Through the underbrush, trees bent aside, moss peeled from rocks, and birds scattered from their nests as a great wooden hut with chicken legs marched with unnatural speed. It bounded over roots and pushed through shadows like a thing hunting—or fleeing.
Inside, seated upon a throne of mossy bones and woven vines, Baba Yaha cackled.
"Ah, there you are," she muttered, peering through her bone-framed window.
Ahead, in a small clearing choked with fog and scorched soil, stood the Holy Army.
A hundred of warriors clad in white and silver, banners raised high, their faces resolute beneath polished helms. At their front: Cyril, brother of Methodius. His blue-trimmed robes stirred with divine wind, and his staff pulsed with crystal fire.
He raised it the moment the hut burst from the trees.
"By the Light of the Lord," he declared, "I purge thee!"
He unleashed a torrent of holy fire—a ray of brilliance shaped like a blade.
It slammed against the chicken-legged hut… and fizzled.
The air hissed, the earth trembled through the whole forest, causing a light earthquake.
A black veil of death magic consumed the light, swallowing it like water into stone. The hut did not even smoke.
From the balcony above the hut's entry, Baba Yaha appeared.
Bent. Wrinkled. A walking shadow in tattered clothes. Her eyes glinted with ancient mockery.
"I am Baba Yaha," she said. "Last priestess of Death. The prominent swamp witch. Bone-knower. Dream-eater. Crone of the Crooked Tree."
She smiled.
The army stood silent.
Unmoved.
"…Tough crowd," she muttered.
Her skin peeled like paper, falling to ash at her feet.
Where the old hag had stood now stood a young woman—pale as ivory, black eyes gleaming with amusement. Her gown flowed like shadow, her hair the color of night fog.
Even then, the Holy Army did not lower their weapons.
She looked at Cyril, tilting her head.
"You look like your brother," she said with a coy smile.
Cyril stepped forward, his voice steel. "You know Methodius?"
Her grin widened.
"Oh yes. We've… crossed paths."
There was a pause.
"I killed him," she added with a wink.
Weapons lifted. Shields locked.
The Holy Army prepared to strike.
Baba Yaha rolled her eyes.