The flickering campfire cast long shadows across the clearing where the forest's heartbeat had grown silent again. The group—worn, solemn, hardened—stood in a circle as Cyril slowly approached. His white armor, trimmed in gold, bore the mark of the Ever-Burning Cross. His hood was down now, revealing a stern, regal face framed by short, curled brown hair and a trimmed beard that gave him the look of a prince carved from marble.
His eyes locked with Methodius's, and though few words passed between them, the embrace that followed said more than any tongue could. The others stood still, unsure whether to bow or ask questions.
"So you are saying that this... Baba Yaha?" - Yurko was stupefied.
Pleased at this compliment, Baba Yaha glanced at Khoryv who stood leaning against the tree, farther than anyone else in the group.
Finally, Cyril stepped back and looked at them all.
"We do not have much time," he began. "So I will be honest. The day has come when words must bear their true weight."
He turned to Methodius, placing a hand over his brother's shoulder.
"You've come far, brother… but we have much left to endure."
He raised his voice, addressing everyone now.
"As we stand at the edge of final battle, know this: I cannot walk with you into the inner sanctum. My task is different. While you strike at Mara's root, I must remain at the border of this forest and become the core of the Sanctum Lux Custodia—the Holy Light Barrier."
They looked at him, confused.
Cyril nodded. "The Lumen Conflagratio Methodius will create with Christ's sacred blood will sanctify the waters. But sanctification alone is not enough. Mara's death may stir echoes far beyond this forest."
He glanced up, to where no sky could be seen, only trembling leaves and the shadow of something ancient.
"I must hold the convergence point. I will serve as the anchor—channeling the purification and keeping the enemy out. And more than Mara may stir…"
His voice lowered.
"Papa Simplicius is gravely ill. Dying, some whisper. And 'He'—our oldest enemy—remains quiet. Too quiet. No demons stirring, no cults rising. He waits. I feel it. And when the seal breaks, he may strike."
He turned back to Methodius.
"You were right to act. But if Mara awakens and 'He' moves—"
Methodius looked to the ground. "Then the flames of the true war will begin."
Cyril nodded slowly.
"But we will buy time. We will hold the wall."
There was silence.
Even the forest seemed to pause.
Shchek crossed his arms. "So you're saying we fight death… and hope the devil doesn't notice?"
Cyril cracked a faint smile.
Kyi looked down at the cross containing divine blood hanging around Methodius's neck. Then at the forest's darkness behind them. He clutched the book. "Then let's not fail."
Cyril nodded again, this time not as a commander—but as a brother, and a believer.
"I'll return to the perimeter. We begin preparations now. Act as soon as the barrier envelops the forest."
Just as Cyril finished speaking and turned toward the mist with his saints in tow, a slow, mocking clap echoed from the side of the clearing.
"Beautiful speech," Baba Yaha said, stepping out from the shadows, a teacup in hand. "Very dramatic. Very noble. Truly, a martyr's tongue."
She took a loud slurp.
Cyril sighed.
She chirped. "You crusade boys always act like I'm a mold you scraped off a relic." She waved her hand as if brushing off dust. "But who delivered you? Who ferried your saints, monks… Whatever, on legs taller than your faith?"
Methodius, ever patient, gave her a respectful nod. "We are grateful."
Baba Yaha spun slowly, arms outstretched.
"I'm not here for thanks, precious children."
Cyril narrowed his eyes. "You speak of loyalty, yet your tongue favors Mara as often as Rod."
"Wrong," Baba Yaha snapped, and for a moment, her face twisted—older, darker, more skeletal. "I serve death, yes. But I serve balance. Mara has tipped the scale. She's rotted too long in her bed."
Then she turned to Lybid and winked.
"So I'm staying, flower girl. I'll watch your roots grow or burn."
"And what will you do when the seal is pierced?" Kyi asked cautiously.
"Me?" she grinned. "I'll do what witches do best, child. I'll lie, curse, scream, and stall whatever hell comes crawling in from outside. And maybe snap a few necks while I'm at it."
Cyril gave her a hard stare. She returned it—then smiled sweetly.
"Worry not, Saint of Fire," she whispered, "I'll keep the wolves from your holy ankles."
And with that, she vanished back toward the trees, her laughter trailing like smoke.
Then she appeared once again from where she vanished and came up to Khoryv pressed a light kiss against his cheek.
"Maybe, after the end, we could get together again, honey?"