The Shards of the Moon: The Frostmarked Chronicles, #5

Contents

Copyright Page

Books by Brendan Noble

Dedication

Author Note: Trigger Warning

Godly and Demonic Marks

Pronunciation Guide

Map

The Shards of the Moon

The Story So Far

Part 1: The Way of Souls

1.Wacław

2.Otylia

3.Otylia

4.Wacław

5.Otylia

6.Wacław

7.Wacław

8.Otylia

9.Otylia

10.Wacław

11.Otylia

12.Wacław

13.Otylia

14.Narcyz

Part 2: The Queen of Death

15.Wacław

16.Zakir

17.Otylia

18.Otylia

19.Wacław

20.Otylia

21.Wacław

22.Otylia

23.Wacław

24.Otylia

25.Wacław

26.Otylia

27.Wacław

28.Otylia

Part 3: Into the Dark

29.Otylia

30.Wacław

31.Otylia

32.Wacław

33.Otylia

34.Otylia

35.Wacław

36.Otylia

37.Wacław

38.Otylia

39.Wacław

40.Otylia

41.Otylia

42.Wacław

43.Otylia

44.Wacław

45.Otylia

46.Wacław

47.Otylia

A Word From The Author

About the Author

Text Copyright ©2025, Brendan Noble

Eight-One-Five Publishing

Brendan@Brendan-Noble.com

Cover Illustration by Mariia Lytovchenko

Interior art by Mariia Lytovchenko

Cover design by Deranged Doctor Design

www.derangeddoctordesign.com

All rights reserved.No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system,stored in a database and / or published in any form or by any means,electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of theauthor’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

No generative artificial intelligence tools were used in the creation of this work, cover art,or interior art, nor is permission granted for these to be used in the learning of such tools.

Books by Brendan Noble

The Frostmarked Chronicles:

A Dagger in the Winds

The Trials of Ascension

The Daughters of the Earth

The Deathless Sons

The Shards of the Moon

Frostmarked Tales:

The Rider in the Night

The Lady of Rolika

The Realm Reachers:

The Crimson Court

The Crystal Heir

Realm Reacher Novellas:

The Amber Dame

The Prism Files:

The Fractured Prism

Crimson Reigns

Pridefall

White Crown

To Rick Riordan, whose works taught me to love mythology at a young age.

Author Note: Trigger Warning

The Shards of the Moon contains elements that may be triggers or traumatic to some readers, so please proceed with caution if any of the below are so for you. I have done my best to treat these serious topics carefully and with respect.

Torture

Graphic injury

War/War Trauma

Death

Pronunciation Guide

Major Characters

Wacław Lubiewicz: Vahtswahv Luubeeayvihch

(Little Name) - Wašek: Vahshehk

Otylia Welesiakówna: Ohtihleeah Vehlehseeahkohvnah

(Little Name) - Otylka: Ohtihlkah

Andrij: Ahndrey

Narcyz: Nahrsihz

Gods

Czarnobóg: Charhnohbohg

Dadźbóg: Dahdzbohg

Dziewanna: Djehvahnah

Jaryło: Yahrihwoh

Marzanna: Mahrzahnah

Marzyana: Mahrzeeahnah

Mokosz: Mohkohsh

Perun: Pehruun

Swaróg: Svahrohg

Trygław: Treegwahv

Weles: Vehlehs

Other Terms

Alatyr: Ahlahteer

Chort: Khohrt

Grudzień: Gruudjehn

Jawia: Yahveeah

Krowik(ie): Krohvihk(ee)

Kryzhana: Kreetshahnah

Kwiecień: Kvihehchehn

Naw(ie): Nahv(ee)

Nawia: Nahveeah

Październik: Pahjshdjihehrnihk

Płanetnik: Pwahnehtnihk

Sierpień: Shihehrpihehn

Smorodina: Smohrohiinah

Szeptucha: Shehptuuhah

Wrzesień: Vrzehshehn

Žityje: Zhihtyeh

Żmij: Zmee

Click for Full Resolution Image

The Story So Far

Four years after being torn apart from each other, a young warrior named Wacław and his once best friend, the witch Otylia, reunited on the spring equinox. It was supposed to be the day to celebrate the death of the winter goddess, Marzanna, but the goddess tempted Wacław into accepting her Frostmark. This mark soon awakened latent demonic storm powers within him, and with winter rising beyond its bounds, they sought to stop Marzanna’s forces in the east.

