The Rise of Svetlana Romanoff

Chapter 4

Chapter 4

After forcing down a few bites of his daughter’s leaden, nearly inedible bread, Anatoly left Svetlana in Anastasia’s care and set off to find Esphyr. The memory of the previous night’s incident with Svetlana clung to him like a damp mist; despite Anastasia’s pleas for him to let it rest, the knot of anxiety in his chest refused to loosen.

He trekked to the far side of the forest where Esphyr’s izba stood tucked among the trees. When he reached the heavy wooden door and knocked, it swung inward of its own accord, revealing an empty entryway.

“Anatoly, come in,” Esphyr’s voice drifted from the shadows of the house. He watched the door latch click into place behind him, moved by a casual display of her telekinetic tether.

“How did you know it was me?” he asked, stepping deeper into the warmth of the home.

“I saw you coming,” she replied.

Anatoly paused, his brow furrowing. “You had a premonition?”

“No, silly. I saw you through the window,” she let out a bright, melodic chuckle at his expense.

“Oh...” Anatoly rolled his eyes, the tension in his shoulders finally giving way to a faint, begrudging smile. Esphyr emerged from the kitchen clutching a beaded pitcher of water.

“Come, sit,” she urged, gesturing toward the table with a tilt of her head. “You look like you’ve carried the weight of the whole forest on your back today.”

“Well, you’re not wrong,” Anatoly sighed, the chair creaking under his weight as he sank into it.

Esphyr set the pitcher down, her gaze narrowing as she studied the frantic pulse in his neck. “I sense a shadow over you, Anatoly. Something grave has happened.”

“It has,” he admitted, his voice barely a rasp.

“Svetlana?”

Anatoly nodded.

“Chto sluchilos'?” (What’s happened?) she asked, her voice dropping to a low, urgent murmur.

“We were in the forest last night before dark, practicing her magic,” Anatoly began, staring at his calloused hands. “She was doing so well—picking up the threads of it quickly, with efficiency that surpasses my skills as a Wizard.”

“Khorosho,” (Good) Esphyr murmured, though her smile didn’t quite reach her eyes.

“Da,” Anatoly agreed, though the word felt hollow. “But then, out of nowhere, she screamed. She ran from me as if I were a monster. When I finally caught up to her and grabbed her arm, she… she just lost her mind. It was like the daughter I knew had vanished, replaced by a creature of pure terror.”

Esphyr leaned forward, her curiosity now sharpened by a hint of professional alarm. “Lost her mind? In what way, Anatoly? Be precise.”

“She claimed I was gone—that I wasn't there at all,” Anatoly explained, his heart hammering against his ribs at the memory. “She said a figure had come for her. That it tried to take her.”

Esphyr’s hand stilled on the table. “Take her where?”

Anatoly looked up, his eyes dark with a father’s helplessness. “Temnota. Into the darkness.”

Esphyr leaned back, the wooden chair groaning as she shifted her weight. She closed her eyes, her chest rising and falling in a long, heavy breath that seemed to pull the very air from the room. The mention of the darkness stayed between them like a physical cold.

"Have you told Anastasia?" she asked finally, her eyes still shut.

"I have," Anatoly replied, his voice tight.

"And?" Esphyr opened her eyes, her gaze sharp and searching. "What does she think?”

"She thinks Svetlana had a premonition," Anatoly said, though the words felt clumsy on his tongue. "Or perhaps that she even astral projected."

Esphyr tapped a rhythmic, thoughtful beat against the side of her water glass. "It sounds plausible.”

"But she's only ten," Anatoly countered, his hands balling into fists on his knees. He looked at Esphyr, pleading for her to tell him his wife was wrong. "She’s a child. Ten-year-olds should be worrying about burnt bread and muddy boots, not drifting into other realms."

Esphyr’s heavy brow quirked, a flicker of genuine confusion cutting through her grim focus. “Burnt bread?”

Anatoly gave a weary, dismissive wave of his hand, as if trying to physically swat the memory away. “Don’t ask. It’s been a long morning, and my stomach is still paying the price for my silence.”

Esphyr let out a short, dry huff—not quite a laugh, but enough to break the stifling tension of the izba. The ghost of a smile vanished as quickly as it had appeared, her expression hardening once more.

“Anatoly, I have told you and Anastasia from the beginning—Svetlana’s svyet is immense,” Esphyr said, her voice dropping into a warning register.

“Yes, you have, and we told you then that we could handle it,” Anatoly snapped, his patience fraying. “But this... whatever happened in the woods, it’s not what we prepared for. Now Anastasia is talking about isolation. She wants to lock our daughter away.”

“It is a wise precaution,” Esphyr stated flatly.

“You can’t be serious!” Anatoly stood, his chair scraping harshly against the floorboards. “She is a child. She needs to run, to have friends, to simply be. I will not raise her as a prisoner.”

“Anatoly, the world is barely ready for those of us who stay in the shadows,” Esphyr countered, her gaze unwavering. “A child of Svetlana’s magnitude is a beacon. If she has another episode—if she loses control in public—the results would be disastrous for everyone. But it is her power at such a tender age that truly puts a target on her back.”

“I don’t understand,” Anatoly said, his frustration boiling over into a desperate sort of confusion.

“You are a neutral wizard—neither light nor dark. It is a rare, quiet existence that I still find baffling, though I do not judge you for it,” Esphyr explained. “Your wife, however, is a high-order Light Witch. By blood, that makes Svetlana a creature of the Light. But her youth makes her a blank slate—one easily scrawled upon by the coercion of the reaching dark.”

Anatoly felt a chill crawl up his spine. “What are you saying, Esphyr?”

“I am saying that the figure Svetlana saw is not just a ghost or a nightmare. It is a hunter,” Esphyr whispered. “It is trying to claim her svyet.”

“Claim it?”

“Da. If she is as powerful as I believe—and I am rarely wrong—the sark side will stop at nothing to possess her. They have no morals, Anatoly. They will use any terror, any lie, and any shadow to coerce her into turning that brilliant light of hers into a weapon for darkness.”

“Then what do we do?” Anatoly’s voice cracked, the sound of a man trapped between two impossible choices. “How do we protect her svyet without turning her home into a cage? How do I look my daughter in the eye and tell her she can’t see the sun because the shadows are hungry?”

Esphyr reached across the table, her weathered hand hovering near his as if to ground him. “You cannot simply hide her, Anatoly. A beacon that is smothered eventually burns itself out, or worse, it turns inward and consumes the one carrying it.”

“Then give me an alternative,” he pleaded.

“Education is the only armor that fits a child,” Esphyr said firmly. “If she is to stay in the world, she must learn to mask her scent. She must learn the art of the Obman—the veil. You and Anastasia have been teaching her how to use her light, but you haven’t taught her how to hide it.”

Anatoly rubbed his face with his hands, his mind racing. “You’re talking about suppression. Cloaking her magic so it doesn't draw eyes.”

“I’m talking about survival,” Esphyr countered. “Until she is old enough to defend her own spirit, she must look like nothing more than a peasant girl with a penchant for burnt bread. No displays of power in the village. No practicing in the open woods where the temnota can catch a glimpse of her soul.”

She leaned in closer, her voice a sharp whisper. “And you, Anatoly… as a neutral, you are the perfect teacher for this. You know how to exist in the grey. You must teach her how to be invisible.”