Part 5. Novograd

  A thousand years ago.

  Bogumir woke to a scream.

  Not one — many. The screams came in waves, mixing with something else. Crackling? Rumbling?

  He sat up in bed, not understanding. Through the window — an orange glow. Fire?

  Another scream — very close, on the other side of the wall. And a boom that rattled the glass.

  Bogumir leapt up and ran to the window.

  The neighboring house was on fire. Flames burst from the first-floor windows, licking at the walls. And below, on the street — people. Dozens of them. With torches, with rifles. In identical grey cloaks.

  Someone ran out of the burning house — a woman in a nightgown, a child in her arms. A shot cracked. The woman fell. The child rolled across the cobblestones.

  Bogumir recoiled from the window.

  What's happening?

  He grabbed clothes — the first things he found. Shirt, trousers, boots. His hands shook so badly he missed the sleeve twice.

  Behind the door — footsteps. Screams. Gunshots.

  Need to run.

  He knew the city. Knew every alley, every courtyard. The east bank of the river, where he lived — that was the outskirts. The west bank — that's where the center was, where the temple stood, where... where Svarog held the whole bank. Where those who could protect him were.

  Bogumir opened the window. Second floor — not high. He swung a leg over the sill.

  Below — an alley. Dark, empty. Empty for now.

  He jumped.

  He landed badly — pain shot through his ankle. But he forced himself up, forced himself to run.

  Through courtyards. Through alleys. Past burning houses, past bodies on the cobblestones. He didn't look at faces. Didn't want to recognize anyone.

  Just forward. Just west.

  He almost made it.

  He could already see the barricade — hastily thrown together from carts and furniture. He could see the mages behind it — someone hurling fireballs at the advancing humans, someone holding a shield. He saw the tall figure in the center — Svarog; he recognized him even from a distance.

  Just a little more. A hundred steps.

  A crack. Pain — sharp, tearing — in his chest. He looked down. Red was spreading across his shirt.

  Another crack. More pain. And another.

  Three bullets. He couldn't see who'd fired. He just fell — face-first into the mud, into someone's blood.

  Mother. Mother, it hurts.

  The sky above him was growing lighter. Pink, then gold. Dawn.

  How beautiful, he thought.

  And closed his eyes.

  A voice. A woman's.

  "Hey. Hey, are you alive?"

  Bogumir opened his eyes. Above him — a face. Dark hair, a hard gaze.

  "Alive," the woman stated. "Barely, but alive. A Weaver?"

  The author's content has been appropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

  He tried to nod. Couldn't.

  "The wounds are too severe. Regular healing won't help; there's no time." She spoke quickly, matter-of-factly. "There's one way. But you won't like it."

  "Wh-what?"

  She drew a knife. Slashed her own wrist. Blood — dark, thick — dripped onto the cobblestones.

  "Drink."

  "Wh-what?"

  "Drink. It's the only chance. The wounds will heal. But afterward you'll need to drink blood regularly. Otherwise you'll become weaker than you were. Much weaker."

  Bogumir stared at her wrist. At the blood.

  "I... don't want..."

  "Want to die?"

  Silence. Somewhere in the distance — gunshots, screams. But here, in this alley — silence.

  "No," he whispered.

  "Then drink."

  She brought her wrist to his lips.

  The blood was salty. Warm. Strangely sweet.

  He drank — at first by force, then greedily. And felt the pain retreating. Felt the torn edges of wounds drawing together, knitting closed. Felt life returning to his body.

  When he pulled away from her arm, the wounds on his chest had already sealed. Only scars remained — three whitish circles.

  "My name is Roslava," the woman said. "Get up. We need to get to the other side."

  Bogumir stood.

  His legs held. His head was spinning, but he could walk.

  "Thank you," he said.

  "Don't thank me." She was already heading forward. "You don't yet understand what I've done to you."

  He understood later.

  A week later, when the thirst became unbearable.

  A month later, when he first heard a joke about "the bloodsucker."

  A year later, when he realized: this was forever.

  But that night, at dawn, in the middle of a burning city — he simply followed her.

  Alive.

  Part 6. After

  Lelya was silent.