During their travels, they encountered a demon hunter named Juri who helped them on their way, but he was actually the spring god, Jaryło, who’d hidden his identity from them. He showed them to a lake that exposed Otylia’s true birth as a goddess, the daughter of Dziewanna of the wilds and Weles of the underworld. Jaryło then betrayed them, killing Otylia to send her to Weles in the afterlife of Nawia.

While Otylia sought Ascension into her true godhood to escape Nawia, Wacław led the eastern nomadic clans through toil and conflict as they fled Marzanna’s Frostmarked Horde. All east of the mountains burned, but he focused on finding a way back to Otylia. He wrestled with his twin demonic and mortal souls while Otylia did the same with her godly one to complete her Trials of Ascension.

The Trial of Life and Death had her face the dark żmij (shapeshifting dragon) Czarnobóg for the first time, realizing he’d entrapped Dziewanna with Marzanna. The final trial of Love and Loss forced her to admit her love for Wacław, then steal his mortal soul, but because of a ritual they’d conducted in their earlier travels, a final fragment of that soul now remained in her. They reunited in Nawia, escaping Weles and a weakened Jaryło before appearing in a desert land.

They had intended to return home, but the Heart of Nawia sent them instead to the southern land of Vastroth. Many worshipped the Great Mother, Mokosz, there. Marzanna’s forces occupied the lands, though, and a Moonstone of Alatyr exerted influence over people and Wacław’s demon. It drove him mad as Otylia worked with Mokosz’s allies to overthrow Marzanna. Only through her taking part of Wacław’s corruption could he find some peace and control.

The pair then followed clues from Otylia’s newfound abilities and headed off to find Dziewanna. Despite their rescue, the goddess of the wilds had been drained of her power, and only the eldest god, Rod, could restore them. So they headed to the realm of the gods, Prawia, in hopes of doing so.

But Marzanna and Czarnobóg had plotted while they were away in Nawia, Vastroth, and now Prawia. Demons and undead men of the Frostmarked Horde, led by the necromancer Koschei the Deathless, ravaged Krowik. They corrupted the sun god, Dadźbóg, as well to turn the world dark as Czarnobóg himself attacked Prawia. Only the united efforts of the gods could repel Czarnobóg, but he stole Weles away in his retreat, threatening the realm of the dead.

The avatar of Death forced Otylia to kill Rod before they left Prawia, repaying a debt she’d owed to save Wacław’s life earlier. Rod had foreseen his fate, but the other gods weren’t so kind, banishing Otylia from Prawia forever. She returned to the living realm to face Koschei’s Horde with Wacław and her mother, outwitting Baba Jaga to uncover the secret to Koschei’s immortality before defeating him and a projection of Marzanna in the final battle.

Wacław was crowned king for leading the victory over Koschei, and Dziewanna now rules the living realm of Jawia. The Frostmarked Horde is defeated. But Winter’s grip remains, and the god of darkness holds Nawia’s lord…

Chapter 1

Wacław

Even gods die in the end.

Marzanna’s snow spiraled through the trees on the outskirts of the village of Dwie Rzeki. I knelt amid them, my fur hood drawn down to reveal my windburned cheeks and nose. After so many moons of endless winter, the cold had become a familiar foe, and warmth wouldn’t change what I must do. Nor would it change the past.

Branches littered the ground—nature’s relent to the weight of Marzanna’s brutality. I had silently arranged many of them into Rod’s Wheelmark and now could only stare at the symbol of the eldest god, wondering. What lay ahead without Rod’s guiding hand to ensure balance within the Three Realms?

Otylia scoffed whenever I asked her a question like that. The pain in her gaze was obvious, knowing she’d been the one to drive her silver spear through Rod’s chest, but she hardly believed the Three Realms had been balanced before. If recent moons had taught me anything, though, it was that there were forces far beyond our understanding. We meddled in the affairs of gods and beasts so ancient that mortal lifespans were mere blinks to them. Yet not even the gods could grasp the truth of every force working within the realms. Maybe that was for the best.

Your wheel always turns to what comes next, I prayed to the absent creator. "Otylia says she’s seen Destiny herself, yet I feel as if I stumble through each day. The people… my people… have named me king. I fail them every day Marzanna consumes this realm and Czarnobóg curses the afterlife."

