Ilangoria and survival guide in the world of magic

Äëÿ ÷èòàòåëåé, à íå êëèêêåðîâ - ýòî èñõîäíèê. Ïîñëå 28.08.2025 ÿ ïèøó òîëüêî íà ïàòðåîíå ilangoria. ß æèâà, ñî ìíîé âñ¸ õîðîøî, íî áîëüøå íå ïóáëèêóþñü íà ñòèõè.ðó! Ïîýòîìó ñìîòðèòå ñàéò ilangoria.com èëè Ïàòðåîí. https://www.patreon.com/c/Ilangoria
Ñïàñèáî.

ïîÿñíèòåëüíàÿ áðèãàäà - ýòî ïðèìåð ñåòòèíãà äëÿ âîëøåáíîãî ìèðà Èëàíãîðèè, ãäå íåæèòü è íå÷èñòü òîæå ïèøóò ïåñíè, áàéêè, øóòêè, òîëüêî - ìàãè÷åñêèå. Ýòî îäíà èç íèõ.




ILANGORIA AND “SURVIVAL GUIDE IN THE WORLD OF MAGIC: FOR MOLES, WITCHES, AND OTHER MISFITS”

How can you survive in a magical world when everything seems against you? Why take risks or guess when you can read a magical survival guide that’s perfect for everyone, even moles? Fairies might not be thrilled about it, but who asked them? Open it quickly, and you’ll learn how to have an easy life in forests full of ancient creatures and strange curses, how not to be a fool, how to find a perfect partner (not a ghoul), and so much more! Rated 5 stars by Cursetube and Cauldrons in My Witchborhood!

”Every witch seeks the beginning.”

(A list on a scrap of elderberry paper)
Anne — protected by the Raven family.
Ilangoria — has no protector.
Sante Persimmon is one of the Fox family members.
Janvig — from the Bird family.
Linden — protected by the Wolf family.
Ume — his little brother.
Olle Tom — protected by the Elk (Yalsuh).
Vergel (Ulo) — the spirit of the sky.
Sinave (Mansui) — the spirit of rivers and still waters.
Kateriya — protected by the Deer.
Remmi — a young man.
Marko — protected by the Lynx.



Huh. The Witch’s Ridge.
An Unexpected Guest.

15th day of Noyal, late morning.

A frightened squirrel, having fallen from a tree, dashed between thick, hooked mushrooms and disappeared into the damp ferns.
It wasn’t just the wind — whatever it was pretending to be — it suddenly yanked the chubby little creature’s tail, making it jump in alarm.

The animal bolted in fear, while an unknown noua, laughing loudly, fell through the branches of a fir tree straight into the tangled roots below. From there, forest vipers of all sizes began to slither out, hissing and writhing in
every direction.

“The kingdom of the forest, hidden from the eyes of others, Ya noua yja-to!” the noua declared with authority.

Noyal — September
Noua — A special powerful force(s) or creature(s).
Ya noua yja-to — I breathe life into you!
 
From the mist at the forest’s edge, an ancient tree, covered in black acorns (the kind from which all magic begins), emerged. It slowly pushed the low gray clouds aside, stretching its branches proudly in every direction. Its roots, breaking through the earth, formed countless paths that spread far, eventually disappearing into the distant mountains.
 
In a burrow beneath the oak, a small yh-olua awoke, stretching in a blissful yawn.
 
Soon, though, the little creature perked up its long ears, sensing the first hints of unease. Everything around it seemed to stir to life: the dry flowers, hanging like curtains by the windows, began to chime on their long, thin stems; the shutters made of roots clattered on either side; and the dust rose in swirling clouds.

“Witches’ mischiefs, or is illness keeping you awake?” croaked the sleepy little one, scrunching her face like a forest toad and scratching herself. She was clearly irritated that her beautiful dream had slipped away.

Through the open window, a heavy nut flew in. Startled, Ilangoria squeaked and jumped to the broken window frame. With difficulty, she managed to close it, but only startled the forest rats. The culprit who caused the commotion was already gone.

