God Within Us

My lady, the city is up in arms."

Vasilisa found sleep difficult. In the days since she had emerged from the Sacred Hollows, she found sleep to merely be an entryway to a new sort of awakening. The visions that flickered before her eyes in the waking world assailed her with unbearable clarity in the world of dream, when her eyes turned inwards to the terror of the mind. Rest never came - her mind tormented itself with possibilities upon possibilities and visions upon visions endlessly until she was unsure of which thread she held. But strangely, she found herself no longer tiring the same way she used to. Before, she would have felt herself teetering on the edge of madness after even just a few days without sleep - now, her bed sat lonely and unused for nearly a week. Perhaps it was because she had already gone mad, she wondered. Or was this the moment she was supposed to understand that none of it had been real?

The knock came on her chamber door—firm and deliberate—and she opened her mouth to respond, only to find that she already had. Had this happened before? The memory of the same murmur through the heavy wood stirred inside her, identical yet unreal.

"My lady, the city is up in arms."

The world of the present began to collapse around her, the walls seeping away like blood into the gutters. She could already hear Pyotr shouting, Demyan's tattoo twisting as his face curled into a snarl - and then it happened all at once.

The roaming mob, howling for blood; torches bright against the smoke-darkened sky; a broken body swinging from the lampposts, his head lolling at an impossible angle. She blinked and saw it clearly—as if she were there. But was she? She turned away, only to find herself already in the meeting chamber, surrounded by the raised voices of her commanders.

“—they’ve taken the granaries.”

“Yes,” Vasilisa whispered before she realized she had spoken. Her voice was hollow, as though it belonged to someone else. She knew the words that would follow next—Gavril’s men, the fire, the siege—each detail etched into her mind as if she were running the scene in reverse. Or had it happened already?

The world of the present threatened to dissolve again, but she clenched her hands into fists, feeling the cool edge of reality bite into her palms. Now. This is now. The shapes of Pyotr, Valerian, and Demyan grew sharper, and she forced her mind to focus on their arguments. Their voices are real.

"They've taken the granaries," Pyotr was saying. "A runner said he saw Gavril's men hanging from the lampposts."

From all corners of the city, messages had come up into the citadel along with a paltry number of stragglers who had the good fortune of slipping into the gates when the fighting had started. Now the approach to the Great Hall was blocked by an army of howling madmen, and both the stragglers and the messages ceased to come. All that those inside could do was watch from the walls at the growing fires, and the screaming mob silhouetted against the orange glow of the city.

Pyotr drew his finger across the map laid out on the table. "The only good news that's come is that they weren't able to storm the armory. The men there are good - loyal - and the building is made of stone, so they've no hope of burning them out."

"Good, so we'll have an armory, and no city to defend it with," sighed Valerian. "Half the cursed city is on fire damn it, where are the water wagons?"

Pyotr's eyes narrowed. "The watchmen can't get to the wagons. Half of them are down there in the killing, more like than not.”

They turned to face her, all three of them. "What do we do, my lady?"

Vasilisa tightened her grip around the armrests of her chair, her nails biting painfully into the polished bronze. Focus! This was the present, this was reality - their words were real, as was the blood being shed below. Her people's blood. Her blood.

What do we do?

"How many men do we have left here?" She turned to Stavr.

"Five dozen, my lady," Stavr spoke, standing to attention. "I can raise up twice that number again if we pull every fighting man from the Hall, but it'll be cooks and potboys."

"What about the boyars?" Most of her father's bannermen remained camped outside the city - hopelessly out of reach of any message or runner - but no fewer than twenty made their quarters with their households in the Great Hall, in the wings once held by their ancestors under Raegnald.

"Cowering in the wings," Demyan grimaced. "It's like pulling teeth trying to get them to come out. The Widow's boys are clucking about in the courtyard in a mess. The Clutchpurse's men have barred themselves up in the western wing - they say their lord's asleep, and they aren't taking orders 'til he wakes up."