No answer came.

Of course one didn’t. The gods had never answered my prayers before, so why would Rod reply when he was dead? It was only a demon’s call. A Naw’s plea. My power came from Rod’s force, but he had not created two-souled mortals willingly. If Balance as a pure force was out there somewhere, despite Rod’s death, could it not answer one of the few Nawie left to fight the corruption that tainted us?

A familiar ball tightened in my chest. Footsteps crunched behind me moments later, but I need not look back to see who it was.

It’s quiet out here, I said, raising my gaze from the Wheelmark to the rising light. Dadźbóg, god of the sun, had betrayed us all by falling to Marzanna’s temptations, but Swaróg contained his rogue son for now. Each morning was a reminder of the never-ending night we’d faced during his betrayal. The gods granted us gifts which could be taken away at any time.

It’s dead. The sharp scent of mixed herbs wafted through the trees as the footsteps stopped beside me. Otylia lay her hand on my back, pressing hard enough to reveal her frustrations. "Mother’s wilds should be full of boar and deer and wolves. The birds should sing to each other and scream at us to stay away, but the only song now is the croaking of dying trees. That changes today."

I leaned back into her hand and enjoyed her touch. Working the fields my entire life had given me strength, but the stress of kingly duties made my body feel like that of a sore old man. I allowed myself only a moment of the luxury, though, before hopping to my feet.

When Otylia was in this kind of mood, I’d learned many years ago not to make her wait. Is Dziewanna ready for the ritual? I asked her, taking her cheek and tracing the crescent scar upon it. Goddess of endings and moon. My goddess. My love.

She pulled away. Yes, but some idiots decided calling to Marzanna is better than helping Mother banish the winter.

What have they done this time? Marzanna’s cultists had been exiled for years, but discontent had led a desperate few to believe she and Czarnobóg, the shapeshifting draconic żmij who commanded darkness, were the only hope to end their suffering.

Otylia wrinkled her nose. It’s better that I show you.

She stormed off so quickly that I had to jog to catch up. Her simple gray dress hemmed in black resembled her old szeptucha attire more than a goddess. Clothes couldn’t hide that she was different to the outcast witch she’d once been, though. Silver strands strung through her raven black hair instead of bone amulets, and the moonlight emanating from her skin made them shine despite her grim demeanor this morning. Her aggression, too, was from determination more than spite. I’d felt her fury plenty enough to know the difference.

You could have called for me, I said, taking her hand and intertwining our fingers. Even through our leather gloves, the ethereal bond between us revealed how her heart quickened at my touch. Mine echoed its drum. But it’s cute you came to get me instead.

Not the time, she replied.

A smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. Of course she was mad—that was practically her state of being—but I took great pride in being the one who could bring out the soft side of her, if only for a fleeting moment.

She dragged more than led me through the makeshift outskirts of Dwie Rzeki. It was now the capital of our fledgling Kingdom of the Wild Moon, but its roots remained that of our old Krowikie tribe. The space beyond what had once been the main village wall was now filled with wooden houses, their thatched-roofs sloping toward the ground and their floors sunken to keep the earth’s warmth through the winter moons.

Simukie and Zurgowie from the eastern steppes filled the path as they strapped saddles to their horses in preparation for a hunt. Days before, it would’ve been desperate at best, but we’d spent a moon gathering sacrifices to strengthen Dziewanna’s žityje, the life force that fueled all beings and our magic. If the wild goddess’s ritual worked, much of our land would be free of Marzanna’s grip. Dziewanna herself didn’t know how far her power would reach, though, and none of us dared ponder what lay ahead if she failed.

Behind the hunters, children of every skin shade and hair color darted under remnants of what had once been a farm fence. An elderly woman stomped a warped wooden cane and shouted after them, but they just giggled and continued their chase.

Life goes on, I reminded myself.

Refugees had arrived from tribes and nations both familiar and not in the aftermath of the Frostmark Horde’s rampage. We’d defeated Koschei’s main army in our desperate defense, but Marzanna’s forces had wreaked havoc far beyond what had once been Krowik. Besides Dwie Rzeki, Kostroma’s protected area around Rolika, and what we’d managed to protect in Vastroth, there were few settlements that hadn’t fallen to the Horde. Resources were scarce, so those of us left had banded together out of necessity more than desire. Tribal rivalries mattered little when we were all on the brink of starvation.

