"I saw that my life was a vast glowing empty page, and I could do anything I wanted." Jack Kerouac

Siegfried, Prince of Illychia and heir to said throne, had never been happier.

Such a statement was no mean feat; the boy had been given everything he had ever wanted, and more besides. Every birthday, a ball was thrown in his honour, starting from before he could walk. The ball would bring officials from all over the country, and even ambassadors from the adjoining countries of Catolia and Mwengwe, although admittedly, relations with Skyrholm, the northern bordering country of mages and savages, had been terse these past few years. An ambassador hadn't been sent from Skyrholm since he was eight. Regardless, Sig had been on state visits to almost every quarter in Illychia; from Prianska with the famous waterfalls and the rainbows spanning them, to Aelford, where the three main rivers— Turzinsk, Lenova and Sabisa— of the land converged, and the wastelands of Catamede and Helgraf, the south so warm the land would scorch. He knew he was the Crown Prince of a land he loved and lived for, a country he was proud of and would die to defend. And he lived in a beautiful palace of red slate and twisting towers, in the most beautiful city of them all: the affluent capital, Zratova.

He lived a very, very golden life.

But since meeting Vasilisa, he'd wanted something else.

He'd known, from the moment he could really know what's what, that he would marry for gain, for a country that needed alliances and heirs when relations with borders were terse. A Skyrholm princess was never spoken of— his father, the king, loathed any sort of magic, and the Skyr people worshipped it— but a marriage with a princess of Mwengwe was often talked of, and sometimes Catolia, too. He'd never looked for love, never considered anything more serious than the flirtations with some of the women that came to him, and was never tempted by the stares of some of the men, either. His father had loved the idea of his mother, until she was killed by magic. On that day, a part of his father died, too: the part that tolerated mages. He'd remarried— a woman who had pushed her way into his bed— and before Sig was ten, he had a stepmother. No stepsibling had ever materialised, however, much to the family's chagrin. Sig secretly didn't mind. He would be the model child, the model prince, with a model wife, and their own model children.

Until he met Vasilisa.

Or rather, his stepmother had tried to pawn him off, away from his father's side, to the north. Trouble was brewing, and the garrisons had begun to head north, preparing for the eventualities that war might break out. For too long, the northern quarter of Illychia had roamed a little wild. Once mage territory, the downfall of magic had left the land with scarce villages and heaps of snow.

It was time, their stepmother suggested, to reclaim the mage lands. She gave Sig the not-so-subtle challenge of stationing a garrison at the abandoned fort, once home to hundreds of mages.

'In the eventuality of war, we will need northern bases if Skyrholm is to attack,' she pointed out. His father readily agreed.

So, a month later, as summer was fading, Sig left his comfortable home and marched north with other infantry soldiers of the Imperial Army. The cold had not yet set in, but even the last dregs of summer's warmth was not enough to prevent the chill that seeped through his boots on the walk, or the shivering of the soldiers in their tents at night. As they drew farther north, the land noticeably changed. The villages they passed through spoke of children that roamed with wolves, of vodyanoi, blue-skinned men and women that lived in the depths of waters and preyed on those unawares, and of the Erlkonig, or Erlking— a powerful mage from Skyrholm that wreaked havoc in Illychia.

But for all the tales, Sig saw nothing of these terrible creatures the villagers were so wary of. At night he would hear the howl of wolves, but they didn't seem out of the ordinary for a city boy like him. In fact, the scariest noise was from the snores of his tent-mate, Aleksandr, a lowly groom that cared for the horses journeying north, some cavalry, some carrying supplies. Aleksandr's laughter was as raucous and sharp as the horses' brays he looked after. And with a long face and rough, reddish hair, Sig thought he quite looked like the horse, too.

As they wound their way north, Sig found he had more interest in making friends than he was with fighting. For nightly sport, groups of soldiers would form a circle and fight until one another fell. Sig watched, unimpressed.

What sort of test was a brawl? He asked himself.

Night after night Aleksandr, with little knowledge of trained arts, took on men twice his size and won.

And Sig began to watch.

The first couple of days, most put it down to luck; an off-day for the other men, perhaps. But by the third day, opponents were a little curious about the quirky man who twitched with the energy of a stallion. By the end of the first week, only the bravest would challenge him.

Two weeks in, and Aleksandr was challenging two men at once.

Sig watched Aleksandr's fights, and the fights of others, with increasing interest. He had little brawn himself— average by the soldiers' standards, as attested to by his mediocre ability in fights— but he looked for tips from Aleksandr's movements.

Aleksandr won by not winning. He fought by not fighting. Sig was fascinated.