“Every witch has a chur to find the path ahead, but he keeps stinking all the way,” Ilanke pouted, barely poking her nose through the crack.
Olua were special forest or field creatures from certain magical places. They always appeared (to the uninitiated human eye) in the form of animals, but in reality, they were a vanishing magical people. Time for the olua passed slowly and calmly, which is why they hardly aged and were completely unaware of old age.

Chur — a lesser malevolent spirit of the earth.

“Wasn’t it that stinker who slipped into our old forest? Nuts don’t just fly around on their own!” Ilangoria chattered, a growing unease swirling in her mind. “This sly one made it through, bypassing the magical wards! Too well-informed — he knows exactly when and who to find in the house, and he’s bold enough to show up at such an early hour, a time when no magic creature or spirit should be stirring!”

The girl’s heart leaped into her throat at the thought, and she quickly scurried down to hide. After sitting in silence for a while,

listening and sniffing the air, the little one crept back up to the frame, peered outside, and scratched her head in thought. Everything around her seemed to be reaching for and rejoicing in the first drops of rain, but suddenly, she felt a deep sadness.

“Oh, such a sweet morning spoiled.”
“A nasty haze, a nasty guest, show yourself!” she muttered through the crack, clicking her tongue, frowning. “I won’t let anyone hurt me!”
No answer came.

Frustrated, the little one slid down and, with an annoyed sigh, opened the door, sticking her head outside. Her form darkened, and she spoke in a cursed tongue.
The branches block the sky, dark as night,
The roots raise the earth — the bosom holds tight,
The stench from the swamp spreads o’er the land — sleep, oh earth,
What entered my house unbidden shall not find me, in its dearth.
The tree weeps, the branches bow, sap thick with grief,
Who stands at my door? A shadow or a thief?
No sight of sky, no sun; in the gloom you’ll find,

Only hands, black hands — the witches’ dances bind.
Moans and whispers, shadows everywhere,
The uninvited guest dances in despair.
"Where did you come from, and where will you go? No borders to find,
Unseen black faces gather, in shadows all blind."
Dancing, rejoicing, in the dead of night.
Black shadows — black servants guard my door,
Black witches braid this day with sorrowful lore,
They’ll sink into the earth, taking you too,
Stealing the last breath, as the night swallows you.

Muttered blackened Ilangoria, as the windows, doors, and secret passageways vanished on their own. And as if answering the dark tongue, pushing through the damp earth and rotting leaves, the forest witches — once petrified — awoke and crawled out of their burrows, stretching their stiff bodies from sleep.
15
The Tue or human language, filled with dark words
“Can you smell someone? Fay forest creatures or wicked entities?”
“Have you buried your braids to shelter moles, and now you’re too afraid to wake them?” the little girl grumbled, hiding among the burdock leaves.
But the dead only grunted, cracking their decaying knuckles, shaking clumps of earth out of their moldy, damp ears and nostrils, and didn’t hurry.
“So quiet… And my nose hasn’t caught anything. You’re no use!” Ilangoria cursed, and like a clever forest rat, she began digging a new burrow, focused and intent.

“There are boulders and stones; dig to the right,” the fattest of the witches politely suggested, snorting and chuckling.

“Only your bodies still gaze outward,
While your feet have long since rotted in the dark.
If you don’t serve this world well,
The shadow world will soon claim you, hark!
So come on, help out — I’m not the only one,
Guarding our home, until the job is done!”
Ilangoria replied, cursing them.

“Even with feet in the dark, the witch enjoys your bark,” said the thinnest, oldest of the witches, rustling like a pile of dry leaves, and they all burst into loud laughter.

“Ugh, cursed tribe!” grumbled Ilangoria, watching as each witch busied herself with her own tasks. Digging a new tunnel to the house, she disappeared inside.

First, Ilangoria hid all the magical books and artifacts, then set up numerous traps and protective amulets, cleverly placing poisons here and there.
“But what if this unexpected guest isn’t bothered by any of that?” Ilangoria suddenly doubted, and with one swift jump, she reached her wardrobe, pulling out a special outfit: a dress made of silk skirts with a touch of magical enhancement, which could easily be mistaken for either a blooming wild rose or a clump of dirt and grass. Just as easily, it could fall apart into patches, freeing the slender and quick little girl from any bindings.

