God Within Us

THE court swirled with whispers of astonishment, but to Vasilisa, the courtiers and boyars might as well have been a thousand miles away. Her soul shrank down to a tiny, tiny ball of roiling fear - it was a different kind of fear, sharper, more twisted. Now it felt as though there was a cold knife in her lungs, and she could scarcely breathe. The world blurred before her, as though she were looking at it through a rough-shaped pane of glass.

She felt Yesugei's hand come down on her shoulder discreetly, and nearly jerked away at his touch. Instead, she remained seated high and stately, and slowly, the terror began to recede - chased away by a sudden flickering of flame in her heart. Of course, only he knows, she thought of Yesugei. Two bound souls we are, but the bond goes both ways. Yesugei...why must you fear me so?

The world came back into focus, the colors muted and dulled once more as the fractured cracks and myriad pathways faded away into the present. The Young Griffon- no, Goran of Gatchisk, stood before her, and his shadow was no darker nor grimmer than that of any other man. Just a man, as breakable and mortal as any other - and one not left untouched by the hard years that had passed between them. His face was now rougher, hardened by battles fought and losses suffered - each one told in a different tale that she saw in him. There were faint lines around his eyes and mouth where once there had been only smooth youth, and scars - faded, but there - traced his jawline and neck. His black hair was cropped short, and the smile on his face failed to reach his eyes.

He was not the same Goran who had stolen into her room that night. Neither was she the same frightened girl.

Her lips curled into a small smile. “So, Goran,” she said, her voice even and clear, echoing through the hall, “you've decided to return through the door this time, rather than the window.”

A ripple of nervous laughter spread through the ranks of the boyars, and it died as quickly as it was roused. The many eyes of the boyars glanced warily between the two, unsure of how far they could take their amusement. Goran's expression remained unchanged, save for the briefest flicker of something—annoyance, perhaps—that twisted his mouth before settling back into that grim, emotionless smile.

He took a step forward, his boots thudding softly on the polished floor. "Grand Princess," he began, inclining his head slightly, but there was no deference in his tone. “I am no longer the man your father banished from Klyazma. Time changes all of us.”

Vasilisa’s smile faded. “So it would seem you remember your banishment...and yet you are here. This ceremony—" she gestured to the gathered boyars and courtiers, the herald who had called his name. "-is nothing but a formality, a courtesy. You know you are not welcome in this hall, Goran. So, why have you come?"

Goran did not hesitate. From within his cloak, he produced a scroll tied with a blue ribbon. He handed it to a nearby courtier, who strode down the length of the Great Hall and brought the parchment up to her. As she took it, the weight of Yesugei’s hand left her shoulder, but she still felt his presence standing close, like a shadow at her back.

Her eyes scanned the parchment. Beside her, Yesugei whispered, “What does it say?”

Vasilisa took a breath, and then, with the same measured calm, she raised her voice so that all could hear. “A demand. In exchange for a renewal of the vow of fealty between the crowns of Belnopyl and Gatchisk, Goran of Gatchisk asks that the crown reinstate him as the legitimate heir to the throne of Gatchisk once more. To undo my father's will."

Vasilisa’s gaze remained fixed on Goran as she continued. “Moreover, he demands that his commanders,” she flicked her eyes briefly toward Kassa, Yasaman, and Heller, “be legitimized as boyars of the realm, to be given lands and titles at the discretion of the Gatchisk court."

The murmurs in the hall grew louder, some outraged, others curious.

Vasilisa let the rolled parchment unfurl and cascade down her lap as she fixed the smiling lordling with a hard look. Then, she realized what was wrong. In the sea of voices and whispers, pasts and futures, all the souls and ambitions laid bare before her Sight, there was only silence when she looked upon Goran. It was as though he were dead- no, even dead things yet bore traces and echoes of their pasts, and futures forever unlived. This was different - it was as though she was trying to parse thought from a brick wall. Her presence was rebuffed, warded away by some strength beyond mere force of spirit. A spell, she thought. A barrier. The magic of the Dreamers, it could only be so.

He knows.

Immediately the game had changed - Goran was still a man, but one far above all others besides Yesugei. He showed no sign of having realized her probing into his mind, but that did not mean he was wholly ignorant. She stiffened in her seat once more, and spoke with a testing tone to her voice that the boyars might think was born from mild annoyance. "You speak as though you are already a prince, Goran of Gatchisk," she replied. "But do you forget your own blood? Your father still sits upon the throne."

"My father is an old man, your Majesty," spoke Goran, stepping forward slightly. "His strength fades more every day, and his grasp over the realm with it. You’ve seen yourself that the matter of his succession has already been put to force of arms - I only ask that Belnopyl rise above this petty fighting, and side with that which is right and true.

