Chapter 7 - OtyliaWhat have I gotten myself into?
SONGS FILLED THE AIR upon our return to the village. Around Perun’s Oak, the musicians plucked their strings, played their flutes, and sang of Jaryło’s blooms replacing the frost.
No songs were sung for Dziewanna.
Dinner had yet to be served, but men both young and old already staggered around with mugs and horns full of oskoła—fermented birch sap—dangling from their fingers. When they saw us approaching from down the trail with the golden egg in hand, a loud cheer erupted. But I wasn’t excited.
Wacław had almost died in that whirlwind. The flash of power in him had been raw, like the golden egg had ignited something. Two of Mokosz’s visions had come true already, and if Marzanna had led him to the egg…
I shuddered. Could Marzanna have