(Such was Ilangoria’s gift: the ability to bind different materials together and breathe life into them. Among her many peculiarities, she had instinctively learned to weave and twist special magical threads, often referred to as “wondrous threads.” When working with them, the girl would fall into a trance: speaking a language understood only by her; and this conversation would, in the most magical way, lead her to something new and utterly astonishing. It opened different ways of perception and creation.
This was her way of understanding or reconsidering the structure of things, using that knowledge to create objects of various magical powers.
Had she been born a couple of centuries earlier, such a talent would have led her to a very different fate, but she appeared in the Witch’s Ridge about a decade ago.)

Infuse them with life — awaken the magic within.
Rummaging through one of the cotton boxes, the girl snorted and pulled out a spool of wondrous thread.

“Eno feyakh-alu, elesh sheyah. Feyah-eru ruha teya feyakh-ono ete teru!” she sang in a deep voice, a shiver running down her spine as she hastily created a hidden pocket in her clothes, carefully stowing her golden medallion inside. (It wasn’t just the sounds, but also the magical knots the girl was making. Large and small, they created a rhythm and helped her pronounce the usual words differently: slowly, thickly, sometimes even on an inhale.)

Golden Medallion. Chapter “The Heavenly Hem”.

Eno feyakh-alu, elesh sheyah. Feyah-eru ruha teya feyah-ono ete teru!”. “No force will ever discover what this hidden pocket conceals. No hand will take it, no foreign touch will find the path it leads to.”

“Where is my home, my beginning, no one has power over me! No one has strength against my word!”

”The beginning is a special power, a protector. It is also the ability to take on the form and unique power of a specific magical animal.”
The girl twisted the wondrous thread and tied it around her neck.
“Yeno feyah-alu, yulu sheyah, meya yaluh!” — she said ominously, securing the knot.

”Yeno feyakh-alu, yulu sheyah, meya yalukh!”. No force will ever discover what magic protects me! (Without knowing the protection, you cannot curse!)
Ilangoria spent about seven hours preparing for any possible danger. Soon, however, she became a little disappointed as all her efforts seemed to have been in vain.

And just as the day was turning into evening, while Ilanke poured the late tea into cups, a strange hum suddenly filled the entire valley. “O-o, o-o, o-o, yyua-yyua, uoou-uoou…n-n-n-e-e-e.”

The little one jumped up, truly horrified, and rushed to the door to double-check all the magical locks, ready to barricade the hallway if necessary.

The Dark Forest and the Unseen Path

Soon, the boulders, pebbles, and stones scattered around or buried inside the burrow began to shift on their own. They hopped and vibrated, making croaking and squelching sounds, much like living frogs. They started to crawl over each other and form a semblance of an endless path, one that led nowhere unless the traveler knew the correct sequence. It was a kind of dance, imitated by the stones, clearly showing Ilangoria which one to step on and which
to avoid if she wanted the path to lead to a special magical
place.

“What strange visions, and worse, the realizations that come with them, all of them not mine…” Ilangoria shuddered, unable to accept the nature of what was happening. But her thoughts were abruptly interrupted: a sharp bird cry and the ensuing howl slowed almost everything around her.

In that instant, Ilangoria seemed to split in two. Her body slowed
down, but her mind, on the contrary, became incredibly sharp
and perceptive. It worked at such a rapid, intense pace that she
collapsed, gasping for air. A strange revelation, not her own,
but someone else’s, pierced her mind: “My name is Noua. In one of the languages you have learned, I am a chance, a special convergence of circumstances, or more precisely, an intervention of power beyond the rules of time, beyond the twists of fate. I am the force that redirects all others. I am the power that has come today to redirect you.”

The entrance door swung open — “Noua!” Ilangoria gasped and collapsed, pale as death. She suddenly remembered that long ago, she had not only known this word but also its meaning. Then cold and darkness swept over her, claiming both her and everything around her.