"Aye, your prince father made an exile of me, and removed me from the inheritance. But a scrap of paper does not change the blood in my veins - the throne is mine by right, and all I ask is that the crown recognize by the law that which will be mine by the sword. Grant me this pardon, and I will bring the whole of the south into the royal fold once more.”

Vasilisa’s mind raced tirelessly as she sifted through the futures that swam before her closed eyes. Ruin, treachery, and yet, the realm had to be united - weakness and division would only bring defeat. "You have much to gain, it is plain. But in these times, the crown needs as much in return from its allies - Belnopyl needs more than words and inked parchment, it needs swords and spears, grain and fodder. Can we count on this much?"

Goran raised one arm towards the foreigners in his company. “I can bring you five thousand men under my banner. Veterans, all of them, led by commanders who’ve brought victory in battle more times in five years than most voivode have in their lifetimes.”

Five thousand men were many - more than twice as many as the usurpers had brought against Belnopyl’s walls. But not enough to crush Svetopolk, she thought bitterly. The boyars who had come from the northern borderlands carried word of twenty, thirty-thousand men massing beyond the border woods.

He paused, his eyes flicking briefly to the assembled boyars, then back to her. “And of course - your city."

Goran shifted his weight slightly, and then pointed out towards a window overlooking the Cherech. “I have ships - twelve more of them - anchored just down the bend of the river, just out of sight. They are packed with all the bounty of my land, enough to put a meal in every belly, and to keep your men from wasting away until our northern threat is dealt with.”

Vasilisa pressed her lips into a thin line as she thought of it - hunger, that gnawing, constant thing, a weight she felt in every whispered plea for aid, in the sallow cheeks of her subjects, in the empty markets where once the bustle of trade had filled the air. The ash storms from the east had turned the fields to waste, and the usurpers’ little war had stolen away what harvest was saved - that was the true deathblow, perhaps, and deadlier than the army that the usurpers had amassed and lost. In the past, it had been a certainty that Gatchisk would send grain. But now, Gatchisk’s grain was another bargaining chip, and the Young Griffon dangled it infuriatingly before the White Bear.

And it was her people who suffered. Not the boyars with their hidden stores, not Svetopolk’s soldiers or the commoners in his camp, but the people of Belnopyl, her people. They were the ones queuing for bread, the ones who fought each other for scraps in the streets. Her people. Her realm.

“And for the price of a crown, you will pledge it all?”

“For but the stroke of a quill,” smiled Goran. “There are others who contest lordship of Gatchisk, aye, but how many have sent emissaries to your court? How many have brought terms such as mine? I heard of no other pretenders, and that is no surprise - the other boyars either seek independence, or to declare for Svetopolk. Either way-”

“Belnopyl would find itself beset on two sides,” Vasilisa finished tersely, beating out a discordant rhythm with her nails against the armrest of her throne.

Her hands clenched into fists. The ancestors watched her from above, the mural of their painted eyes judging her every decision. She could hear the whispers of her boyars, and thought bitterly on how she should have ordered the court cleared when Goran had first appeared, for now she saw where the threat of the Young Griffon truly lay. One who seemed more gallant, and more fettered by the laws and careful webs of power the boyars and court spun. More easy to control, if he were to be raised to a higher throne.

And yet - she needed all that he offered. The choice was plain - if bitter.

Vasilisa remained silent, her thoughts a whirlwind of calculated consequences. Five thousand men... supplies... ships full of grain. The people were starving, and even her growing powers could not conjure food from thin air. And it was a thin hope indeed that some other claimant to the Gatchisk throne would come over the horizon with terms any more generous.

Her jaw tightened, feeling the weight of every eye in the room upon her. The boyars murmured, some likely plotting already, calculating how they might turn this agreement to their advantage or undermine her position - she had already suffered insult enough before the whole Duma. But she could see no other path forward - no other path in which there lay a better victory, or one that she could stomach any better.

For the good of Belnopyl, she had to accept. But she did not have to enjoy it.

"Very well," she said at last, her voice bringing the talk in the court to a hush. "The crown shall hereby reinstate you as Prince of Gatchisk, and grant lordship to your commanders. The terms are accepted."

"For the good of the realm," she continued, "and for the good of Belnopyl."

She gestured to a nearby courtier, who quickly approached and took the scroll from her hands. "Have it drawn up. Goran and those in his company will swear fealty to the crown."

The courtier bowed and hurried away, the sound of scribbling beginning at a desk in the corner. Vasilisa shifted her gaze to Goran, her face expressionless, though inwardly she felt the gnaw of resignation. "Kneel," she ordered.

The Young Griffon did not hesitate. With a glance to his commanders, they moved as one, dropping to their knees before her throne.

