5 years ago
If there was one thing Vira knew for certain, it was that she was a lucky person. She had been born into one of the last independent tribes in the known world—people who upheld old traditions and remained unspoiled by the outside world's evil machinations and tainted magic. Their isolation had never seemed a high price to pay for keeping those sinister threats away. She was happy.
Cold water clung to her hair as she emerged above the surface of a small lake near their village. Sunlight shimmered as it danced across the rippling water, blending with the mirrored image of the blue sky. The reflections were so bright they nearly blinded her. She drew in a deep breath, savoring the crisp, fresh air. Weeds and grass squelched softly beneath her feet, creating a slippery underwater carpet.
A sudden splash behind her, and she was pulled underwater again. His skin was warm against hers, contrasting the coolness of the lake. He was beautiful—her future companion.
"I thought you had to help your father. That you had no time for foolishness today," she teased, throwing his earlier words back at him.
Aden smiled and pressed a kiss to her cheek. "Five more minutes won’t kill me—and I’ve missed you," he said, his voice carrying over the splashing waterfall.
His skin was smooth under her fingers. "Missed me? In the few seconds it took to leave the water?" she teased again, brushing his wet blond hair away from his eyes.
"It took me the moment you got out of my arms to start missing you," he replied, his tone light but sincere. She laughed, her joy bubbling up, and kissed him deeply.
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They returned to the village together. Their betrothal was well-known and celebrated among the members of the tribe. The air was alive with the sounds of work. Clay ovens were already fired up, and the faint smell of salt boiling in the distance cut through the crisp autumn wind. Preparations for the celebration of Aden’s rise to chief had begun.
Vira made her way to the house she shared with her grandmother. A small flock of sheep, recently brought down from the hills, was gathered near the cottage. Through the window, she saw her grandmother spinning wool at her wheel. The wool would later be sent to a nearby town to be sold.
The tribe did not allow much contact with the outside world, the sole exceptions being trade for goods they could not produce themselves in their secluded terrain and the payment of tithes to the king whose kingdom encompassed their lands. They paid what was due, and in return, the king left them in peace. That was how it had been for centuries.
Their village lay nestled in the fields close to the mountains and was surrounded by dense forests, as though nature itself sought to guard their enclave, like a secret once spilled, lost forever. It had been their place since the beginning of time it seemed. Every story of their origins always took place in these fields among these mountains.
Though they were secluded, there were times they hosted outsiders—traders, travelers, or even foreign sieges. But the stories always portrayed the outsiders as occupants of this land. Never as settlers or newcomers.
From around the corner, Vira heard a wailing sound. One of the sheep lay apart from the flock, huddled in the shadow of the building. It was Annie, her favorite sheep. Vira knelt beside her and saw blood on her leg—a deep cut likely caused by the sharp stones scattered along the path back to the village. The hills were full of hidden hazards: black stones and gravel hidden by tall grass. Black eyes met hers, pleading.
Vira sighed, knowing she had to be discreet. If anyone else found the wounded sheep, they would certainly butcher her. Autumn was in full swing, and the village was already busy preparing meat for the long winter. A wounded animal was a burden, offering more work than benefit.
She fetched a strip of cloth and a bowl of water. As she cut the cloth with her knife, sunlight caught the blade, and a flash of light struck her eyes. She flinched, closing them tightly. For a moment, all she could see were dark spots tinged with blue. She blinked several times, her vision slowly returning to normal.
She cleaned the wound, holding the sheep steady as she bandaged the leg and whispered soothingly to calm her. Once she was done, she led Annie to a small shed. It was rarely used—her grandmother’s bad legs kept her from venturing there often. Vira laid the sheep on a bed of hay and shut the door firmly.
With a final glance back, she returned to the cottage. It was time to prepare a meal, and the day’s work was only beginning.
Her grandmother spun wool under a thick blanket. Alina, her grandmother’s cousin, stood beside her. She often came to help them. Vira felt sharp eyes fall on her as she entered. The fire was already burning, which meant her grandmother must have started it early in the morning, because the cottage was bursting with warmth.
“Where have you been?” her grandmother asked, looking up.
“I went for a morning stroll.”
“Come here.” Her grandmother paused her work and pulled Vira into a strong hug. “I love you, you know that?” she said, looking into Vira’s face. “You’re my favorite granddaughter.” She squeezed her tighter.
“I’m your only granddaughter,” Vira replied, her voice exasperated but with a smile. Her grandmother was emotional at times. She hugged her back and covered her grandmother’s legs with a blanket. Her grandmother’s walking had been getting worse lately, and it worried Vira more with each passing day.