Ilangoria was as graceful as a dove. Her long, light hair cascaded in waves, adorned with flowers. Her large, expressive hazel eyes, which she could easily change to a dark, swampy hue, seemed to sparkle when she laughed. She had a thin yet sinewy frame, with sharp features, a small, neat nose (which she loved to “elongate,” just like her ears), and plump lips with hollowed cheeks. Her face was always animated and lively. She had many moles, which she was very proud of, as they were considered a good omen in that place. According to certain beliefs and legends, they even served as “guiding points” if you knew how to “read” such marks.

WHAT CREATURE IS CLEVERER THAN WITCHES AND DARKER THAN DARKNESS ITSELF?

Several Weeks Earlier

Tiredly falling from a wing, a jet-black raven appeared at the burrow, and, shifting into another forest spirit, the older girl — Ilanke’s older sister, Anne — jumped inside.

Anne was tall, pale, and thin, not known for her chatter or soft smile. She had long black hair, sharp high cheekbones, and a piercing, “bird-like gaze.” Statuesque and even stern, unlike her sister, she was always detached, resembling an ancient goddess trapped in a too-young body rather than a restless teenager with some naivety and spontaneity. Both sisters were beautiful, each in her own way.

“Now it’s everywhere: black plague and rot, traces — on the bark, on the leaves, in the water, in the stone,” the elder sister muttered as she crossed the threshold, listing the nearest borders. She sighed and furrowed her brow, thinking deeply.

“Did the bird agates not help? And the first mushrooms’ divination?” Ilangoria snorted, preparing to cross out yet another magical trick from the tenth old book. “I wasted several nights reading all this!”

“No, apparently, these ‘spells’ aren’t meant for such a witch. Or maybe we don’t have the right knowledge to deal with this one. Or maybe it’s not a witch who wandered into our domain!” the sister answered gloomily, preparing to rest after the journey.

WHAT DOES THE DEAD FOREST HIDE?


(Author’s note: The ridge where the forest olua lived was located at the edge of the Witch’s Ridge, the farthest boundary of the impassable Dead Forest, which, according to legends, gave way to an even older and more frightening forest called Yaluvete. It is said to have been growing and rising since the beginning of time. Once, it was vast: black, silent thickets — the cradle of all sorts of peculiarities, magical beasts, and birds, rare magical creatures. The great trees twisted their branches and roots; rivers forgot their sources, lost in valleys covered in moss and boulders, carrying nets and boats; and every leshy, every water spirit — fought over the wealth, quarreling for centuries.
Ilangoria had never ventured farther than the Witch’s Ridge, for she knew well that if one were to get lost and accidentally stumble into the First Forest of Yaluvete, they would never find their way back, remaining neither in their right mind nor health. From childhood, she and her sister, hiding from each other, would mumble under their breath the thirty-three rhymes, listing all the terrible misadventures that awaited anyone daring to enter the Old Forest of Yaluvete, even beyond the “first three mounds.”)

Behind the hill,
The Dead prepares its lair.
The drunkard wonders still,
Why no soul is anywhere?
No matter how much you sin,
The devil takes his time,
Among the swamps, he grins,
And waits within the grime.
How the house, so fair,
Was buried deep in muck,
All that remains, beyond compare,
A flask and bucket — what a luck!

31
Our poor drunkard, all alone,
Builds a home without a care;
His coat, with moss, is overgrown,
His pants were adorned with shells so rare.
He builds this strange abode,
To hide from all he fears,
In the shadows of the road,
Where the Dead will dry his tears.
Behind the hill,
The Leshy raises his fist,
The chures brawl and hiss,
”On their ears!”—the whole land missed.
The undead do not pray,
The undead laugh and sway,
The old woodsman took a bride,
Not one, but many by his side.
Each Kupala lost in his glade,
Each one a dream, unlaid,
For every task, the undead see,
What lies beneath the old tree.
One sings and laughs,
Leaving minds in half,
What will Veda say,
To guide the heart astray?
No secrets for Veda’s eyes,
All paths known, no disguise.
Another stands in the night,
Charming all with her light.
Find her once,
Taste her sweet dance,
Bow to Lada, in her trance,
Serve her will,
Forget your kin,
Fall at her feet and let sleep begin.
Tala watches with care,
A star whispers, soft as air,
In marriage, there’s a law,
Above all others, sharp as a claw:
”Who bows to forest’s might,
Forgets the path of human light,
Shall never sleep again,
For in their heart, the dark will reign.”
Before their gaze, all moves so fast,
Through Kostroma’s dance, to eternity cast,
Time and Fate entwine in flight,
Witnesses fall to earthly night.