I greeted those familiar to me, but many gave wary glances.

The king, they whispered in various tongues. The demon.

Absently, I traced the dark, decaying lines that ran across my face and body. Accepting I was a two-souled Naw tasked with protecting the natural cycle—not cursed as a demon—had taken time for me. It would be longer until I could banish the rumors spreading among my people. When I resembled some decrepit beast of a man, that would be all the more difficult.

We soon passed through Dwie Rzeki’s eastern gate. Warriors now patrolled the outskirts of the village itself, rather than standing guard at the gates, but a smirk flicked at my lips as I remembered slipping past in my invisible soul-form as a child. It disappeared at the sight of the gray-haired priest awaiting me.

The council has been calling you, Dariusz insisted, snatching the arm his daughter hadn’t already wrangled. There has been a blaze at one of the barns.

The sacrifices! I exclaimed as my heart sunk.

Otylia’s nails dug into my skin. We needed those for Mother’s ritual!

They both dragged me deeper into the village. Like father, like daughter…

Before the eternal winter, Dwie Rzeki’s air had been a battle between the stench of mud and aromas of baked bread and sizzling meats. Instead, there was only reeking wood-rot and smoke. Fire couldn’t banish Marzanna’s fury, but it could at least keep your fingers from succumbing to frostbite for a few hours longer.

A crowd blocked our path when we approached the village center. Someone shouted from near the longhouse at the far side. I couldn’t see, so I pushed through until I had a clear view of the familiar raving man standing upon a wooden cart.

We can’t keep living like this! Conall’s voice carried, echoed by the crowd. The king would have us starve, but there’s one who can stop the winter. They’d shoot me with an arrow if I dared mention her name, but you know who I speak of!

Marzanna, I answered.

A hush spread as Conall reeled back, a hand clutching his weathered cloak of reeds. He had bright hair like the changing autumn leaves, and his skin would’ve been pale enough to camouflage with the snow had his cheeks not been burning in his fury. Pargiawi like him from the far northeast refused to use animal products in their clothing, substituting them with plant fibers that required so many layers that they seemed to swallow him whole.

So, the king does hear his subjects! Conall spat, his accent overemphasizing every ooh sound. Not afraid of the goddess? Then why not call her aid?

I spoke to the crowd more than him as I continued my advance. You would have me plea to the goddess who slaughtered your people, swallowed the summer? If we’d failed against Koschei and his Frostmarked Horde, they would not have spared any of us. We’re nothing more than sacrificial blood at the death goddess’s altar!

"And your wild goddess is nothing compared to Marzanna and Czarnobóg! He threw out his arms. She claims to wield fire, but we have nothing but snow and dark demons!"

A crack answered him, spires of flame rushing overhead as Dziewanna emerged from the longhouse. Clothed in a burnt red riding dress with a bear pelt draping from her shoulder, she sneered at Conall as fire crackled at the ends of her clothes. Antlers rose from her head to crown her queen of the wilds. Beneath them burned all the fury of nature’s wrath.

You wanted Marzanna’s aid? she snapped, summoning an arrow and nocking it on her elaborately carved bow. Why don’t you meet her, then?

Conall stumbled off his cart and landed on his back. Spare me, Lady Dziewanna! I only wish to feed my daughters, be free of this frost.

Dziewanna scoffed. The only freedom you will earn from my sister is that of death. If you desire it so, then I am perfectly capable of granting you the same. Czarnobóg would happily corrupt your dying soul into a demon.

Mercy! Conall pled.

Wait, I insisted, crouching before him. He twitched as I called the winds to amplify my voice for all the crowd to hear. My father wasn’t known for mercy with Marzanna’s worshippers, but if you tell me who burned the barn, maybe I’ll consider it.

I…

I reached over my shoulder and drew Grudzień. The blade of the twelfth moon glinted like obsidian in the morning rays as it slid from its scabbard with a brutal shill. Each of its colored teeth resembled that of a sawblade, eager to bite into flesh.

"Consider your next words very carefully," I told him, blade to his throat. Dziewanna’s threat was likely enough, but I was the king. People needed to see that I could lead with strength.

Trembling, Conall pointed into the crowd. Otylia followed his gaze, then leaped to action as a group fled. The mass of people blocked their retreat, and Otylia grinned with her hand raised.

