Methodius walked ahead with the old lantern in hand—the one Baba Yaha had wordlessly pressed into Yurko's arms days ago. At the time, no one had questioned it. No one dared. Now, it was the only light they had in the forest's endless night.
The lantern glowed faint green, casting a soft halo that pushed the dark just far enough away for them to see each other's faces.
"We should have thanked her," Yurko muttered. "Back then."
"No one thanks a swamp witch," Maksym replied.
"She might've saved us."
Before long, Lybid stepped closer to Methodius, her voice thoughtful.
"Why does your God want to sanctify this place?" she asked. "What's the point in cleansing it completely?"
He didn't respond right away. The lantern hummed faintly as he held it high.
Finally, he asked in return, "What do you believe Rod symbolizes?"
Lybid didn't hesitate. "Life. And nature."
There was a brief pause before another voice joined in.
"Death and sleep," Shchek said quietly, "That's what Mara symbolizes."
Methodius turned slightly to look at him, then nodded, thoughtful.
He shifted his gaze to Kyi.
"And what about our God?" he asked. "What does 'He' symbolize?"
No one answered at first.
Then Methodius answered his own question:
"All the Good. All the Light. He is the flame in the abyss. The order among chaos. And the natural enemy of Mara and all her dominion."
He paused.
"But Mara is the natural enemy of Rod," he added slowly. "And Rod… still holds her beneath the roots. Still."
A flicker of something strange crossed his expression—unease, maybe even awe.
"It's no wonder some call Rod one of the emanations of the True God," he added quietly.
He didn't say it aloud—but the thought was blasphemous, even sinful. And powerful.
He shook it off quickly.
"If the Devil wants anything," he said, voice firmer, "it's for Mara to rise. To tear down the veil. To loosen what was bound so he may strike harder in the war none of us see."
His eyes narrowed.
"And I cannot ignore the timing. The seal had held for centuries. Why did it begin to fail now? Why the whispers, the flood, the decay… only after Cyril and I came?"
None had answers.
But they didn't have time to wonder.
Because then they heard it.
A rumble.
Low. Endless.
And then, from the trees ahead—water burst forth.
A tide.
Rolling. Cold. Violent.
Lybid shouted something—her voice lost in the crashing wave.
"Grab onto the roots!" Maksym yelled.
They scattered, climbing twisted limbs and boulders as the forest floor vanished beneath black water. The flood surged around them, swallowing paths.
The lantern flickered.
But did not go out.
They clung to trees.
To each other.
To hope.
And prayed it would be enough.