Vira suspected her grandmother wasn’t telling her the whole truth when she asked if it hurt. It wasn’t that they lacked anything—they weren’t considered poor among the tribe. But some medicines were rare or simply out of reach. Vira didn’t know what could help her grandmother other than painkillers, and they didn’t have many of those. She felt like a small hole opened in her heart that grew larger with each grimace her grandma wanted to hide.
“You wander around too much,” Alina said, folding freshly washed sheets without looking up.
“No, she doesn’t,” her grandmother countered. “She’s young, and she should live her life.” There was no anger in her voice towards Alina. She never took her cousin’s remarks seriously and always taught Vira to respect the members of their family, no matter how distant.
“She’s not a child anymore,” Alina retorted. “She’s going to lead the tribe if nothing changes. She should take her responsibilities seriously and set an example for others. She’s supposed to be the example, the living image of the Mother of Crops. Not waste her time in the bushes.”
Vira took a deep breath and swallowed her response. She couldn’t argue with the older woman without upsetting both her and her grandmother. She blinked. Her eyes were sensitive that day. Maybe it was from swimming earlier that morning. She took the remaining sheets and finished folding them in silence. Alina glanced at her for a moment, then spoke again.
“You should be grateful for your position. I only hope the Mother of Crops will keep you in her graces and show you the way.” Alina grabbed an empty basket in which she’d brought herbs and pastries. She prepared to leave. “That’s a pretty bracelet,” she added on her way out, eyeing the gold bracelet Aden had given her. “I’ll see you in two days, Miren.”
Vira sighed with relief. Alina was a good person. She had helped them a lot, and without her, there had been days—before Vira got to know Aden better—when they wouldn’t have made it without Alina’s support. But Alina had a completely different way of life than theirs.
Her grandmother was a bit unorthodox in how she raised her, and Vira felt lucky for it. On one hand, she had more responsibilities since it was just the two of them. On the other hand, she felt like she grew up with a different mindset than her peers. She took on all the roles of someone responsible for a household, and maybe that was why she became so close to Aden. They both had to grow up quickly. She promised herself that, when she became Aden’s companion, no one would ever find themselves in a position like hers and her grandmother’s years ago. She would make sure that everyone was taken care of.
At dinner, she set two plates and lit the candles on a small table. Her grandmother needed some help moving to one of the chairs. After they finished eating, a comfortable silence settled around them, and fresh air wafted in through the open window. Vira cleared the dirty plates and stood to take them to the kitchen.
“Bring me a cup of water, my dear,” her grandmother asked.
Vira returned with a cup of water and set it on the table.
“Sit with me for a moment,” her grandmother said, taking Vira’s hand in hers. “You’re going to be married soon. And you’re going to lead our tribe.” Her eyes grew watery. “Aden is a good man, but many responsibilities will come for both of you. You must support each other. But the most important thing is that you can never forget who you are and what makes you the person you are now. No matter how many years pass, always remember me and your mother. The women in our family have always been strong, and you are no exception. But the world is changing, and sometimes I fear what will happen to you when I’m gone.”
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“Ma,” Vira stood and walked around the table to hug her grandmother tightly.
“I’m not going anywhere,” she said softly. “I will still be here, every day. I will always be with you, and I will never forget you or your mother.”
“You’re all grown up now,” her grandmother said with a smile, though tears filled her eyes.
“Do you have your mother’s ring?”
Vira nodded and pulled an old metal band from underneath her shirt, where it hung around her neck.
“Good,” her grandmother said. “Now, take the candle.” She gestured to one of the candles lit at the table. It was old and thick, with wax spilled all around it. Her grandmother placed the cup of water in front of her.
“You know what to do.” Vira glanced quickly at her grandmother. It was unusual for her to engage in divination. None of the things she’d seen in candle wax or any other form of divination had ever come true. Still, her grandmother seemed too moved, and Vira didn’t want to upset her.
She held her mother’s ring over the cup of water and began pouring the melted wax through it. For the ritual to work, the wax had to pass through a personal metal belonging of the person doing the divination—at least, that’s what the old stories said. Drops of melted wax slowly began to form a shape on the water’s surface. It spun around. The shape was odd, she didn’t recognize it.
A few more drops, and she set the candle down, slipping the ring back around her neck. She still didn’t recognize the shape. A big flower, perhaps? A symbol of beauty? A star, a symbol of a bright future? It didn’t match the more common shapes they usually saw in the cups. Her grandmother studied the cup, her lips pressed into a fine line. After a moment, she put it down.
“It’s a bear,” she said softly.
“A bear?” Vira leaned in to look again. The shape did resemble a bear, a little. “What does it mean?” She glanced up at her grandmother.