"Byti!"

Žityje shot from her fingers in a flurry of silver and entrapped the five Marzanna worshippers, paralyzing them where they stood. The rest of the crowd backed away to form another circle around the group. Good, no one wanted to look attached to them. If we faced resistance now, then dissent was worse than we’d feared.

Bring them here, I commanded my guards stationed around the village center. My old Simukie mentor, Xobas, was among them, and he grabbed two of the paralyzed Marzanna worshippers by the arms. Their eyes exposed their fear as he and the other guards dumped them beside Conall.

The Pargiawi man held out his hand pleadingly, so I nodded to the side. Go, Conall. But do not speak another word in favor of Marzanna. We will know.

He nodded rapidly before rushing toward his family and disappearing into the audience.

Dziewanna replaced him beside me, drawing sweat across my brow from both nerves and heat. The wild goddess kept herself out of most business within the village, but when it involved Marzanna, she loomed like the summer sun. Yes, I was king. With two goddesses at my sides, though, I was not the true power here.

You must kill them, Dziewanna said of the Marzanna worshippers.

That could inspire more resistance, I replied. Death would mean handing them over to the goddess they worshipped and the dark dragon’s corruption. Was there a better way to make use of them?

Otylia’s moonlight pulsed as she spoke silently through our bond, Force them to offer a small blood sacrifice to replace the lost žityje. Just killing them would be a waste.

My stomach churned, but she was right. Execution would do nothing for us except spread fear. A small token offering was not enough of a punishment, though, so sweeping my blade toward Marzanna’s worshippers, I chose a third way.

You burned our sacrifices to Lady Dziewanna. You betrayed every person in Dwie Rzeki and beyond, and for that, there can be no forgiveness. I drew an iron dagger from my belt. "You each have a choice: Die for your crimes or slice your hand, offering your blood to replace the žityje for Lady Dziewanna. All who choose the offering shall face exile instead of execution."

Otylia released them from her magic, and they cried out together until she raised a fist. Enough!

Please! one of the men protested. Exile is no better than death. From old northern Krowik, he had more hair on his neck than his head, and his scalp was red from the chill.

Otylia scoffed. You sabotaged us for Marzanna, but cannot trust her to save you from her winter? Coward.

You have a choice, I said. Make it quickly, so that we can fix what your goddess has wrought.

The northern man bowed his head, tears dripping to the snow. I’d rather die quickly than suffer.

My chest tightened. I had hoped each of them to choose exile, but all who survived had been through much. To suffer alone was a greater toll than some could pay. He’d chosen, though, and only a weak ruler refused to carry out his sentence.

Then so be it, I whispered, raising Grudzień. May Nawia grant you rest.

It took all my strength not to avert my gaze as the blade fell. I’d killed plenty of men who’d faced me on the battlefield, but executing an unarmed foe was another matter entirely.

Grudzień struck true. Its teeth pierced him in a gruesome, inconstant cut that failed to sever the neck completely, but the deed was done. When I turned to the others, they clambered to offer their blood to go free. Their gazes twitched from their fallen comrade to the blood bowl that Otylia’s Zurgowie friend, Ara, brought to her.

Thank the gods…

Yes, they had worshipped Marzanna and burned valuable offerings for Dziewanna’s ritual, but it felt wrong to strike down people on their knees before me. Enough blood had fallen upon the snow in recent moons. If we were to survive the trials ahead, we needed unity, not more conflict. I just hoped the path I’d chosen was the right one.

I waved for Andrij, who stood at attention by the longhouse, a commander’s silver cape hanging over his shoulders. He thumped his chest in reply before signaling to Xobas and the other guards.

Bind the prisoners and take them east, he ordered.

Xobas nodded, grabbing the worshippers and instructing the crowd to part for them. In leather, sleeveless armor and with a curved cavalry blade at his side, he was a strange sight compared to the Krowikie guards, but I was grateful for him. It was hard to know who to trust in times like these. Xobas, though, would stand by me until time’s end.

Narcyz leaned against the wall behind and watched Andrij with a heavy gaze. He chewed on a dry reed, which twisted around his finger as he huffed and followed his lover. Andrij marched with the discipline I needed in my captain of the guard, but Narcyz advanced like a grunt ready to knock out his opponent’s teeth. Like fire and ice, both had their uses.

