The Rise of Svetlana Romanoff

Chapter 1

Chapter 1

A raw, beast-like shriek was violently torn from the woman's chest, momentarily louder than the wind whipping around the cabin's thin, ice-rimmed timbers. It was a sound that spoke not just of pain, but of a life wrestling against its binding.

The heavy door, crudely fashioned from split logs, was thrust inward, not bursting, but scraping with a wrenching protest against the packed earth floor. Anatoly, stumbling across the threshold, fought the sudden blast of biting cold and the choking, smoky, sweaty air that hung low inside the izba.

"Anastasiya! Ya zdes', moya zhena!" (Anastasiya! I am here, my wife!) Anatoly bellowed, his voice tight with fear above the chanting.

By the light of a flickering tallow lamp, he saw her. His wife, sweat glistening on her pale face, was huddled upon a heap of straw and furs near the hearth. Her knees were forced wide by Darya, the babka (midwife), and the apprentice girl, Yunna. In the corner of the cabin, a small, aged crone muttered tirelessly over a steaming cauldron of herbs. The air was heavy with the smell of boiled nettle and fear.

Anatoly tried to rush forward, but Darya, the babka, glared fiercely and hissed, “Stoy! Do not cross the protective line, husband! You will break the spell!"

Anatoly froze, his eyes locked on the corner of the room where the old crone knelt. This was Esphyr, the former babka of the district and a woman known for tending not just to the body, but to the svyet—the inner light—of those she served. She was Anastasia's own predecessor in subtle ways, and the only other person in the village who understood the gentle magic of the living world.

Esphyr did not look at Anastasia, but instead fixed her ancient eyes on the cauldron. She raised her hands—gnarled, but strangely luminous in the lamp's light—and began to move them slowly, not touching the water, but tracing an intricate, unseen pattern just above the steam.

"Gospodina, pomozhi," Esphyr murmured, her voice rising in a clear, high pitch that cut through the agonizing screams. She spoke to the protective spirits of the hearth: “Light of the Sun, ease the binding. Light of the Earth, loosen the grip."

As the babka snapped, "Push now, daughter! Push against the pain!" Esphyr made one final, rapid sweep with her hands over the cauldron.

A faint, golden-white shimmer, like sunlight reflecting off fresh snow, detached itself from the rising steam. It was not fire, nor just light, but a silent warmth flowing, unseen by Anatoly, directly toward Anastasia. As the wave of light touched her sweat-soaked skin, her guttural scream did not stop but shifted. The sound lost its panicked edge; it became a focused, mighty groan—the sound of effort, not pure terror.

Anastasia gasped, her eyes snapping open to stare at the log ceiling. She felt the intense pain, yet a strange, calming coolness seemed to soothe the raw edges of the injury, channeling the blazing fire into a manageable force. She clenched her jaw, teeth grinding, driven by the quiet, unseen light Esphyr had given her.

Darya, the babka, cried out, seeing the sudden, powerful coherence of Anastasia's push, a strength that defied her exhaustion. "Hold, hold the force! I see the crown!"

The air in the izba thickened, the smoke and sweat replaced by a momentary, charged stillness. Anatoly heard the sharp intake of breath from the apprentice girl and the low, steady drone of Esphyr's final chant.

Anastasia gave one last, monumental push, her face contorted, her veins standing out like cords on her neck. With a sound of tearing flesh and a final, guttural cry, the pressure vanished.

Then, there was only the cold, sharp sound of a baby's cry—not a gentle peep, but a furious, full-throated wail of indignation against the sudden change.

Darya quickly wrapped the slippery, tiny body in a piece of clean linen. As she did, the golden-white shimmer from Esphyr’s initial magic was momentarily overwhelmed. A new, deeper light pulsed into existence around the child: a purple, iridescent radiance that seemed to shift like oil on water, shimmering with every colour, yet rooted in deep violet.

The babka, momentarily frozen by the sight, held the child aloft and turned toward the corner where Esphyr knelt.

"A daughter, Anastasia! A strong daughter!" Darya declared, her voice trembling slightly, her eyes fixed on the ethereal colour.

Esphyr, her work done, slowly lowered her hands. She did not seem weary now, but utterly focused, her gaze intense upon the child and the color of her aura. She did not speak of the sun or earth this time, but whispered into the charged air: "She is cloth of the twilight. The Mother of Stars watches her path."

The purple light did not dissipate immediately; it softened, clinging like a faint veil to the linen before slowly fading.

