The Rise of Svetlana Romanoff

Prologue

Prologue

The year was 1075, and in the nascent sprawl of Moscow, a powerful lineage began. She was named Svetlana Romanoff, a daughter born to a light witch of unparalleled power, Anastasia, and a formidable mid-level wizard, Anatoly. They called her the Princess of Magic, their only child, destined for a reign of power and a life beyond the comprehension of mortals.

The Romanoffs were not simply powerful; they were immortal. Time was a river they observed, not a current that swept them away. Yet, to live among the fleeting lives of humanity required a delicate, dangerous deceit. To protect their secret, Anastasia and Anatoly adopted a rigid strategy: every decade, they would subtly alter their appearances, deepening the wrinkles around their eyes, silvering Anatoly’s beard, or adding a soft stoop to Anastasia’s shoulders. They meticulously mimicked the aging process of their neighbors, only to shed those temporary disguises and revert to their youthful primes once the humans they knew had finally perished. It was a tedious, sorrowful dance with mortality, but it ensured their survival and Svetlana’s protection.

For centuries, this rhythm held, allowing Svetlana to grow into her own formidable power under the watchful, ever-young eyes of her parents. They witnessed the rise and fall of dynasties, the invention of printing presses, and the slow, inevitable creep of modernization.

However, the 17th century brought not innovation, but terror.

A global paranoia, fueled by religious zealotry and deepening ignorance, gripped the world. The whispers of witchcraft turned into shouts, the shouts into accusations, and the allegations into the blinding fires of persecution. Witch hunts and trials became a deadly global epidemic. For the first time, the Romanoffs’ carefully managed immortality felt like a vulnerability, a ticking clock before their perpetual youth was seen not as a divine blessing, but as absolute proof of their wickedness.

It was Anastasia who first saw the inevitable end of their idyllic life in Russia. “Anatoly,” she pleaded, her voice quiet but firm, “we are too powerful to stay, too visible. We must leave our home or perish in a lie.”

Her husband, weary but recognizing the cold truth in her words, agreed. They gathered their essentials, prepared the final, monumental spell of transit, and fled the continent, seeking refuge across the vast, tumultuous sea.

In a cruel twist of fate, the destination chosen by the immortal family was Salem, Massachusetts. They arrived safely, breathing the strange, damp air of the New World, only to discover, with a profound sense of irony and relief, that they had missed the infamous Salem Witch Trials by just a few years. The ashes were cold, the panic had subsided, and the Romanoffs, the most powerful magical family on Earth, were now strangers in the very heart of the fear that had pursued them.

In America, they discovered a quiet corner of the world where they could stay hidden. Anastasia, always the pragmatic matriarch, used her powerful healing gifts in a subtle, untraceable way. She crafted potent healing potions, disguised in plain bottles and labeled with the names of common herbs—chamomile for its soothing effects, lavender for its calming properties. These tonics were her only connection to her magic, a silent promise that the light within her had not been gone.

It was a life of shadows and whispers, very different from the lively, magical world Svetlana had known in Russia, but it was safe. Or so they believed.

One cold evening, as the last light of day faded from the sky, the family's fragile peace was shattered. The sound of a splintering door pierced the silence, followed by the chaos of shouts, screams, and the crackling of ordinary fire. Svetlana, hidden in a dusty cellar, pressed a trembling hand over her mouth. Through a gap in the floorboards, she watched her mother and father, the two people who made up her entire world, be brutally murdered. Their powerful and pure light magic was no match for the cold, iron-clad resolve of their attackers. In the flickering firelight, the last thing Svetlana saw was not her father's face but a symbol carved into a ring—a serpent coiled around a skull, a mark she would never forget.