The crowd dispersed with the disturbance at its end. Were they pleased? Disappointed? I couldn’t tell as I stood by the empty hole that had once held Jaryło’s Heart of Jawia—known as Perun’s Oak before we’d learned the truth of Jaryło’s deception. Bone amulets would once have rattled overhead, the winds speaking through them, but all was uncomfortably still for the moment. The day had just begun, and the twisting in my stomach told me our problems were far from over. So, for the little time I had, I closed my eyes and breathed in the chilled air.

Now, we banish the frost from our lands.

Chapter 2

Otylia

This had better work.

I hated ruling. People were always mad about something. Whether chickens got loose, someone’s neighbor dumped waste too close to their fence, or Marzanna worshippers burned down a barn, no decision pleased everyone. I so badly wanted to silence the objectors with a glare and a moonblast, but we had to be diplomatic, genial.

It was awful.

Wacław took the brunt of people’s sting as king, but he’d taken to the role far more quickly than me. I wasn’t queen yet. But I was a goddess. My word carried weight.

Prayers had rattled my sleep-deprived mind each night while I lay by Wacław’s side in the longhouse, staring at the moonlight as it crept through the shuttered windows. So many hopes. So many fears. Most came from within Wild Moon’s narrow lands, but I sensed people praying from further—those who, like me, stared up at the moon and searched desperately for a way to fix things. The people of our kingdom were Wacław’s to protect. All the world was mine.

Mother had been little help in understanding the weight of a goddess. She’d spent so long fighting Perun and then Marzanna, so few had ever worshipped her when Jaryło was a far more pleasant option. With Jaryło exposed and weak, she was the only spring deity left, and she was even worse at handling people than me.

Having Mother, the queen of Jawia, and Wacław, the king of Wild Moon, under one roof had left me in an odd position. Wacław was far less brutal than Mother. His decisions the morning of the ritual proved that. Both he and Mother called me to take their side, but I didn’t want to be in charge. I just wanted to fight our way to Marzanna in Nawia and end this stupid winter. That couldn’t happen until we finished Mother’s ritual.

I jumped on the first chance to begin preparations. Wacław was busy dealing with Mother criticizing him for not executing the Marzanna worshippers, so I could build the ritual circle in blissful isolation.

Politics was hard, but time passed smoothly when I prepared my rituals. Each skull, bone, head of wheat, tuft of wool, or drizzle of blood had its place. Witchcraft was a formula, a puzzle like the potions Mother had taught me as a child. I found comfort in every step of the process.

What’s that symbol mean? a voice rang.

I bit my cheek hard, nearly ripping the belladonna I’d been delicately placing between two opposing ends of the circle. Awakening, I muttered, giving Ara a harsher side-eye than she deserved.

Dressed in her usual hunter’s trousers and woolen coat, she hardly embodied the lover of the Simukie marzban, Zakir. She’d consented to wearing the Simukie’s tan single-shoulder cape, and that small signal revealed a deeper care for her role, but she’d never abandon the simpler garbs of her Zurgowie clan.

It’s fascinating how similar your magic is to Zurgowie traditions, she said, kneeling beside me and fixing the break in the belladonna line I’d made when I jolted. We all search for the same answer in different ways.

And what’s that answer? I asked.

You’re the goddess. She surveyed the crowd, and I winced at the sight of my Moonmark pulsing on her neck. It still felt wrong to have branded one of my closest friends, even if it allowed her to wield my power. We’re all looking to you for guidance in this strange situation we’ve found ourselves in.

Of course. Unlike Zakir and me, she understood people at a glance. The Simukie and many Zurgowie had joined our Kingdom of the Wild Moon, but their once nomadic people remained connected. We needed her insights into the clans’ cultures.

I followed Ara’s gaze to a small, raven-haired girl who peeked out from behind a fencepost. When she realized I’d spotted her, she giggled and tucked back, believing like a cat that she was hidden as long as she couldn’t see me.

But I kept watching. By blood and power, I was a goddess, and as that girl peeked again, I extended a hand toward her.

She scampered to me, leaving her mother deep in conversation with another woman. I’d anticipated her taking my hand, but she bypassed it to entrap me in her arms. If I hadn’t known better, I would’ve thought she were a mighty beast wrestling me to Mokosz’s earth. No. There was passion in that grip, adoration in her eyes.

