” the witch answered. “Going any further strains the link between you and your glade.”

“What’s the best way to take care of my garden?” I asked.

“Your goal is to embrace every spiritual facet of the fertile earth beneath you, and its produce; to link your mind with all life that sprouts or skitters forth from it. These insights can be likened to tea leaves. Boiling water is crucial for tea, but without tea leaves, you end up with a drink that quenches your physical thirst yet neglects the palate. As a Yaga, your thirst for wisdom of the wild needs to be constantly satiated.”

“I see,” I rubbed my chin.

“While you can acquire life energy by merely consuming the bounty of your garden, much of it will remain as boiling water—bereft of transformative power. Just as healing tea cannot be brewed without the enchanted herbs, true progress in witchcraft can’t be attained without profound insights.

“As a witch bound to… his domain,” the Yaga continued after a sip of her tea, “you’re not a travelling merchant racing to reach a destination before your goods expire. You’re ascending an endless ladder of enlightenment, heading towards a deeper comprehension of every aspect of nature, where each rung represents deeper, more nuanced knowledge of the spirit of each plant, insect, or tree. There’s no need for haste—the ladder isn’t going anywhere.”

“I think that I get the gist,” I nodded. “My question is–how exactly do I understand something spiritually?”

“Meditate on the wild, listen to the wind, give heed to the hidden symphonies of your garden, amplify and stretch your senses beyond mere smell and sight,” the witch said. “In time, you will learn to swim through the Astral, to sense and observe the limitless spiritual depths of something as minute as a drop of water!”

“Right so…” I began.

“Alas, I grow weary of holding the connection,” the Yaga yawned, putting her tea cup down. “I shall reach out to you tomorrow night. Meditate on my words, cultivate your spirit-sight and think of further questions to ask me then!”

Before I could ask any more questions she clapped her hands together.

In that instant, the sight of her smirk and cosy room filled with a thousand potions shattered into a million petals dancing in the unseen wind, rapidly dissolving into darkness.