For the righteous cause,
Tala and her sisters paused,
”For the cause we fight,
The undead watch our plight,
Our time to serve has come,
Not for husband, nor for law, but one —
The battle first begun.”

The First Forest was home to creatures of all kinds. It was a place where every type of plant grew, and every power, whether good or evil, found its breath in that enchanted realm. The most wondrous beings could slip from one fairy tale to another, winding through the labyrinthine paths of the forest, remaining unnoticed by all.

Yaluvete, as the olua say, existed somewhere on the border between dream and reality. Like a mirage, it manifested in the gaps between branches, echoing in the merry, dissonant songs of the woods and fields, mountains and rivers. This was the magic of Yaluvete — it sprouted in every known world, and even in the very unknown.

While humans tended to dismiss such phenomena as mere fantasy, the olua believed Yaluvete to be real — strange and magical, but it once existed.

“THE PACT OF ACKNOWLEDGEMENT AND PROTECTION OF THE LAST GUARDIAN OF THE LINE.”

15th Day of Noyal.

The night was descending upon the valley.
Two long shadows, flashing with predatory eyes, passed the windows, bypassing the magical gate and the fence. Birds that had settled in the neighboring fir took flight in a panic, scattering dry needles and feathers in all directions.
Above the clearing, the first stars began to awaken. In a single leap, they crossed the barriers, and two huge beasts crouched beneath the Old Oak. Gifted with the sharpest hearing, they bristled immediately. Hundreds of amulets hanging from branches and bushes rang and rustled melodiously. The witch’s bodies began to rattle their bones and push each other.

A raven, perched on a nearby branch, croaked loudly and, turning to her elder sister, threw down a shepherd’s satchel, hurriedly scurrying into the burrow.
“Something’s wrong…” one beast growled to the other. “Do you feel it?”
Both instantly vanished into the darkness, baring their teeth and leaping away from the skeletal fingers, with bones poking through cracked skin and chipped, jagged nails, that clawed and scraped at the air, eager to pinch, tear, or pierce an unwary flank. After wandering and sniffing the trail, they dashed back in a frantic race.

Anne, digging up the entrance, found a pale figure lying at her feet. It was hard to recognize her sister in this form: pale and exhausted, looking more like a broken porcelain doll hastily wrapped in torn rags than a living being. Only the strange “wondrous threads” sticking out here and there made Anne realize it was Ilangoria (they shared a distinct weaving).

“Ilangoria, come on, little one, open your eyes!” her sister gasped and sank down beside her. The girl’s body was cold, almost icy, causing Anne to shudder with painful sensations and even some overwhelming memories. “Oh-oh, oh-oh… Let’s get you under the covers.”

She dragged her sister to the bed, wrapping her up and rubbing her fragile elbows and slender fingers. “Oh-oh, oh-oh, lo-ya, oh-oh…”

Nomad’s saddle

“Tue!” the wolf with a cream-colored or isabelline coat clicked its tongue.
“Then speak Tue!” came the sudden reply from the second beast.
Ilangoria barely opened her eyes and, with a weary gesture, pointed to the opening. Two crossed fingers and the door meant “danger” and “run out of the house immediately.”

Anne looked into the yard; in the frail root partition, two huge wolf snouts pressed through. One, catching its breath, growled, “The trail is already cold, it went behind the Ridge, heading into the hills. Another shapeshifter, but different from us.” The other wolf growled threateningly, “Yachu nych, Yachu nych!” and snorted as the shriveled and dry bodies, frightened, crawled back into the earth.