“It’s a symbol of strength, of power,” her grandmother replied. Vira felt a wave of relief—that’s what being the chief’s companion meant, after all.
“But it also means challenge and…” Her grandmother paused for a moment, considering her granddaughter. “Solitude,” she finished.
Vira was taken aback. That seemed the exact opposite of what her life would be. Her role meant she would be deeply involved in everyone’s life; her duties were tied directly to the lives of every member of the tribe. One of her fears had always been that the lack of solitude would become overwhelming. She swallowed a surge of uncertainty.
“It’s just an old custom,” she said quickly. “Those things never come true.” She put out the candle and smiled, taking her grandmother’s hand reassuringly.
“Maybe it means that my life with Aden will have its challenges, but we’re strong enough to face them,” she added.
“I’m sure that’s what it says.” Her grandmother kissed her on the head.
“Go to the fires. I’m too old and tired to join.”
That evening, as Vira left her grandmother behind, she couldn’t shake the feeling that the old woman was holding something back.
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Vira stepped out the door, her bare feet avoiding the clay bowl that had held milk the day before. The rim was stained with tiny paw prints—perhaps from a forest cat, though she'd never dare suggest that to her grandmother. The offering was meant for the spirits, a nightly exchange: milk for peace. Even now, preparing to start her own household, she found comfort in these small rituals that had shaped her life. She would continue them, if only to see her grandmother's approving smile. Tradition wasn't just about belief; it was the thread that kept their tribe whole.
The morning air carried the scent of woodsmoke and autumn leaves. Though Vira didn't truly believe in the malevolent spirits her grandmother spoke of—the ones that supposedly stalked the forests hunting for careless wanderers—she knew all too well the real dangers that lurked beyond their borders. She'd seen the scorched earth left by passing mages, heard tales of villages destroyed by unchecked power. Their adherence to the old ways, to the Mother of Crops' teachings, was their shield against such chaos. Soon, she would stand beside Aden as he carried this weighty responsibility. The thought filled her with both pride and apprehension.
Aden was waiting for her near one of the fires, where the evening meals took place. A few villagers had begun to gather, but it was still too early for the majority of them to arrive for the evening celebration. The flames cast long shadows across his face as he methodically fed dead leaves into the fire, each one curling and blackening before dissolving into smoke. His shoulders were tight with tension, and Vira's heart sank—his father must have rejected his proposal. She settled beside him, her hand finding his shoulder, feeling the knots of stress beneath her fingers. She said nothing, knowing he would speak when ready.
In their frequent excursions, Aden and Vira had discovered better land for the tribe to settle—rich soil that crumbled perfectly between their fingers, natural windbreaks that would shelter their homes from the bitter mountain gusts, and high cliffs that would discourage unwanted visitors. Moving would reduce the need for constant repairs to their homes and fences. It seemed like such a simple solution. Yes, it would require bold leadership to make it a reality, but in the end, the tribe’s life would be improved immeasurably.
"I just don't understand." Aden's voice cracked slightly as he snapped a twig, its breaking sound sharp as a whip in the evening quiet. He tossed the pieces into the flames without meeting her eyes. "It makes no sense. We would have been so much better there. So many of our problems would disappear, just like that!" His fingers twisted another twig. "I don't know how he doesn't see that."
"Did your father say why he doesn't want to move the village?" Vira watched the firelight dance across his familiar features, highlighting the stubborn set of his jaw—so like his father's.
Aden sighed. "Yes. He says that we cannot leave the place of our ancestors, that we need to guard the temples and continue our responsibilities."
Aden meant the old temples of the Mother of Crops and the minor gods around her whom their tribe worshiped. She was the goddess of harvest and the one who stood against the light magic. The temples, carved into ancient caves, were sacred among their people. Their walls were full of rare gemstones that could never be removed, gems that could easily fall prey to outsiders' greed. Each gem seemed to pulse with its own inner fire, precious beyond measure. They had to be protected; the tribe had a duty that had to be carried out. Aden's father would consider it blasphemy to leave them to be stolen and used as jewelry or, worse, as a form of payment.
Vira considered how to reply as she watched the crackling bonfire. It seemed almost blue at the edges after sunset. She had always found the world beautiful at this hour—peaceful and at ease, as if all of the day's problems were put to sleep with the sun behind the horizon.
In just three days, Aden would go through the ritual and take over leadership of their tribe. Until then, any decision made by his father was final. Vira doubted that Aden would go against his father's wishes, and she respected him for it. She had seen the scars his father carried, heard the screams that sometimes echoed from the sacred caves. But Aden had trained his whole life for this moment. The tribe needed strong leadership, and her own fears had no place in the face of their people's needs.