You can’t hide from the gods, I whispered, embracing her after my initial surprise. At least some of us care, even when you don’t see us.

The girl just squeezed harder. Her nose ran from the cold and left an unsightly mark down the front of my dress. Yet I didn’t pull away, and instead channeled the force of endings as I stroked her hair.

Smoke consumed reality.

I descended into End’s visions, stepping from a funeral pyre and into a tundra. Only a scorched tree broke the ever-white plain as darkness smothered all other light. Its boughs hung like the scraps of a fallen roof, and the final ones clung to the trunk by a few thin strips of fibers. Terror echoed from it. Not audible, but piercing nonetheless, a cord wrapping tight around my heart.

A single sob tore me from the tree’s bitter chill and back to the pyre’s breath. The smoke covered a figure no taller than me, a torn hat flopping over her ears and eyes of Vastroth’s rich sandstone studying me, narrow. The girl, now a young woman, tugged her heavy coat tighter around herself. Her gaze never left me as the wind tugged her hair free from its loose braid, joining with the fresh snowfall.

No powerful terror radiated from her. Her eyes said enough.

You weren’t there.

I ripped myself from the vision, taking a sharp breath and meeting the girl’s wanting gaze. Who would she lose? Her mother? Everyone?

Those eyes haunted me as I released the girl. What are you called? I asked her, swallowing my fear, at least on the outside.

Her reply was lost to my ears, the tree’s terror ringing in my mind instead. Asking her again would make it seem I hadn’t listened, so I just smiled, summoned a silver wisp against her cheek, and sent her on her way.

I’m not going anywhere, I promised.

She looked back, brow raised. What?

Her mother called for her before I replied, so I just waved for her to return to where she belonged. Czarnobóg’s dark corruption permeated every part of my vision. But Preparations for the ritual came first, and ruminating about End’s visions wouldn’t fix anything. Dwie Rzeki would fall to Marzanna’s winter without Mother’s ritual. I couldn’t let that happen.

Except Ara’s own brow distracted me from my work. Furrowed, it unsettled me.

A goddess can’t hug a child? I asked her, shifting to a gap in the ritual circle. It was a precarious arrangement, with portions that would burn to light the offerings and others that would remain grounded. Mother had trained me well, but this was more complex than any I had made before.

Ara copied my placements nearby, but I felt her gaze on me. Oh, Otylia. If you believe I couldn’t see your eyes flash white, then you don’t know me as well as I thought. I’m your szeptucha and your friend. It’s obvious when you’re unsettled.

My fingers shredded a tuft of wheat. I huffed, sitting back on my heels and shutting my eyes, picturing that scorched tree. I saw a barren winter in the future. That girl mourned someone at a funeral pyre, and there was this tree… It screamed out to me for help, but it was already dead.

Do you think we fail? she blurted out.

End’s visions can mean anything, I told her as much as myself. Some are true, and others are just possibilities. I don’t know which are which, but I’ll do anything to avoid what I just saw.

She turned back toward me. Why did you call End with that girl?

I continued my work, nose wrinkled, as I considered that question. Why had I? Much had changed for me since my Ascension. Every time I thought I understood it all, something else crept in, and this silent force within me was the greatest question yet. I hadn’t noticed it during the distractions of recent moons, but slow time in Dwie Rzeki had made it apparent. The force of endings guided me. I didn’t understand how or why. When End reached out for me, though, I knew it in my soul, and I needed to answer.

Destiny has her reasons, I guess, I replied.

Some time later, we finished the preparations with the help of a dozen other women. The ritual encircled the entire village center. Wheat and wool woven designs of the old tongue like roots intertwined beneath a dense forest. With blood and bones marking the end of one symbol and beginning of another, I stood in awe that this was allowed in the village now. My rituals had once been scorned.

Now, they were our only hope.

Chapter 3

Otylia

Awaken the wilds, Mother, so that I can finally rest.

My hopes turned to burdens beneath the purple skies of dusk. The moon renewed the strength in my soul, but it couldn’t pierce the winter. Only Dziewanna could do that.

Mother stood atop the longhouse’s step, the winds nipping at her flaming dress. She banished the cold for a hundred strides, and not a flake of snow fell upon Dwie Rzeki as I approached with a bowl of blood. This blood was symbolic. Her newly chosen szeptuchy had already burned the offerings we’d collected, granting her the power she needed, but the Marzanna