“From you, wolves?” Anni asked again.

“From all the olua I know,” the black one hesitated. “Such a strange trail, I’ve never encountered it before…”
Ilangoria sat up, leaning against her sister, and squinted, evaluating the guests.

One beast was black, with bright green eyes, while the other had the rare pale fur of a wolf. Ilangoria had never seen magic like this before: normally timid, as depicted in books, spirits never sought to give their origins vivid traits, so as not to reveal themselves amidst the living nature. What she witnessed now could only be allowed by those of old bloodlines and ancient ranks.
“But why would they end up in such a desolate place?”

The little one was embarrassed and quickly tried to pat her lips and stomach, but even the gestures were weak, too fragile to succeed.
The wolves, one after another, poked their noses into the tiny burrow, exchanging glances; they were clearly amused by the scene.
“Don’t touch anything!” Anne rasped and began tucking Ilangoria back into bed (the little one involuntarily jumped and bristled). “There are poisons and nasty curses here!”
The beasts exchanged glances, whined, and whistled, clearly laughing openly.

Ilangoria was genuinely offended and puffed up like a hamster.

“This time it worked, the guest didn’t even try to enter, but Ilangoria sure took a hit,” Anne pondered.

“I know my poisons, but what about them?” Ilangoria gestured at her sister and glared at the guests.

“And who taught you to make poisons? It’s all devilish and witchcraft!” the pale wolf rasped, laughing. “In our place, she wouldn’t have gotten off so easily. We can create something even stronger! We know real magic! Not this witchcraft and potions. Against our magic, olua magic this is just… a joke! “Surrounded by herbs and witches, it’s a tough life for any olua, even for a spirit!” he huffed and sneezed, scrunching his nose.
“You live poorly, not sorry to leave such a burrow!” the black one supported, stepping back so as not to inhale like his companion. “But the old huh-tree, of course, is a pity. He’s gone bad now. What times he survived and endured… but not these!”

Ilangoria rolled her eyes and crawled under the fur blanket (the bed was a worn-out nest with handmade flower cushions that she collected and prepared every summer).
“Everything here was made by our hands, with our labor! One should never be ashamed of it, and certainly not shame others

for it!” she squeaked from under the covers, catching herself as she began to genuinely get angry.

“Well, Ume, someone will have to work to keep this order in check. “Chiya v’ychya,” the pale wolf said, scratching himself.
“Chiya v’ychya. Chiya v’ychya,” Ilangoria chirped after him, making a couple of knots on the magical thread loop (this always helped her remember words). She heard them for the first time, but suddenly felt that they not only nicked her ears but also grazed her tongue. Such a sensation had never occurred to her before.

Her sister quickly pulled her back.
The laughter and growling that followed seemed downright insulting to the little one.

“What language is this, Anne? What does olua mean?” she whispered cautiously to her sister’s ear. Anne furrowed her brow and whispered back just as quietly. “That’s all of us, those of us who aren’t cursed. They call us spirits only when we want to serve. Witches are the only ones who see us as spirits. And this language is ours, too.”

If before, Ilangoria knew that not all spirits had the same magical power or belonged to noble bloodlines (the ones she had read about in witchcraft and spell books), now she realized something else: the words spoken by the guests carried a certain power that she could feel in her body. And not everyone had access to this power. Ilangoria, for instance, had never been taught this language.

The little one turned to her sister, furrowing her brow and pondering the reasons, when she suddenly noticed that her older sister had turned red and lowered her gaze.
Tue — human beings or speech understandable to both humans and the magical world.

“Get ready,” the black beast said gruffly, and with his companion, hurried back into the forest.
50
Ilangoria collapsed tiredly into the pillows and mumbled, “Let them go, and you go too if you believe in them, but none of this is for me, you know I’d die faster in vain attempts than I would change and become like you! That’s just how I’m made. And I’m not leaving the house. I’m staying here!”
51
(At that very moment, she suddenly realized how wonderful everything that had been happening to her and around her was. And that it would never be the same again. In an instant, her little world, cluttered and cramped, had come to an end.