Only three days were left until he became chief and married her. Only three days left of living with her grandmother. It wasn't that she feared the change or felt unhappy, but she worried about her grandmother living alone. She would have to talk to Aden about moving her grandmother into their house. Her grandmother's legs wouldn't allow her to live independently, and Aden was understanding and cared about everyone in the tribe. He wouldn't leave her grandmother alone. That's why Vira loved him so much.
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A few hours later, the celebrations of the end of summer were about to begin.
The sound of drums filled the air, their rhythm resonating through her veins. Fires blazed brightly, and fireflies danced frantically around the flames, as though nature itself had joined the celebration. Vira approached the elder woman, who held bowls of black and red paint. Dipping her wrinkled hand into the black paint with unexpected strength, the woman smeared it onto Vira's forehead, and then did the same with the red. The earthly scent of paint entered her nostrils sharply.
Vira saw the same markings on the woman’s face: three turquoise lines on each cheek, and a black circle with lines radiating from it on her forehead. The black paint was meant to protect against evil spirits. The red paint, sacred color of the Mother of Crops, gleamed wetly in the firelight, a prayer for a blessing.
A sudden gust of cold wind swept through the gathering, briefly disturbing the flames of the fires. The chanting grew louder, merging with the steady pulse of the drums. Kiefer, one of the men, began to dance in the center. His limbs were covered in paint and tattoos of eyes and sacred symbols, moving in the flickering light, as if his body itself had its own will independent of the man and it was the one leading the dance. He swirled and twisted, bending his body in time with the rhythm, then halted, extending a hand toward the sky, every muscle taut with purpose.
Each year, the performance varied, and the individual chosen to perform the village defense—this year, Kiefer—was the one who had excelled in the maturity ritual.
Jena, a girl about Vira’s age, joined the center of the celebration. Her hands were wrapped in tree bark, and she wore a mask with terrifying eyes and sharp teeth—a mask of an evil spirit, the kind that was said to lurk by still water, disguised as beautiful maidens who led young people to their doom. These creatures, once their true form was revealed, were said to have bodies resembling twisted wood and empty pits in place of their eyes. Jena’s movements were quicker; she crouched, then sprang up, spinning then circling Kiefer like a snake.
Vira stood at the front line of the crowd surrounding the spectacle. She saw familiar faces around. Aden was to her left, not far off. She spotted her grandmother further in the crowd and Alina on the opposite side of the dance, barely visible through the smoke.
A third figure joined the performance. Cloaked in a hood, the figure held a shard of glass in one hand. A shiver ran down Vira’s spine. It was a mage. She didn’t recognize the figure behind the disguise, but there was no mistaking the costume. The mage didn’t dance but instead followed closely behind the spirit, never taking their eyes off Kiefer. The spirit moved in large, exaggerated steps, pausing at intervals to bend or turn in rhythm, while the mage stayed close, synchronized with every movement.
The drums grew louder, and the flames leaped higher, licking the tops of the trees that surrounded the glade. Kiefer took a defensive stance, his gaze fixed. A spear was handed to him. The evil spirit hissed at him, cutting through the night air like a blade. Kiefer threw the spear, but the spirit dodged it with practiced grace, as if it were all part of the choreography. The crowd's chanting intensified. "Be gone, be gone!" Vira joined in, her voice joining the others.
The spirit drew closer to Kiefer, the mage lingering in its shadow. Suddenly, a large knife appeared in the spirit’s hand. It swung the blade in a slow arc. Kiefer tried to block the strike, but the mage raised the shard of glass, and Kiefer froze. He sank to one knee, paralyzed. The spirit laughed, its movements jerky and unnervingly fast, its shrieks filling the air.
Kiefer looked toward the woods.
"Mother of Crops, help me defend against this evil!" he cried.
A sharp crack rang out. The flames dimmed, and the evil spirit let out a high-pitched wail, its movements faltering. A red and yellow arrow was embedded in its chest. With a final, pitiful gasp, the spirit collapsed to the ground, defeated. Kiefer rose to his feet.
Only Kiefer and the mage remained. Kiefer gripped a knife tightly in his hand. The mage began to tremble, backing away, muttering words Vira couldn’t understand. Kiefer closed the distance between them and seized the mage’s cloak. The drums stopped. Vira looked to the other side of the crowd. Alina was looking right at her.
Without warning, Kiefer struck. The mage crumpled to the ground in silence, red liquid spilling from their wound. For a brief moment, everything stilled.
Then, with a triumphant gesture, Kiefer raised his knife high. The crowd erupted with renewed fervor, the drums and voices sounding once more. Vira lost Alina’s stare as the dancers filled the space, and the celebration began in earnest.