Some days, he simply let the other opponent tire himself out. Aleksandr was quick— quick enough to evade hits— and darted around the bigger men. Other times, he would use a moment in the crowd to launch an attack, a second of distraction as someone coughed or sneezed or shouted. Aleksandr was not beautiful to watch, but he played the game well. He used each man's strength against him, using their momentum to his advantage.

By the end of the third week, Sig was helping him devise tactics.

The two would talk into the night, and continue on the road the next day. Not only did they talk about the fights, but Aleksandr had a rational head that Sig found easy to relay ideas. Their friendship stemmed from a solid base of reason and conversation.

Now, staring up at the fortress that was in mid-completion, Sig wondered whether he should have approached Aleksandr about Vasilisa before.

His friend was curious about Sig's nightly wanderings, but assumed that it was the result of him visiting a woman. To some degree, Aleksandr was correct. But unlike many of the soldiers, who visited the closest village to woo its women, Sig had walked into the forest.

When he had first seen the fortress, he had been overcome by a strange, unexplainable sadness.

He had been nine when his father launched the attack on all mages, stamping out magic in so thorough a way that he barely remembered ever seeing any. He had, at one point, met the head koldunya, a lady whose name had stuck with him: Tatiana. Tatiana had been the opposite of his mother; cold, unforgiving, and cynical. She had stoically attended one of his many parties, with an air of irritation. Looking back, he couldn't understand why she'd even bothered to come. She hadn't attended any others.

At her hip had been her daughter, but he couldn't remember her name. All he remembered was witnessing Tatiana smack her for speaking out of turn.

Seeing the fortress brought back that night, that horror, and the noise of the child's cries. What worsened the horror had been the fact that within a few years, both Tatiana and her daughter were killed, by his family's hands.

It was sobering enough that first night to slip off into the forest, for peace.

The villagers had told stories; stories of the forest spirits that would guide you home, should you ask the right questions. Of Leshii who would defend their home with fierce abandon. And they had told stories that mages had escaped that night, the night the king's men marched. They told stories that mage children were pulled from their beds by their nurses, to flee into the forest away from the slaughter.

Perhaps he walked into the forest to see if it were true. In any case, no forest spirit guided him. Sig slipped down a steep hill that night, and fell down the cliff, breaking what felt like every bone in his body, and the last thing he recalled before everything went dark was falling on top of a beautiful woman. Whilst his body screamed in pain, he was all too aware of her soft curves as he collided with her. Luckily, or perhaps unluckily, he had been prompt in blacking out.

When he awoke, the pain had healed— and his beautiful Vasilisa was sat beside him.

Her legs were folded carefully beneath her. That was the first thing he had noticed; how she sat, perched and poised with grace. She turned her head, her gaze quizzical, as though he were a question she didn't quite know how to answer. Her hair, he noticed, was a gentle shade of blonde, curling with a softness to make him want to stroke it, and her eyes a hazel pool.

'You're awake,' she'd said, and she sounded surprised, as if she hadn't expected him to wake at all. Maybe she hadn't. 'Mar will be back soon. She patched you up, you know.'

Sig frowned, tentatively stretching his limbs. 'They feel perfect,' he said, and it was his turn to sound surprised. 'Thank heavens! I thought I'd broken something for sure.'

And a voice had said, 'Must have been the shock.' Then Sig met Marya, silver-haired and as quiet as the night.

Over the weeks, he'd come to know the two girls tentatively. He couldn't understand why they would meet each night, but he assumed there was a mysterious reason he wasn't privy to. He spent many an afternoon, before his walk into the woods, debating what reason Vasi would come at night to visit her friend. His scenarios grew wild; from an abusive father, to a protective brother, to an unwanted suitor. All of his imaginings ended with him finding out— and sweeping Vasi into his arms, and offering his protection.

And now it was the truth. Vasi would be his— truly, only, his.

Wife. His mood was bright even as he approached the fort, which was yet unnamed. Perhaps he would name it after Vasi as a gift to her; he listened to suggestions from the other soldiers daily, but nobody had come up with anything good yet.

Fort Vasilisa. Fort Lisa. Fort Vasi. Fort Vasla? He shook his head. Girls don't want forts, do they?

His stepmother had wanted power, so maybe they did.

The light filtered against the stones, casting misshapen shadows across the grounds. Sig had to admit, in several weeks, the fort was looking much better. When he'd first arrived, the walls were mostly demolished, and blackened soot coated anything remaining. They'd set soldiers to clean the stones, others to rebuild, and others to plan. Unlucky ones got the job of removing the bones of the dead sorcerers that had once dwelled there, but had died in the purge. Now, the broken walls of the fort stood back in place, the metalwork doors and gates had been fixed, and most of the soot had gone.

