The fire had burned low by the time Irina began to speak. Her voice, once strong and sharp, softened to something reverent—like one speaking of graves long sealed.
"She was once a bride," Irina said, staring into the flame as if reading from it. "Before she was death."
Dmitri sat stiffly, hands trembling, the echo of Vasilisa's voice still twisting in his ears. "You said my blood betrayed her. I need to know how."
Irina nodded once and reached beneath her shawl, pulling out a bundle of parchment bound with black twine. She untied it slowly.
"Her story was never written," she said. "Only whispered—like a sin everyone was too afraid to confess."
She laid the parchment before him. Inked drawings faded with age showed a young woman in a red veil, standing beside a tall man with hair as dark as the northern sea.
"Vasilisa Petrovna. Born of peasantry, but more radiant than any noble. The village feared her beauty. Said she was too perfect. A creature of winter itself. The nobles thought her cursed. But he…" Irina tapped the man's image. "Your great-grandfather, Semyon Orlov. He didn't believe in curses. Only in desire."
Dmitri swallowed.
"They married in secret, and for a time, it was joy. But when the war called him away, he left her behind—alone and carrying his child. Word returned months later. He had remarried… a noblewoman. Wealth. Inheritance. Power."
Dmitri's chest ached. "And Vasilisa?"
Irina's face darkened.
"She was cast out. Branded a liar. A whore. They burned her cottage. Took her child. Some say she died from grief. Others… that the villagers stoned her by the frozen river."
"And she came back," Dmitri whispered.
"No," Irina corrected. "Something else came back. Wearing her face. With her grief… and far more than her soul."
Dmitri stood, pacing. "So I'm descended from him. That's why she's after me?"
Irina turned, her mismatched eyes burning. "You're not just his blood. You are the last male Orlov. The last echo of betrayal. She has waited generations. But now the snow is right. The moon is old. And she is free."
Dmitri looked toward the frosted window. Snow fell harder now—angrier. He could almost see a figure outside. Watching.
Irina moved toward a trunk in the corner and retrieved a heavy velvet bundle. From it, she pulled a strange object—part blade, part relic. A dagger carved from bone, its hilt wrapped in strands of what looked like white hair.
"This is Zimne-Krov," she said. "Cold-Blood. Forged by monks who hunted spirits long before the Tsars ruled. It will not kill her, but it can bind her. For a time."
He took it with shaking hands. The dagger hummed against his skin like a heartbeat not his own.
"But listen, Dmitri Orlov," Irina said, voice low. "If she marks you—if she whispers your name beneath the snow—run. Do not answer. Do not look back."
Dmitri met her eyes. "What happens if I do?"
The flame flickered wildly as Irina whispered:
"You will belong to her. Body, soul… and blood."
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