Vasilisa's laughter was brittle, sharp as shattered glass against stone. It tumbled from her lips unbidden, leaving a bitter taste behind. Blind foolishness - she saw it now, clear as day. She had bled away the garrison to buy peace in a city that had none left to give. Now, wolves circled her from within and without, waiting to pounce on the first sign of weakness. If she emptied the Great Hall to quell the riot, the boyars would seize what remained, carving up her inheritance before the fires even died. If she stayed behind the walls, the city would burn, and every death would be another log on the pyre they would build to burn her.

What do we do? The question hung in the air, unanswered. Vasilisa closed her eyes briefly, drawing in a slow breath as if she could inhale clarity from the thin air. Instead, she felt the weight of the world settling heavier on her shoulders, a creeping cold that whispered that no matter what she did, she was already losing.

Her nails scraped along the armrest as she pushed herself to her feet. "Demyan, force the cravens and oathbreakers to remember their promises in my name. Remind them that this hall has stood for three hundred years under the House of Belnopyl because oaths were kept, not traded away like coin. I’ve done all the bargaining I care to do. If the boyars won’t ride with us, I’ll make sure they rot here once the embers cool."

Demyan gave a stiff nod, but his eyes flickered with doubt. She knew it was a futile hope—those men, fattened on comfort and false power, would sooner slit her throat than risk their own. But she needed them, or at least needed the threat of them, long enough to see the dawn.

"Dismissed." Her voice was cold and hollow, a blade without its edge. "Get it done."

The others lingered a heartbeat longer, reluctant to leave her in the silence that followed. Pyotr opened his mouth as if to speak, but thought better of it. Valerian went silently. Demyan’s mouth twisted into a grimace, and his iron gaze settled on her - two sharp points of accusation, of righteous anger - and then he turned away. One by one, they filed out, the door groaning as it shut behind them, sealing her inside the chamber.

She turned toward the window, watching smoke coil up from the streets below like dark tendrils reaching for the heavens. The flames devoured everything in their path—homes, hopes, lives. The fires were real. The screams were real. She had seen it all before, in dreams, and now it unfolded exactly as she knew it would.

What does any of this matter? The small voice whispered in her mind. They will hate you for surviving the fire, just as they would hate you for perishing in it.

It was in that moment, as her mind drifted perilously close to unraveling again, that she saw it—a shadow, unfurling like a snake from the corners of the room. It slipped through the cracks of her vision, slow and deliberate, until it solidified into a shape she knew all too well.

The ruin that was consuming her mother was progressing faster with each passing day. She was little more than a wisp now, and the sorcerer’s curse seemed more alive than ever. Black tongues and tendrils flicked out hungrily from the festering wound in Khariija’s heart as she stepped from the shadows without a sound, the ghost of a smile curling on her lips.

"They play their game well, my little star," Khariija murmured, her voice as soft and dangerous as a knife wrapped in silk. "But they still think you are only a girl—mortal, fragile, breakable."

Vasilisa clenched her jaw. “What would you have me do?” she whispered, bitterness lacing her voice. “Burn the Hall to the ground? Kill them all?”

Her mother gave a small, indulgent smile, as though it were a question a child might ask. “Nothing so foolish. You need to make them see, Vasilisa.”

Khariija went down to her knees, taking Vasilisa’s hands into her own. Her fingers were practically withered to the bone, yet their grip was powerful. “Show them what looms over their heads, waiting to devour them all while they squabble in the dirt.”

No. “You cannot mean for me to-”

“Yes, I do,” her mother counseled softly. “I know your strength, child. I know of the great serpent - I was there when they plucked me from nothingness. Bring the serpent out - that is your strength, your true strength. How can you hope to fight for the world with all your strength, if you will not even fight for your own throne?”

"Jirghadai and his ilk are not my people," she countered clumsily. “You are telling me to turn against my own. The serpent is not meant for this-”

"Not meant for this?" Khariija’s gaze was predatory, and her voice dripped with both tenderness and scorn. “The serpent is not some petty weapon—it is a god, and you are its Vessel. And still, you hide this great gift because you are afraid.”

