•••

THROUGH THE gates, the village was dusky and dead, doors closed and wreaths scattered about as a sign of mourning. Yaga recognised houses, a smirk tugging at her lips. They were evil, all of them. They deserved everything they got.

Their crimes were written in the blood of children, children who were bad, bad people -- but children nonetheless.

They had to be saved, saved in the same way Dimitri had saved her from everyone else.

Only in solitude could they be saved.

She wondered whether there was a wreath on her own family's door, whether her parents were safe, whether they were even alive. Her hair, matted with blood and stringy with grime, danced around her head as the wind howled. Her lack of a cloak, only the rags that barely clung to her body, offered her no solace from the chill.

Teeth chattering, she bit her lip, so cracked that blood dripped from it almost immediately. Her hands, bound together with a coarse rope, ached with the weight of her body resting on them, relying on them to keep her on the horse.

To some extent, at least, as a thinner, looser rope was tied around the saddle of the animal, cementing her legs to it, just enough to keep her on but not safe enough. To put it simply, if the horse bucked her off, she would dangle with its hooves crushing her underfoot.

Just what I need, she thought bitterly, squinting in the fog to make out the lanterns that illuminated the main square. Her horse, flocked by half a dozen other, all staring at her for the entire journey with a mixture of fear and disgust, was one of the last into the village.

She could see a small crowd already assembled by the stocks and the flagpole that marked the very centre of Salovo, murmuring with what sounded like excitement. That sort of excitement, the din that came with a hunt, could only mean something equally barbaric as what had already occurred.

No children were present, which unnerved her even more as she tried to peer through the gloom, until she felt strong hands begin working at her ropes.

Three men untied her, throwing her roughly to the ground, but not sloppily. They didn't want her to escape - though she knew that with her hands unbound, it would be easy. But they were, so that was out of the question.

Unless...

No.

Her survival instincts overpowered all of the rage she felt, so she remained silent and remarkably alive, for the moment at least. The men pushed her to the flagpole, the crowd parting as they caught sight of her face, head held high and eyes blank.

Someone spat at her, the saliva damp on her cheek. Her legs threatened to buckle beneath her, but by some miracle she stayed standing. She could hear voices around her, and her senses sharpened, knowing what was going to happen next.

What they did with witches.

The smell of fire already stung at her nostrils, but she knew she was just imagining it. She prayed to the Saints that wouldn't listen, to those to whom cries fell upon deaf ears, to those that turned away when she reached out.

Until, out of the corner of her eye, she caught a glimpse of ivory and mahogany, agonisingly familiar.

A name lingered painfully in her mind, like a punch to the gut.

Lada.

Just the thought of her made Yaga square her shoulders, look them in the eye, the monster that they thought she was finally showing.

Tonight, she would be the monster they wanted her to be so badly, the girl she had now become inside.

Gods knew what she was inside. It was all such a mess.

Good and bad, diamond and coal.

Gods and devils.

•••

The people that she'd known all her life, the people who had all left their village to be doomed, crowned around her. They jeered and shouted and screamed, pulsing like a great mechanical, rotten heart. Not so different to her own, then, Yaga thought as someone kicked the backs of her legs, her weak body almost crumpling to the floor.

Had it not been for the sheer force of anger keeping her up, she would've been dead a long time ago.

She stood, trying her best not to shiver, not expose any weakness, hands shackled to the flagpole. It was when she heard the people around her murmur about burning that the heavens opened up and it began to pour.

A wide grin spread across her face, and she released a breathy laugh, almost mocking.

Their most brutal solution was gone.

Perhaps she would live to see another day, as bleak and miserable as she knew it would be - she didn't care.

I am alive, she grinned inwardly, though on the outside it looked more like a maniacal cackle than anything else.

Let them believe that.

Let her be their villain once more.

They couldn't hurt her, not really.

Her shackles would come off, eventually - she would find a way. And she would run from here, run to freedom and somewhere where magic flowed through people's veins, somewhere where they didn't call it witchcraft.

It would be a holy thing, or maybe there wouldn't be any gods at all, just people living their lives.

A dreamland, and one that no matter how much she wished, would never exist.

The first lash was a cold shock, with the fat raindrops soaking her body, pressing her hair flat onto her face. Her clothes were so ragged that they fell apart almost instantly, leaving her in just an underskirt. This was deliberate, to maximise the humiliation, and she knew that soon she would be naked.

She gritted her teeth, the whip biting into her back. The pain was numbing, so cruel that after three, she fell to her knees, hard on the cobbles. A jeer echoed through the crowd, and she felt hot tears rise in her eyes, masked by the rain.

Yaga Izeva was not one to cry.

The air pressed all around, strangling her.

They just kept coming, each one more painful than the last, until blackness came over her and the pain was gone.

•••

Delicious light surrounded her, awakening all her senses. She was no longer shivering - beautiful golden warmth soaked into her skin, her hair clean and smooth and her body perfect. This fantasy was one she would've loved to stay in forever, but she knew she had to let go.

She could not walk into the light, no matter how enticing it was.

The people still hadn't paid for everything they'd done and everything that they had failed to do.

•••

Another familiar sight greeted Yaga, this one so much so that a wave of surprise came over her, racking her hunger-pang frame. She'd been clothed, with a cup of water on the plain wooden table next to her. Yaga knew that table - she knew this room.

A voice shouted across the room, a woman's. "She's awake! Thank the gods, she's awake!" Yaga blinked blearily at the sudden noise, moaning in pain as she tried to prop herself up, falling back onto her pillow with a pained grunt.

Her vision was dominated by a wiry little figure, covered in a crimson cloak that she would've recognised anywhere. "Gospozica," she breathed, sinking into the bed.

Sasha Arelova smiled, immense dark circles beneath her hazel eyes. Her hair was dishevelled, but dry. Either she hadn't been in the square or a hell of a lot of time had passed, at least a lot more than Yaga had estimated.

Yaga could feel bandages around her entire torso, pressing against her chest uncomfortably but otherwise blocking out the sharp stings of agony with simple dull pain.

She had so many questions, but so little strength.

"They whipped you in the square," Arelova said, fussing with a bandage. "They let us take you until you regained consciousness."

Yaga scoffed. "So they don't want me dead quite yet, then?"

Arelova shook her head. "No, I suppose not. But I don't know if staying alive is much better, Yaga."

After a moment, she added, softly this time, "You know, I took care of the shop when you were born. I took care of you, sometimes, too - when your parents were too tired. You look so much like your mother."

Yaga tried to roll over, but let out a low groan of pain. "My mother has green eyes," she muttered.

"You have your father's eyes. Now, Yaga. Sleep, as long as you can."

"Bastard," she hissed, before adding, "you know that I can't."

"Try."

•••