“How strange the mind works,” she thought. “Here’s my home, filled with humble, rough dishes and old things, here are the toy horses that run tirelessly beneath the ceiling, and as soon as we fall asleep, they wander among the endless stars (if you don’t confuse the silk threads tied to their hooves); here are potions, poisons, traps, and amulets, all made by me; here’s the history of this house and the place that’s dear to me, sprawled across the shelves of countless bookcases — it’s all right in front of me, and it all suddenly ‘ended’ somewhere in my mind.”)

The girl looked at her sister once more, hoping to catch herself realizing that this was just a strange and absurd dream — nothing more (that rabbit ears would soon grow on Anne’s head, and Ilangoria would wake up laughing)—but her older sister snapped her out of it.

“We won’t just leave behind our home or belongings, our history… we will…We will have to take the very essence of magic, all the magical presence that dwells around us! There will be no more of this hum, no more Witch’s Ridge, no more of the old witches who’ve kept watch over us all this time! They are the forces of the old world. And here, the old world will fade into darkness.” With an unimaginable weight, stumbling, the sister found the words.

“What do you mean, into darkness?” Ilangoria asked in surprise.
“It will become as quiet and lifeless as the Dead Forest beyond the hill. Magic will leave, and so will the beasts and birds. Fallen trees and bogs will overtake everything. Only a black shadow of the past will remain.”
Ilangoria had never heard of such a thing.
“How can we take the essence of magic away? Destroy everything we hold dear? What will we become? Without a home, without all of this?” she protested. (She never would have imagined, even in her worst nightmare, that anyone would make her participate in something so dark and terrifying, especially willingly.)
She suddenly remembered how, last summer, she and her sister had made and dismantled a complex “dreamcatcher” structure, when Ilangoria had gotten the idea to catch the first rays of sunlight. The thing was, she often dreamt of the same remarkable dream: in it, a beautiful young Prince of the Dawn,

would either sit on her windowsill and smile at her, or lie on a nearby oak branch and softly sing:
Sleep, little one, sleep, my child.
I’ll touch you with love,

Walking with you in sweet dreams,
Who protects your path?
The sun’s rays and the shadows of the night,
In wondrous threads among prophecies,
Don’t forget the tales of the past,
Where both the way and the being were.
They walk the path without tears,
Know, that they’ll always find you,
The winds’ songs, the winds’ whispers,
The pounding of the wild steed.
Wherever you wander,
Your song — your beginning.
Sleep, little one, sleep, my child,
I sing to you with love.

And most strangely, this lullaby would lead her into intricate, magical dreams.
The girl smiled softly, recalling the past, and whispered to her sister.
“Do you remember last summer? I wanted to test the dreamcatcher for the first rays of the sun?”

“You just broke the oak branch, and no sunbeams in the wondrous webs!” her sister answered, frowning.

“Exactly! Oh, I remember that look!” Ilangoria insisted. “I took such a beating for that! And the whole fall you kept recalling it, muttering something unclear and scolding… I thought for sure that my silly idea would make the old tree sick and wilt… you were so desperate that you even cried. I’ve never seen tears in your eyes before! I would have laughed if someone had told me you’d soon decide to create something so dreadful and wrong… What was the price of those tears? I ask you sincerely!”

“Yes, none of that makes sense now. Our carefree childhood is over. We can’t stay in the Ridge. We can’t let sickness and rot settle in nearby lands. The past must be left behind. But there will be something new. Just like in those legends and stories I used to tell you on long winters, remember?”
“Where do the local birds go, how far does our ridge stretch, and also…” Ilangoria agreed softly. “Somewhere far away, other spirits, other olua, live, so far we could never reach.

Anne gently stroked her younger sister’s head, smiling painfully in response, and embraced her.

“She’s too small and weak!” The black one growled, pulling air in through his flared nostrils. (For some reason, this caused Ilangoria to feel an indescribable wave of fear.)