“I am not a coward.”

“No,” Khariija whispered, drawing closer until her ruined face was inches from her daughter’s. "But you are afraid. Afraid of what they will see when you finally show them who- what you are.”

Vasilisa’s nails dug into her palms as she fought to keep her composure. “It is not foolishness. If I call upon the serpent, it will only sow terror. They will call me a monster.”

“And isn’t that what you already are?” A voice like the shriek of twisting iron exploded out from the failing shell of her mother’s body. “Look at what humanity offers. They burn your city, murder their own kind wholesale, and turn against the one who saved them, who showed them mercy. They do it because they believe you are weak. Because they believe you can be broken. Kill the girl inside of you, my child. It is what led to this ruin - and we cannot live this lie any longer.”

Her mother’s gaze softened. “The monster, the god - that is a terrible thing, an awesome thing. But they will never kneel before a girl. They will kneel before a god.”

Vasilisa closed her eyes, but it did not help. The visions crept in anyway—the streets of Belnopyl covered in ash and blood. Her boyars, already preparing their excuses for inaction, hoping to watch her stumble into ruin. And, far to the east, she saw the shape of Jirghadai’s armies - a thousand splendid banners of black horsehair billowing like storm clouds. The stars falling from the sky, winking out one by one.

“Show them,” Khariija urged. Her grip tightened painfully on Vasilisa’s hands, and the tendrils writhing from her chest wound hissed like snakes eager to sink their fangs into prey. “Show them the truth. Let them see what lies beyond the thinning veil - it is the only way.”

A bitter laugh escaped Vasilisa before she could stop it, but there was no mirth in it. “So this is the path, then? To rule as a tyrant? That is the only way?”

Khariija’s smile did not waver. “Tyranny? I speak of survival. This world is dying, Vasilisa - you concern yourself with thousands, but I, millions. The entire wretched race.” Her darkened eyes gleamed, sharp as obsidian. “What will it matter what they think of you, if there are no more voices left to curse your name at the end of ends?”

Vasilisa’s hands slackened, and Khariija released her. The serpent stirred in her chest, its power brushing against her soul like the coils of a dream too vast to fully comprehend.

***

When Yesugei came to, he tasted blood and ashes in his mouth. He rose, coughing and spitting black flecks onto the cobbled ground where he lay. The blistering heat had given way to a deep cold that seeped into his every aching bone, his raw and scorched lungs. When he brought his hands to up to wipe the sweat from his face, the cold froze his blood too.

Two hands. Both of them blackened and scarred like heat-blasted clay, with fingers that ended in short, sharp claws.

The memory came back to him with the pain - the feeling of his sleeves and robes aflame, the feeling of his very form coming apart as he tried to bend a whole burning city to his will. The agony of his skin bubbling, hair singing, fat melting as he had brought both arms to bear in an attempt to hold the swirling storm away and above himself. It had taken a piece of him once more - and the Apostle’s flesh once more took its place.

You see what happens when you hesitate? Sneered the voice in Yesugei’s head. The flames were your punishment - for clinging to life and fear when you should have let go. So I took what I needed from you.

The glow of his molten veins intensified for a brief moment as if in mockery. They were his now - the Apostle would take every bit he could of his new vessel, and there was nothing to be done. Yesugei chose not to give Alnayyir the satisfaction of a reply. Instead, he slowly pushed himself up, hissing through his teeth as his scorched hands protested with every motion. His vision swam, threatening to carry him back to the cold ground, but after a few unsteady breaths the world around him began to sharpen.

All that mattered now was that he find the others - he looked around, and saw he was sitting outside of a stable. The shouting of the crowds and the furious bloodbath of the city rang, but from afar. It sounded as though the riot itself was beginning to burn out with the fires, but he wasn’t willing to chance drawing any closer in that direction. It was over - his part in the madness was done, and now the fate of the city lay in the hands of others. He was still gathering his bearings and his wits about him when one of the stable doors flew open, and he saw Tuyaara and Kargasha leading several horses out.

