It felt wrong how beautiful it was.
After the stench of the swamp and the tension of the witch's hut, the glade ahead looked like a gift from the gods. Dew-covered grass shimmered in jade and gold, and wildflowers in bloom bowed gently in a wind that seemed to hum in harmony. Birds chirped. Bees buzzed. Even the sun warmed their backs.
The group paused just beyond the tree line, squinting into the serene opening. No one spoke for a long time.
"It's… safe," Yurko said quietly.
"No," Lybid replied.
But she walked in first.
The others followed, drawn by the strange stillness, the inviting pull of calm.
At the center of the glade stood a stone pool, its waters so still they reflected the sky like a second sun.
And there—at its surface—stood the mirror.
It was the same as in Baba Yaha's hut.
Tall. Framed with bleached wood and bone.
They could see the hut and themselves sitting, as if they had the ability of the third point of view to watch their bodies sleeping in the real world.
Methodius said, stepping closer. "This… this is inside the mirror."
The moment the words left his mouth, the illusion shattered.
The sky blinked out.
The glade melted to black.
Each of them stood alone.
—
Methodius found himself back in a cathedral, the high ceilings dripping with candlelight, but the air stank of rot. The icons stared at him. Twisted. Mocking.
From the altar, a voice called: "Do you know Him, or do you wear His name like armor?"
A dark-robed priest stepped forward. His face was Methodius's own.
"You pray. You preach. But you don't listen. You chant words you do not feel. You fear what you cannot explain. Pagan, witch, forest—they are your enemies because you were taught they must be."
"I serve the light!" Methodius shouted.
"Whose light?" his reflection sneered. "You confuse God with walls. With orders. With fear. If the Lord walked these woods, would you burn Him too?"
He dropped to his knees. "No. No, I… I serve in love."
"Then live in love. Or die in hypocrisy."
The cathedral dissolved in ash.
—
Lybid stood among trees that pulsed with memory.
Women in robes of bark and bone circled her, silent.
Her grandmother stepped forward, her hands earthy and warm.
"You once sang the names of Rod under stars," she said. "You called spirits by name. Now you bow to nothing. You fear Mara. You distrust Rod. You walk a middle path that belongs to neither root nor sky."
"I didn't abandon the old ways," Lybid said, fists clenched. "I've changed them. I had to survive."
The ancestors surrounded her. "Do you remember why we called the old gods?"
"To live in balance."
"Then return to balance."
She bowed.
The forest embraced her.
—
Yurko stood alone in an endless fog. Shapes moved. Shadows watched.
"Don't come near me!" he shouted, clutching a dagger.
"You are small," a voice said. "Weak. Always behind. Always afraid."
A shadow lunged. He screamed.
Then another voice—his own—cut through. "Stop running."
He looked. Saw himself.
Not afraid. Not cowering.
"If you die here, let it be standing."
He straightened. Raised his trembling dagger. And walked forward.
The fog parted.