The chamber pulsed with sacred brilliance.
The radiance from Methodius's prayer narrowed, folding into itself—spiraling, condensing—until it became a beam, and then a spark, and finally a single, radiant point at his cross, hanging from his neck.
From that singularity, something formed.
A golden cross, which was now etched with Latin words none could understand, descended gently into Methodius's hands. Nestled at its center was a small, crystalline vial, barely the size of a thumb. Unlike before it wasn't just a ruby.
Inside it shimmered a drop of something too bright to be called liquid—holy light, alive, humming with a warmth that repelled death itself.
Methodius's voice rang with solemn reverence:
"Not my blood. Not my bones. We already have the divine sacrifice…"
He lifted the cross high.
"…the blood of 'His' Son."
A silence followed.
Khoryv stared for a long time. Then he exhaled slowly.
"I see," he murmured.
Methodius placed the intricate golden cross inside the Bible.
He straightened and turned to the others.
"Come. We must leave this place. Let her rest for now. Even stirred, she will not wake until the seal cracks."
He gestured toward the way they came. The tunnel pulsed faintly, as though responding to his command.
"Let's talk where the walls don't listen."
They followed him, retreating from the chamber, the divine light still echoing in their bones.
Outside, the cave's breath gave way to forest shadow and sky. Baba Yaha's wolf watched from a rock, ears twitching but unmoving.
Khoryv turned to them as they stood among stone and root.
"You have three days," he said.
He paced slowly.
"In that time, you must recover. Sharpen what you've been given. And learn to wield it not as tools—but as extensions of your soul."
He nodded to Lybid, the staff in her hand now gently pulsing.
"To control life is not to dominate. It is to listen, and command with care."
He turned to Maksym. "You carry weapons made for saints of bone and bronze. They remember every scar. They expect discipline."
To Yurko: "That crossbow was crafted from condemned spirits. It feeds on the dead. Learn to aim not with fear—but conviction. Or it will recoil against you."
He stopped before Shchek, lingering.
"You… are not what you seem. And perhaps that's your strength. Or your doom. In either case… You will train by yourself."
He then turned to Kyi.
"Hm, your case is kind of special… You bear two powers just like me."
He looked to the sky, the treetops stirring.
"Three days. And either she stays buried—or we all join her dream."