"Oh come on, no sense of humor?"
The air between them stayed tight as wire. Cyril's staff still glowed faintly, the army's hands never straying far from hilts, relics, and sacred steel.
Baba Yaha stood with her arms open, expression teasing.
"We're on the same side, little candle-chasers."
One of the saints, tall and cloaked in white and blue, stepped forward. His voice was cool and edged with suspicion.
"Why should we trust the witch?"
Baba Yaha gave a loud, exaggerated laugh.
"You shouldn't! Not even a little!" she said with a wild grin. "Oh saints, you're adorable when you try to play clever."
Her voice dropped, dark and sharp.
"But if I wanted you dead… you'd be mulch by now." Obviously bluffing.
Cyril raised a hand to silence the murmurs behind him.
"What do you want?"
She placed a finger to her lip in mock thought, then leaned forward slightly.
"Do you know that Methodius has already begun the Lumen Conflagratio, hasn't he? The divine blaze using a drop of Jesus's blood to sanctify the rootwaters?"
Cyril's eyes narrowed.
"Then you understand the plan."
"I understand that it's dangerous," Baba Yaha replied, more serious now. "And that once the light begins spreading through the waters… it'll reach Mara's heart."
She paused.
"And when it does—you'll have to hold it in place. Every ripple, every pulse, kept inside. Because if that holy fire spreads too far…"
She shrugged. "Boom. The forest dies. The roots rot. The seals fail. Mara doesn't die—she awakens. Angrier. Hungrier."
Another saint stepped forward. "You speak as if this is simple."
"Oh, it isn't," she said with a smile. "Which is why you need to build a barrier. Around the entire cursed zone. Keep divine fire within center... and keep everything else out."
Cyril spoke carefully. "To do that, we'd have to encircle the forest. Situate ourselves across the perimeter."
"Exactly," Baba Yaha chirped. "You've got saints. Relics. Artifacts. Light enough to blind the dead. Use them."
The army shifted uneasily.
"That could take weeks or months," one muttered.
Baba Yaha just smiled wider.
"Oh ye of little logistics."
She raised her hand.
Snap.
From the shadows of the forest came creaking, thudding, and clattering.
Dozens of huts—smaller chicken-legged houses—emerged from the mist. Painted bones adorned their shutters, and smoke curled from their crooked chimneys.
Each was large enough to carry two or three armored men.
"Meet the fleet," Baba Yaha said proudly. "Takes a day or two, tops. You ride in style, you encircle the forest, you shine your Light like proper little lamp-posts of destiny."
Cyril stared.
The army watched.
And Baba Yaha's smile grew darker.
"Shall we get moving?"