Anatoly, forgetting the rules of the protective line entirely, knelt beside Anastasia, his mind reeling from the sight of the purple light. He gently wiped the sweat from her forehead with a corner of the clean linen that hadn't been used for the child.

"Moya zhena," he murmured, his voice thick with relief and love. "You have given us a miracle." He pressed a clumsy kiss to her temple.

Anastasia, though utterly spent, managed a weak smile. "Is she... whole? Is she well?"

"Stronger than the river ice," Anatoly assured her.

Meanwhile, Darya, the babka, moved quickly to the hearth, carrying the newborn daughter wrapped tightly in the linen. She had seen strange auras before—pale blue for healers, faint green for those connected to the forests—but never that vibrant, iridescent violet.

She presented the child to Esphyr, who sat motionless, her eyes still holding that unnatural intensity.

"Esphyr," Darya whispered, her usual confidence replaced by deference. "The cord. It is yours to sever and cleanse, as is the tradition for the powerful ones."

Esphyr reached out, not with the bronze knife Darya offered, but with her hands. She held the small, heavy bundle, and as her rough thumbs brushed the infant's swaddled brow, the purple light flared back to life, surging from the child and enveloping both women.

This time, the light was not gentle. It was a pressure—a sudden, profound knowing.

Esphyr gasped sharply, her ancient eyes widening in genuine terror and astonishment. She felt the child’s svyet—the inner light—and it was a miniature sun, a core of raw, untamed power that dwarfed her own gentle magic and the faint glow of every person she had ever tended. It was not merely powerful; it was ancient and boundless, a light tied to something far older than the Kyiv Rus' (Olden day Russia).

"By the goddess, Miranda!" Esphyr choked out, the first time in memory she had called on anything other than the hearth spirits. Her hands recoiled slightly, though she maintained her grip.

She looked down at the tiny, wrinkled face of the daughter, whose eyes were still tightly shut, and understood the truth. This was not merely a child with the Gift.

"The laws of men or spirits will not govern her," Esphyr said, her voice now barely a ragged breath. "Her svyet—it reaches the stars themselves. We did not ease a birth; we welcomed a force."

She looked back at Anatoly and Anastasia, still wrapped in their exhaustion and simple joy. "Warn them, Darya, warn them that their child is undeniably blessed, but such power can also be seen as a curse. They must protect her at all costs.” Darya nodded.

Esphyr then took the offered knife and, with a shaking hand, performed the necessary, solemn rite of severing the cord, her expression a mask of dawning fear and profound protection.

Anatoly watched with mounting impatience as Esphyr and Darya performed their quiet, mysterious ritual in the corner. He couldn't hear their hushed words over the apprentice girl's steady cleanup and Anastasia's soft breathing, but he saw the tension in their shoulders. He feared the worst, that their daughter was somehow flawed, or that the strange light meant some ill omen.

Finally, Darya turned, her usual gruff demeanor replaced by a solemn reverence. She approached the sleeping couple, holding the swaddled baby as if it were a relic.

"Anastasiya, Anatoly. Your daughter is whole. She is perfectly formed and strong," Darya announced, her voice pitched low. She paused, remembering Esphyr's fierce warning. "She is... deeply blessed. The spirits of the forest and the hearth have watched this birth. She is meant for great things."

Darya gently placed the wrapped infant into Anastasia's waiting arms.

Anastasia’s face softened completely, the pain and exhaustion momentarily forgotten. She looked down at the tiny face—red and wrinkled, but undeniably hers—and tears tracked paths through the dried sweat on her cheeks.

Anatoly leaned close, his great calloused hand hovering near the small bundle, afraid to touch her. He saw the shift in Anastasia’s gaze—from warrior to mother.

"What is her name, moya zhena?" he asked, his voice barely audible.

Anastasia gently stroked the baby's cheek with her thumb. "She will be Svetlana," she whispered. "My little light."

Anatoly finally reached out and gently touched Svetlana’s head—a small, tentative gesture. Although the visible purple light had vanished, a persistent, deep warmth radiated from the child, calming the frantic terror in his heart and filling him with an overwhelming sense of protectiveness.

Esphyr watched them from the hearth, a faint, ancient smile touching her lips. Svetlana, she thought. Light. They named her truthfully. She rose, extinguishing the tallow lamp and signaling the end of the ceremony. The little izba settled back into the simple, cold reality of a 1075 Moscow night, now holding an extraordinary new life.