"Do you, Goran of Gatchisk, and your sworn men, pledge your loyalty to the Crown of Belnopyl?” The words rolled off her tongue from memory - she had heard them often enough in her father’s court over the years as he welcomed new blood to the boyars’ ranks, after the Khormchaks had decimated their number. “Do you swear to uphold the rightful rule of this realm, to defend it with your lives and your swords, and to cast down the treacherous and the false wherever they may hide in your lands?"

Goran’s voice was steady, a leader used to commands. "I do swear it, Your Majesty, in the name of the crown, and the honor of the House of Gatchisk."

His commanders followed in unison, murmuring their oaths, but Vasilisa’s focus remained fixed on Goran. He looked up at her, eyes sharp with ambition, but hiding whatever thoughts lay beneath that mask. There was no reading him—no future threads of betrayal or promise that she could parse directly from his being. He remained a black void.

"Then rise, Goran, as Prince of Gatchisk, and your commanders as lords of the Klyazmite realm."

The men stood, though Goran’s rise was slow, deliberate, like a lion watching for a threat that hadn’t yet revealed itself. His smile, however, was unmistakable. Victory, for now, was his. But she would not let him enjoy it for long.

Her own thoughts darkened. Five thousand men, yes…but not enough men to make victory a certainty. Food and supplies, yes… but enough only to stave off another day's hunger. Nothing more. Nothing less.

Her gaze swept the court. "This court is dismissed," she commanded. "But I will summon the Duma to convene soon. Prince Goran, as befitting your station, I invite you to take your seat among the boyars, and give your voice as a prince of the realm.."

The courtiers began to shuffle, the atmosphere still heavy with tension. Yet the deed was done. Goran had gained what he wanted, and Vasilisa...well, she had earned what she needed. But the taste of the deal was bitter, an ash coating her tongue and her heart.

Without another word, she turned and swept from the court, her steps echoing on the stone floor, a dark shadow of thoughts trailing behind her. Yesugei followed close at her heels, silent but watchful.

As the door closed behind them, Vasilisa spoke, her voice low but sharp enough that only Yesugei could hear. "Even if we had not had our…misgivings, I do not trust him."

“No-one would,” Yesugei replied simply, his gaze ahead, eyes never leaving the hall as it faded behind them. “But for now, he is useful. My father welcomed enough dangerous wolves into his own court…so long as they remained useful, and kept their teeth bared against others.”

Others…? She wondered. “He will have his hands busy with his new throne - perhaps an opportunity will surface then, but for now we have time.”

Yesugei nodded. “And for now, we need what he has. It was a painful thing, no doubt, but it was the wise thing to do.”

They walked without speaking for a long while - only the sound of their footsteps to fill the silence that grew between them. Vasilisa’s mind churned uneasily, stirred into action once more by thought of larders and armies - the things of rule, and war. But when she neared the door to her private chambers, she suddenly felt as though a shadow were cast upon her thoughts - replacing the uneasy anxiety with a sense of cold, damp dread.

Yesugei felt the same. She saw it in his eyes, the sudden stiffness of his shoulders. His hand moved to the hilt of the dagger at his belt, his sharp eyes narrowing as he motioned Vasilisa to step back. Yesugei approached the door slowly, each footfall seeming to echo in the now heavy silence of the hallway. He flexed his gloved hand - the one marked by the Flaming One - and she saw the torches about the hallway dim.

Vasilisa stilled her mind, then extended her presence into the room. Immediately, her vision stretched beyond the door, sweeping the darkened interior of her chambers. At first, she saw nothing—then, at the round table near the hearth, she saw it. A figure, cloaked and hooded, sat unnaturally still, as though it were waiting. There was no face beneath the hood, only shifting, roiling darkness, and the air was suffused with a deathly cold that sank deep into her bones.

She pushed past the barrier of darkness with her Sight, reaching for what lay beneath. The image hit her like a hammer, freezing the breath in her lungs. A face. One she knew - one she had buried in her heart.

Vasilisa jerked back into her body, breath coming short as though she’d been struck. “Stand aside,” she whispered sharply to Yesugei. He hesitated for a heartbeat, then obeyed, stepping away from the door.

She pushed open the door and entered, her eyes locking on the hooded figure at the table. As she stepped closer, the figure slowly lifted a hand - skeletal, its flesh withered and cracked - and pulled back the hood.

The face was a ruin of gray flesh, scarred and falling apart, hanging in loose, decaying folds over bone. Lips, dried and cracked, curled into a smile. But it was unmistakable.

“Khariija,” Vasilisa whispered, her voice catching for a moment in her throat. It felt as though a great chasm had opened inside her. She breathed in, and then corrected herself. “Mother.”