That night, as they lay in uneasy silence beneath the shattered beams of the church, the same dream came to them all.
It began with smoke.
Thick, black, and slow. Crawling over the hills like a beast with no shape. Myrnyi—quiet, humble, their home—was barely visible through the fog. But the smell was unmistakable. Ash. Burning wood. Charred flesh.
Each of them saw it from different places.
Kyi stood in the village square, where the statue of Rod once stood. Now, it was cracked and bleeding dark sap. The Holy Book in his hands turned to wet pulp as flames licked up his arms.
His mother's voice called to him from the flames: "Why didn't you stop it?"
Lybid saw the herbal gardens she once tended turned to scorched mud. Children she had healed screamed as roots burst from their mouths. She reached to pull them free—only to find her hands growing bark and moss.
The forest had claimed her.
Methodius knelt before the chapel, now a blackened skeleton. The cross in his hand melted, leaving a red crystal, a core of the cross untouched. The icons twisted into snarling faces, whispering his name over and over again.
"Where is your faith now?"
Maksym stood outside his old home. His wife stared from the window, her eyes hollow, her skin sloughing away. Martyn stood beside her, his throat gaping, pointing toward the horizon where the Bone Tree grew tall—its branches aflame, its roots cracking open the world.
"You let us die for nothing," they said together.
Yurko ran through the forest trails toward the village. Always running. Behind him came the sounds of hooves. Screams. A wolf made of smoke. A hand grabbed him—his brother's hand—pulling him down into the mud. He woke just as the fire reached his face.
Shchek's dream was quieter.
He sat at the edge of Myrnyi, watching it burn. Something sat beside him.
They woke one by one. Covered in sweat. Silent. Breathing heavily.
No one spoke.
But they all knew.
They had seen the same future.
And it was coming for them all.