If only inside could be as organised. After the outside had been reconstructed, the team had started on repairing the furnishings of the rooms, clearing out the burned and the old, and forming some semblance of order. Dormitories for the soldiers, an armoury, a control room...most had existed with the koldun, so it wasn't unfeasible to change it to suit an army.

But people asked him. At first, he was simply friendly with people. They would ask for advice. 'How should I arrange this?'

'I've been told to do this and this, which should I do first?'

Then Sig noticed more people asking for his advice. Whilst fighting was not his expertise, Sig was excellent at decisions and giving orders. Soon, he had the courtyard designed in the way he asked, and the team clearing the rubble would always defer to him wherever to start first.

As he approached the main gates, he watched as the sentries saluted to him. He saluted in response, grinning as his arrival heralded a commotion. Aleksandr came out to meet him, gripping his arm jovially.

'Another big night out, eh, Sig?' he said, winking. 'When will we meet this lucky gal?'

Aleksandr had teased him incessantly about his night-time visits, assuming he was simply stretching his libido out to wherever he could. But Sig thought it was time to share a little of the truth.

He clutched his friend's arm back in warm welcome and said, 'Soon, I hope, my friend.'

Shock registered on his friend's face, and, laughing, Sig strode past him.

'Wait!' Aleksandr chased after him as they strode over the grass, boots crunching in unison.

'What's been happening?' Sig said, suppressing a yawn. His nights were catching up with him. Usually, he'd catch a few hours of sleep in the mornings. 'Did they clear the kitchens?'

'Yeah, Kappa Team uncovered a lot of their old equipment too, but it's quite worn...' Aleksandr still looked shocked. 'Sig— you actually have a woman?'

Sig didn't reply, but gave him a suggestive grin. 'And Delta? Have they started on constructing a watchtower?'

'The Commander wasn't too sure on having a watchtower...' Aleksandr let out a huff that made it clear they were still negotiating. Sig wasn't surprised. A watchtower made perfect sense, but it would take the officers in charge suggesting it themselves before they'd do anything. Politics was something Sig did know about.

'And Gamma have had a significant problem with the basement,' Aleksandr finished.

'A problem?' Sig gave him a sharp look. 'What's inside?'

The basement had been discovered, blocked behind a bed of stone that had fallen in after the wall had collapsed. Once cleared, Sig had suggested that the basement could be used as a storeroom, and about a week after his suggesting it, the Commander ordered for a space to store the army's grain.

'That's just the thing...' Aleksandr shrugged. 'They couldn't get the door open.'

Sig blinked. 'It's a door.'

'I know,' Aleksandr bit his lip. It was uncharacteristic, and it made Sig pause. 'I tried it myself. We were...we were thinking that the koldun had maybe spelled it...'

An uncontrollable shiver ran through him. Magic. He'd hoped, as had everyone, that the number of years since inhabiting the fort that the remainders from the sorcerers that had lived there would have long faded.

'Let's see it then,' Sig sighed. 'Where is it?'

Aleksandr nodded, beckoning for him to follow. 'Right this way.'

Aleksandr led him through the main corridor, before taking several turns towards the back of the fort's premise. Here, less work had been done, so dust still rattled as they walked, their footsteps breathing dust and remaining ashes. At the furthest door on the left, Aleksandr led him down a stairway that circled like a lowering vulture heading to its prey. Dark met his eyes and took him seconds to adjust when they reached the bottom.

A large, wooden, average-looking door waited there. He squinted at it, inspecting the grooves in the oak and the wear of the metal hinges. Nothing suggested that the door was harmful, spelled, or unusual.

Sig frowned, placing his hand onto the handle.

It didn't budge.

He frowned harder, then pressed with all of his strength.

Again, the handle didn't move.

Frustrated, Sig leaned with his shoulder against the door. 'Come help,' he suggested to Aleksandr, and the two stood side by side.

'On three,' Sig said, 'One. Two. Three.'

Wham! The two men shoved against the door, making it rattle loudly, but not enough to shift it. Sig stood back, his shoulder smarting.

'We thought it likely the koldun placed some sort of locking charm on it,' Aleksandr didn't look surprised by the situation. In fact, he rubbed his temple as if he was weary of it all.

Sig stroked his hand upon the metal lock, wondering if there was truth to Aleksandr's fears. The metal was undeniably cold to touch, but nothing out of the ordinary. Rust peeled against Sig's fingers as he tried to determine whether it was enchanted or not.

Aleksandr laughed. 'You look like you're touching a woman, Sig,' he said, patting his friend jovially. 'Perhaps we should give up. I'm a little worried about what that lock might be keeping in. Knowing those savage sorcerers...skeletons, I'm sure.'

Sig frowned. 'I'd wager that if the locks still active, perhaps those skeletons are still alive.'

