Everyone turned toward the bell tower.
A shiver ran through them.
Yurko found it first—a stone well, tucked behind what had once been the sacristy. Water glimmered at the bottom, unnaturally clear. He leaned over.
"It's fresh," he said with a glimmer of happiness.
Methodius stepped forward, eyes wide. "No… it's not just fresh. It's holy."
He knelt, touched the surface, then pressed it to his forehead. His lips moved in silent prayer.
Kyi and Yurko filled their skins. Shchek, silent as always, stared at the candlelit altar, his eyes flickering.
Maksym wandered up into the tower. Moments later, his voice echoed down.
"The rope's been cut. From below."
Lybid closed her eyes.
"Someone—or something—was here."
"But who'd be willing to stay in this cursed lands?" Yurko was close behind, "Except for that old witch."
They sat near the altar, warmed by a fire they dared not make too bright. The forest outside breathed in slow, patient rhythms. Each gust of wind through the broken beams above sounded like a warning.
No one spoke for a long time.
The flickering candlelight danced over their weary faces—eyes sunken from sleepless nights, hands bruised and burned. But still they remained. Still they walked forward.
Methodius stood slowly, stepping in front of the fire. He raised the holy book in one hand, his cross in the other.
"I need to sanctify your bodies, we need to make some preparations before setting off further."
He looked at the others.
"In this sacred place, before the every soul we've lost, I swear this oath: I will walk to the end, wherever it leads. I will carry the flame of my faith, and if I fall, let it light the way for those who follow."
He pulled out his dagger and sliced a shallow line across his palms. The blood gleamed in the firelight.
He passed the dagger to the next person
Kyi followed. "I swear by the light I now carry. By 'His' name. By everything I didn't understand—but now believe."
Maksym grunted, rising. "By the dead I failed… I'll see it through."
Yurko hesitated, trembling—but then stepped forward. "I swear because I'm tired of running."
Finally, all eyes turned to Shchek.
He stood slowly.
"My faith doesn't lie in your God."
He retracted his gaze to Lybid and returned the dagger to deacon.
"But, I swear," he said. "Because something watches."
His right hand was grabbed by bloody palms of Kyi.
"I swear by the roots of my ancestors, by the spirits of the earth, by Rod and Jesus alike—whatever path remains, I will not leave it. Not until the truth is found. Not until the curse breaks."
The flames flared high.
They connected their hands, sunlight pouring on them.
Outside, the wind howled—and then went still.
They stood together.
Bound not by faith or blood alone.
But by oath.