  Bogumir sat on the windowsill, looking out into the night. The glass in his hand was empty.

  "That's it," he said. "Now you know."

  Lelya didn't say "I'm so sorry." Didn't say "how terrible." Instead she stood, walked over to him, and sat down beside him — on the windowsill, shoulder to shoulder. Close enough to feel the warmth of his body.

  "Roslava saved your life."

  "Yes. And sentenced me to eternal dependence." He smirked. "One doesn't rule out the other."

  "Are you angry at her?"

  "Was. For the first fifty years or so. Then I stopped." He turned to her. "She gave me a choice. I chose to live. That's my responsibility, not hers."

  Lelya nodded. She understood — better, probably, than he expected. A choice made in desperation is still your choice.

  "What happened after? After the massacre?"

  "Chaos. Then — organization. Svarog gathered the survivors; Varvara coordinated care for the wounded. Roslava didn't stay on the safe side." He looked up at her. "She made her way through the occupied quarters. Alone. Looking for people like me — young, weak, those who couldn't protect themselves. Helped them reach the west bank."

  "How many did she save?"

  "I don't know. Dozens? She didn't count.

  "And two years later the mages took power."

  "Yes." Bogumir took a sip. "Quietly, almost bloodlessly. Vladislav died; his heir turned out to be more cooperative. The Mage Council of Monolith joined the World Council. The story ended."

  "For Monolith — it ended. For you?"

  "For me a different story began." He leaned back against the glass. "Roslava watched over me for several decades. Helped me adjust to my... new condition. Then I left."

  "Where?"

  "Everywhere. Traveled, saw the world. Lived for my own pleasure." A pause. "Decided I didn't want to be part of any of this anymore. Wars, intrigues, politics. Enough."

  Lelya looked at him — at the handsome face, at the eyes that had seen too much.

  "And yet here you are."

  "Roslava asked." He shrugged. "I don't say no to her. Never."

  "Why?" Lelya asked. "You said you were angry at her. That she sentenced you to eternal dependence."

  "Was angry. And grateful. At the same time." Bogumir set his glass down. "She could have walked past. Left me dying in that alley. But she didn't. She risked herself to save an unknown boy."

  "That doesn't cancel what she did to you."

  "It doesn't. But what she did to me doesn't cancel the fact that she saved my life." He looked into her eyes. "The world is more complicated than 'good' and 'bad.' So are people."

  Lelya was quiet. Then said softly:

  "You're the first person in three years who's told me something I haven't heard before."

  "Is that a compliment?"

  "A statement of fact."

  He laughed — quiet, surprised. And in that laugh there was something new. Something she hadn't heard before.

  Relief.

  "That's why I'm here," he continued. "Not for Varvara, not for Monolith. For Roslava. She asked — I came."

  "And if Varvara had asked directly?"

  "I'd have refused." Without hesitation. "I've seen what Varvara does 'for the good of Monolith.' I don't want to be part of that."

  "But you already are. You're guarding her minister."

  "I'm guarding you." He smiled slightly. "That's different."

  Lelya finished her wine.

  "Thank you," she said. "For telling me."

  "Don't mention it." Bogumir stood. "Now you know why I'm not impressed by negotiations and votes. I've seen what real stakes look like."

  "Seen them. And decided not to play anymore."

  "Decided. A thousand years ago."

  He headed for the door.

  "Bogumir."

  He turned.

  "You said I'm afraid of not measuring up. That it's fear, not responsibility."

  "I did."

  "You're afraid too." Lelya looked at him. "Afraid of ending up back in that alley. Helpless. Dying."

  A long pause. He stood by the door — motionless, like a statue.

  "Yes," he said at last. "I am."

  "Then we're both cowards."

  "Or both survivors." He opened the door. "Good night, Lelya."

  "Good night."

  The door closed.

  Lelya was alone.

  Two thousand mages in a single night.

  She finished the wine and went to bed.

  But before she closed her eyes, she thought: Strange. He told me something he hasn't told anyone. And it wasn't hard to listen. It felt... right.

  She dreamed of burning houses and dawn over cobblestones. And someone's hands, pulling her out of the darkness.