He didn't know how right he was.

'Fetch the Commander,' Sig said. 'We can't leave the basement unexplored. Maybe we can excavate downwards from the floor above.'

Aleksandr looked all to happy to leave. 'Right away,' he said, and with a nod, was dashing back up the stairs, billowing dust in his wake. Sig could hear his stomping all the way, the delicacy of a wounded animal.

Now that he was alone, Sig's spine tingled. He told himself that it was just his nerves— being left alone near a scary basement— until he felt the hairs on his neck pricking up, one by one. His hand grazed the metal lock once more, but this time, the door slammed into its hinges.

Sig leaped back, slamming his hand against his mouth. Where it had touched the lock, his fingers felt icy cold. Trembling, he stepped backwards, his eyes on the door that was now innocently unmoving.

It was just a draught. Nothing more. He told himself that truth, over and over.

He didn't know how wrong he was.

A silhouette beamed onto the doorway from behind him, the light from the upstairs corridor casting a long, thin man onto the basement floor beside him. Happy that Aleksandr had returned so soon, Sig turned to greet his friend.

The hallway was empty.

The light filtered in direct rays, undeterred by any physical being.

Sig's insides turned frozen. He felt his guts turn to mush.

Shaking violently, he tried to edge around the shadow.

And then, it spoke into his ear – a whisper.

'Hello,' it said. 'Do not worry. I am a friend.'

Sig couldn't speak he was so frightened. Instead, his brain formed a flickering response of disbelief and terror. Friend! I doubt it!

'I can be your friend, Siegfried. I can be your ally.'

Sig's feet hit the steps behind him, and he stumbled, buckling to the floor. The shadow enveloped him, the whispering louder. Sig shook his head, batting away the presence.

'No,' he said, 'You're a demon! A spell!'

'I am not a spell, Siegfried. I am a man, trapped behind this door. Would you like to see?'

'A man?' Sig blinked. 'You're what's behind the door?'

In that moment, he could hear Aleksandr's voice proclaiming how what was behind the magic door might be hideous. No, he would not be fooled by magic. The reason his father had banned it was because power inflicted only pain and suffering.

'Your friend is wise to be cautious,' said the voice, 'but I am no koldun. The koldun captured me and chained me to here with a spell; that is how I am speaking to you now.'

Sig knew that no matter what thoughts crossed through his mind, this man seemed able to read them. Surely that marked him as a sorcerer. But he didn't appear to be a koldun if he had been locked away by the very same people; how was he to know if the man was innocent or not?

'All I ask is that you break my confinement,' the voice reasoned. 'They didn't expect to be burned to the ground. They captured me here, and let me be beaten and tortured, before disappearing entirely.'

The end of the koldun era. Sig's father was proud of it. The reason the koldun disappeared was because of the fort being burned throughout, koldun in it.

'In return for my freedom, I can help you understand why your beautiful Vasilisa is also under a spell.'

Sig's heart nearly stopped entirely. 'What?' he repeated aloud, turning to the doorway. He was met with a silence, only the stifled air in the hallway for company. For the first time he wished for the voice to respond. He was relieved when it replied, certain it had disappeared to pique his interest.

'Vasilisa. She's under a spell.'

'A spell? How? What kind of spell?' Sig's head spun. How had he seen her every day and not known? The voice had to be lying. Why else would she never had said? But then, he had only known her a short time. It would be easy to hide a spell, especially if it wasn't visible.

On cue, the voice reasoned with him.

'I will give you time to check, if you desire. Time to ask for your own truth whether Vasilisa is under a spell. Then, when you believe me, you must allow me to break her spell.'

Sig swallowed. 'So, you are a sorcerer.'

'I am the great enemy of the koldun. I believe they are your enemy also. And I can free your fiancée; the koldun would not.'

Sig found himself nodding, albeit uncertainly.

'I will give you until tomorrow evening. Once you have ascertained Vasilisa is indeed under a spell, I will need the blood of the caster to break it. Therefore, you must listen carefully.'

Sig swallowed, and made the hardest decision he'd faced: a decision that would alter his future, and everyone around him. But when he thought of Vasi, victim of a curse, helpless and in need, he knew he couldn't say no to this stranger.

'I'm listening.'

'Excellent. The caster of Vasilisa's spell comes from a powerful sorceress lineage. You will need to bring her here.'

Without stopping to think how he would bring a woman down into the cellar willingly, Sig nodded.

'Tell me her name,' Sig said.

Inside his cell, Koschei smiled. 'Marya von Rothbart.'

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A/N: So, Sig has met Koschei! What do you think will happen next? And how will Sig react to Marya's magic?!

lots of love

Larissa

xxxxx