Palfreys, not ponies. Yesugei thought to himself with a smile. When he tried to call out, the only sound he could manage was a strangled croak. He clutched at his scarred throat, but all it did was bring out a violent, shaking cough as his lungs expelled more ash.

“Rest easy!” cried the girl-shaman when she saw him. She helped him stagger to his feet with an arm under his as Kargasha brought the horses round.

“It’s spreading,” Tuyaara noted with a grimace as she beheld his other arm, blackened and burned to the elbow. “That thing is killing you.”

“And yet that thing also saved us,” At last he managed to find his voice, raw and hoarse as it was from the smoke. “Later. We need to leave.”

Tuyaara hesitated but nodded, understanding. She and Kargasha helped him to his feet, and the world tilted dangerously for a moment as he moved on instinct to slip one foot into the stirrup that wobbled into view.

They set off at a slow trot, staying close to the shadows of the narrow streets. The fires still burned in patches around the city, casting flickering light across the broken streets. But even as he felt they were drawing further from the madness in the heart of the city, he heard the shouts beginning to grow closer. Then, he saw what awaited at the gates.

A group of terrified townsfolk scrambled into view from around the corner, making for the gatehouse and salvation, but the mob that followed shortly after them was faster - driven by the madness Yesugei felt pounding like a beating heart through the earth. One man was hacked to pieces with cleavers and axes - another was beaten and stomped by a dozen rioters until he was a shapeless, quivering mess on the ground. But even as the mob set upon the commoners, others looked out down the street and at the three of them.

One of the men in the crowd was clad in red, wearing the skull of a great bull over his head whose forehead was marked with a six-spoked wheel. A bastard priest, it would seem.

As if on command, the priest pointed his spear towards the three of them. His voice, higher pitched than Yesugei expected, rattled out from underneath the skull, “The Khormchaks! Seize the Khormchaks, in the name of god!”

Cries of “Hyah!” and “Chuu!” were the only reply the heretics gave, and with a slap of Tuyaara’s whip the three of them flew down the street before the crowd could gather their wits about them. As they drew closer, Yesugei saw the crowd beginning to thin out - half of them were drunk, and the other half craven - neither would dare to stand in front of a thundering horse. Only the priest stood with feet planted firm, and he shifted his spear for a throw as they drew closer…closer…

Yes!

The priest let out a sharp cry and hurled his spear with a practiced snap of his arm. A flash of silver cut through the darkening day.

Kargasha and Tuyaara ducked low in the saddle.

Yesugei did not.

He thrust out one hand, and spread his fingers wide. No more hesitation, prince. No more. Alnayyir’s breath blew from his open palm, and from it poured a howling inferno - like water from a dam. The fire surged forward, buckling and warping the air around it. The spear shaft went up like kindling; the iron spearhead melted into a droplet of slag, and then vanished completely.

And the priest who was caught in the fiery maw only managed the bare beginnings of a scream before he was swallowed. He was there - standing firm, ready to die for whatever Klyazmite god he loved so - and then he wasn’t. His form evaporated, his robes, the bull’s skull, and flesh reduced to nothing but curling wisps of black ash.

The crowd behind the priest broke, utterly. Men and women dropped their knives and clubs and fled in a dozen directions, scurrying like rats before the thundering hooves. Some froze in place, wide-eyed, but Yesugei didn’t care - the part of him that cared was scorched and battered, and without a voice. His horse slammed into a ragged woman, and then barreled over her with a sickening crunch beneath the ironshod hooves.

Tuyaara followed right behind him, shouting curses and whipping her horse ever onwards. Kargasha brought up the rear, swinging his sword in spectacular arcs this way and that through the air to draw away anyone stupid enough to come after them.

By the time they reached the gatehouse, none from the crowd were left in the street - only the broken, the dying, and the burned. The heavy gates were left ajar in the chaos - just wide enough for them to ride out in single file, and then the open air.

