For a long moment—nothing.
Mara floated in place, black fluid pouring from the wound in her heart. Her eyes flickered. The shadows around her twisted.
Then the scream came.
A final, rattling shriek—deeper than sound, louder than thought.
Her body cracked, red light pouring from the seams. Her hands reached forward as if grasping for someone, or something, far away.
Then her form shattered into ash and fading mist.
The darkness evaporated.
Silence fell.
The forest breathed.
The cursed winds stopped. The leaves turned green again. Light—true, warm light—broke through the eternal night sky.
The group stood frozen.
"Is she… gone?" Kyi whispered.
Baba Yaha didn't answer at first. She fell to her knees beside Khoryv, who lay still beneath the twisted roots, his breathing shallow.
She pressed a kiss to his forehead.
"We're free," she whispered. "After all these years… we're finally free."
She chuckled softly, tears streaking through the grime on her face. "We'll grow old now, you and I. Can you believe it?"
Khoryv smiled, finally giving her a hug.
The others gathered slowly, still not trusting the peace.
Then a cough—wet and rasping.
They turned.
Maksym lay against a broken trunk, blood pooling beneath him. His one remaining blade had fallen from his hand.
"Hey…" he murmured. "Don't look so sad. We did it."
Lybid knelt beside him, gripping his hand.
"Methodius! Do something!!!"
Methodius shook his head, indicating he cannot do anything. After the fierce encounter and Lumen Conflagratio he was at the brink of fainting.
"No need. I thought I'd die cursing something," he whispered, "but I'm just thinking of her."
He looked upward, eyes hazy.
"She's calling me. Telling me to bring the knife. Said we'll go hunting again."
His eyes closed.
And he smiled.
Then his chest stilled.
Before anyone could speak, Shchek convulsed.
He dropped to his knees, clawing at his chest.
"Shchek!" Kyi shouted.
A shadow burst from his body—long, black, inky. A voice not his own rasped into the wind.
The air turned cold again.
The voice cut through air. It was Methodius, holding a cross drenched in his blood.
"Holy Spirit! Let there be light!"