“There, there, Garmun. I know it’s common enough to cry more than usual when you’re pregnant.”
Garmun turned purple again. Shoving Llun back so that he nearly flew into the forge itself, he pointed a finger thick as a blood sausage at his nose. “You … you …” He huffed out like a passing thunderstorm, taking his bombast with him.
Llun remembered to breathe.
“You can come out now,” he whispered. The entire left side of the table heaved. “Did no one teach you discretion, you little idiot?”
“Llun,” said the girl of thirteen who finally managed to extricate herself from all the bits of metal. “Did you mean what you said to Garmun? Or did you just make him mad so he wouldn’t be associated with you when you’re trussed up like a chicken on the spit?”
“Which do you think, Mirodara?”
Mirodara’s face went white. “I wasn’t serious, Llun.”
“Never mind. I’m not that worried. I’m not nearly as important as your father was.”
“Dashun is not my father. I have no father. Not after he collaborated.”
“You can’t wash his blood from inside you, girl! Why do you think they’ve been after you all this time?”
Llun’s breath caught as he realized how close the girl had been to death only a few moments ago. Was that why Aspidían had come in? Was someone blabbing again?
“Anyway, I don’t even look like Dashun. Everyone knows I’m my mother’s—“
“Don’t!” Llun’s voice cracked. The last thing he wanted was to be reminded of Vatrina.
“I’m sorry,” said Mirodara, her face switching from red to white and back to red with dizzying speed. “I know you don’t like to talk about her. But she was my mother, Llun. You’re just her brother.”
“You don’t have any siblings, Mirodara. You don’t know. You just don’t know. I never knew either of my parents.”
“Yes, yes, and now I’m the only one you have left. Blah blah blah. You won’t talk me out of it.”
“What do you hope to accomplish, anyway, with these…what do they call themselves?”
“The Sons of the Swan. We’re going to reclaim Vasyllia for Darina Sabíana, the true queen of all the lands. She’s still alive in that palace. I know it.”
Llun laughed.
“You laugh? You’re about to be thrown into the middle of it all. You think they’ll let you stay on the side, uninvolved?”
Llun sighed and stretched his aching shoulders. Mirodara, for all her silliness, was older than her years. She had no choice. All the children had grown older the day Vasyllia fell.
“You’ll stay here tonight,” said Llun, the tone of finality clear in his voice. Mirodara looked like she wanted to argue, but nodded and extended a hand to Llun.
“Peace?”
Llun embraced her, trying hard not to weep. She did look just like her mother, his sister.
Please, Adonais. If you still listen to us who failed you, don’t let them take her. Not her. She’s just a girl.
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About the Author
Nicholas Kotar is a writer of epic fantasy inspired by Russian fairy tales, a freelance translator from Russian to English, the resident conductor of the men's choir at a Russian monastery in the middle of nowhere, and a semi-professional vocalist. His one great regret in life is that he was not born in the nineteenth century in St. Petersburg, but he is doing everything he can to remedy that error.
Also by Nicholas Kotar
The Raven Son Series:
The Worldbuilding Series:
How to Survive a Russian Fairy Tale
Russian Fairy Tales and Myths:
In a Certain Kingdom: Fairy Tales of Old Russia
The story follows a protagonist on a quest involving ancient prophecies, mythical creatures, and profound personal challenges. Kotar's narrative is infused with detailed world-building and deep cultural lore, creating a vivid backdrop for the characters' journeys. Themes of destiny, magic, and heroism are central to the plot, as the protagonist navigates a complex landscape of allies and adversaries. The novel combines elements of folklore with an engaging, character-driven story, offering readers a captivating and immersive fantasy experience.