Kargasha twisted in his saddle to check behind them. “Looks like we scared the bastards off!” he shouted with a blood-speckled grin.

The Klyazmite’s cheer died quickly in his throat when he turned to face the speartip that was pointed in his face.

“Basa! Stop!” Yesugei reined his horse in hard as the wall of steel came up before him. A dozen soldiers clad in white-and-gold gambesons stood in formation, pikes and halberds pointed forward, and crossbowmen behind them.

Yesugei’s fingers twitched - an ember danced in between his fingers, yearning for its fiery birth into a flame anew as heat rose up once more to his arms. Alnayyir’s voice did not need to stir him into action again. One soldier rushed forward, grabbing for Yesugei’s reins, and that was all the nomad princeling needed.

But just before the fire leapt free, something struck him oddly. The druzhinnik moving to take his reins was different. There was no madness in his eyes, nor that of his underlings - no fevered, wild eyes, no bloodlust. They weren’t part of the riots or the burning city behind them. And for that, he bit back the Apostle’s breath that was building in his hands.

The druzhinnik seemed unaware of how close he’d come to death. “You’re not passing through, any of you,” the man said, his voice stern. “Orders of my lord.”

The brightness of the fires had blinded Yesugei to what lay beyond the gates, just beneath the darkening horizon. He squinted out past the band of soldiers, and saw less than a hundred feet away the boyars’ camp, nestled just off the side of the road into the city. Dozens of different banners flapped in the wind - goats, bears, falcons, fish - all the beasts of the earth, and beneath them pikes in formation, bonfires where druzhinniks and freeriders sat sharpening their blades.

Before Yesugei could speak, a rider detached himself from the lines of soldiers, trotting towards them. He wore a fur-lined coat and carried himself with an easy arrogance, his half-lidded eyes scanning the three of them with lazy amusement. Yesugei recognized him instantly, and at almost the same moment, the man’s own eyes widened.

“Well, now,” Boyar Vissarion drawled, his voice like that of a grandfather meeting his favorite grandson. And yet the grin that came to his face was anything but. “The Grand Princess’ pet is a fierce one. I was wondering who might come flying out of the city in such a rush.” He gave a small, mocking bow from the saddle, and with a save of his hand, spoke to the soldiers, “Stand down.”

With the swiftness of men used to command, the soldiers immediately lifted their weapons and stepped back, forming a loose ring around the Khormchaks and crow as Vissarion drew closer.

“Yesugei, yes?” Vissarion said smoothly, “How fortunate you are. I could have mistaken you for a deserter and had you skewered right here.” He chuckled, licking his pursed lips. “But I suppose it’s only natural to abandon a sinking ship. After all, even a mongrel learns to run when the house is burning. Come, ride with me.”

The ring opened before them, and Vissarion turned his horse towards the camp, looking back expectantly. Tuyaara tensed beside Yesugei, and Kargasha muttered a curse under his breath. The nomad princeling kept his expression flat, though his grip tightened around the reins as he gently drove his horse down the road. “We’re leaving,” he rasped as he came up beside Vissarion. “That’s all.”

“Going home, are we?” Vissarion mused, his tone light. “You and me both, then. This whole Duma was a farce, wasn’t it? A waste of time.” He gave a long-suffering sigh that almost seemed practiced. “And now the entire realm is slipping through her fingers. What man in his right mind would follow a woman who can’t even keep peace in her own city, let alone a principality?”

The boyar’s eyes narrowed with calculated scorn. “Women’s hearts…they are too soft, and a prince’s hand must be hard, wouldn’t you agree? Khormchak or Klyazmite - some things are done the same everywhere.”

Yesugei said nothing, though his chest tightened with every smug word. Vissarion continued as they rode on at a gentle trot, his soldiers flanking them as they went. “We’ll show her what hard hands can do, that we will. It’s time to put an end to this madness—for good.”

“What do you mean?” Yesugei asked softly.

Vissarion’s smile deepened. “We’ll kill every last one of her followers. Cultists, the lot of them. She should have done it herself. Instead of strangling the sick dog, she welcomed it into her house, fed it - and now it’s shit on her floors.” He gave an elegant shrug. “But no matter. Now we’ll clean up - as boyars always do with the princes.”

Tuyaara’s horse shifted restlessly. Kargasha glared, one hand still resting on his sword hilt, itching for an excuse. Yesugei, though, said nothing. He watched Vissarion’s face—his lazy smile, the gleam in his half-lidded eyes—and felt a strange notion from afar, a whispered thought from a thousand miles away.

Oathbreakers. Traitors. All of them. There is much work to be done.

Yesugei looked away from the boyar’s eyes. “You speak of a massacre. Do you think Her Majesty Vasilisa will let that happen?”

Vissarion drew his horse to a stop.

“I most certainly do.” The boyar’s teeth shone wolfish in the growing gloom. He reached into his cloak, and withdrew a folded parchment sealed in white-and-gold wax. “And you’ll be the one to get her to agree.”

Vissarion gave the letter a shake, like a man holding out a treat for a panting dog. “A simple appeal. Signed by three dozen boyars - all of us pledging our swords to order. By the Princess’ written command, we will march in and restore order in the name of the House of Belnopyl, and bring to justice the wretches responsible for causing this whole mess.”

The boyar snapped the paper away by mere inches as Yesugei’s hand crept towards it. “Understand this, Khormchak, we are not asking. We merely offer her the chance to bless this.” His grin stretched further, eyes glittering like a serpent’s. “If she accepts—and she will—then no one can say we loyal vassals have acted against the natural order. We’ll stamp out this nonsense about hands of gods and vessels, and Vasilisa will finally see reason, and listen to reasonable voices.”

Tuyaara hissed under her breath, but Vissarion paid her no mind. He held out the parchment once more. “You know as well as I do that someone has to carry this through the gates. My comrades and I are woefully short of messengers willing to ride into the fires.”

"Why not send it yourself?"

“Because it’s not me she’ll trust. The woman loves her monster - at least, she used to. I think you can still remind her of that.”

“Yesugei-” Tuyaara murmured, shifting uneasily beside him.

The boyar leaned closer, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “We don’t want to hurt her, Khormchak. We want to save her - from herself. You hand her this letter, and we avoid bloodshed. But if you refuse…” He gave a wheezy sigh. “Well, you know how these things go. Either way, the city burns. But it could bleed a deal less with your help.”

Without waiting for a response, Vissarion tossed the parchment toward Yesugei. It fluttered in the air before landing in his lap.

“You’ll make the right choice,” the boyar said, his grin lingering like the aftertaste of spoiled wine. He gave a curt nod to his men, then turned his horse with a flick of the reins.

“Yesugei,” Tuyaara warned again, her voice tight.

But the nomad prince only stared at the folded letter in his hands. The seal seemed to pulse under his fingers, as if it had a heartbeat of its own.

Vissarion gave one last, lazy wave as he rode away, his voice drifting on the wind. “Deliver it or don’t, princeling. But mark my words—by dawn, we’ll be in that city, with or without her blessing.”

And just like that, they were alone again, the boyar’s soldiers parting to let them pass onto the open road.

Tuyaara reined her horse closer, her expression fierce. “You can’t seriously be thinking about taking that to her.”

Yesugei sat still, his gaze fixed on the parchment.

“Do you think she’ll listen?” Tuyaara asked quietly, her voice softer now. “To them, I mean?”

Yesugei didn’t answer right away. His hands tightened around the reins, leather creaking beneath his grip. “She won’t let them rule her.”

Kargasha gave a short laugh. “You sound very sure of that.”

Yesugei’s mouth twisted, not quite a smile. “I know her. And I know what she has become.”

He looked to his own hands, Alnayyir’s hands. The gentle glow of molten blood - the fallen star’s soul, entwined with his own.

Then, with a snap of his reins, he turned his horse back towards the burning city.