The guests, who had silently returned, were now pushing their noses through the hallway, inspecting her, the wings of birds, the heads of mice, and the paws of huge, fierce bears — things Ilangoria had crafted for various traps in the forest or, out of habit, from witches.

“Look at her,” pale one growled. “She’s stretching human ears to listen, just like those who’ve been cursed by witches, swapped by forest spirits, or raised by witches! This can’t be good!”

“She scrunches up like a slimy toad and smells like a damp rat! Not Tue, not of their lands!” argued the black one, sniffing.

“If that’s the case, bad luck will follow her wherever she goes. Curses don’t just fade away!” whispered the pale one.

Anne immediately interrupted them, throwing her hands up. “There’s no such thing as bad luck! You all believe in such nonsense! And, angry, she quickly rushed to her hidden cache. Ilangoria, eyes wide in surprise, ears stretched, stopped being offended. She hopped quickly into the corner and stayed quiet, looking at the guests and then at her sister.

Never before had Ilangoria seen the magic Anne was now using. She straightened up, became completely black, and hoarsely whispered: “Ounu olua elue li!” And in an instant, a deep burrow appeared in front of her, lined with dried roots and black spider webs, the existence of which Ilangoria had never known under the house. Though, it seemed she had explored every inch of it.

Ounu olua elue li — wake up my old tree, show me the grace.

“I won’t go anywhere without her! The little one is under the seal of my kind and my beginning, and I’m under the protection of the pact.” Anne said roughly, pulling out an old, dark chest from her secret stash. Opening it, she handed some papers that smelled of dampness and mold.

The black beast, bristling, backed away from Anne.
“You’re unclean, after all. I used to think it was just a story, but look here, brother, do you remember the last time you saw such a crest? One of the ‘twisted ravens’ is still around!” The pale wolf bristled in turn.

“Unclean, yes, that’s true! But according to the agreement, the last one who holds the seal of the lost kin counts for the pact!” Anne retorted.
The beasts exchanged glances, still bristling.

“I never thought we’d find a blazon in a house like this, I thought you were joking when you asked to head for the Ridge, but here it is!” One of them scratched his ear. “Now it’s clear you’re one of the ”swerved and twisted ravens”. You’re going to have a long talk with her,” (the black beast nodded toward Ilangoria), “and with Santi as well, a long and unpleasant one.”
“In the old days, your family, Linden, had a special relationship with mine,” Anne said, pointing her finger at the intricate designs under the crests. “Are you going to break that old custom? The raven family was promised wolf protection and favor in secret!”

Ume, genuinely surprised, jumped up and bowed dramatically before Anne, nudging his friend to do the same.

“Ume was always the most devoted and faithful among you!” he huffed. Anne smirked, watching the pale wolf bristle in contemplation.
“Well, you caught us here! You assured me she was simple, but now it’s clear! Chiya vichya! Witch’s children, both of them! Now it makes sense why we traveled out here,” the pale wolf bowed

reluctantly and laughed. “Let them go to the Hills, the rotten root, without essence or guiding magic spirit, the elder won’t find another “huh” or essence tree, and the younger, the seventh curse, probably won’t make it through winter.”

“Today’s spirits have become so weak that we will live to see everything around us turn to rot. Chiya v’ichya. Chiya v’ichya.” The black beast barked, looking at the papers and chuckling. “Caught us, chiya vich’ya.”
“Magic is leaving this land, everything is becoming poorer, everything is fading, except for the black plague! Soon, there will be nothing. And that will go to the humans,” the pale wolf grinned.

“No one should meddle in these dark matters, right? We’ll seal our deal here. In the Emerald Hills, say whatever you like!” Anne snapped. “Ilangoria, get ready.”
(In these lands, children were born with a protector spirit or “beginning” and usually had an essence-tree or the tree of being — a special place of power their kin worshipped. For initiation, such a child needed to find their magical path, one that they would follow. For each olua, it wasn’t just the path before them that mattered, but also the special experience, the magical moment, that changed their perception of everything around them. Once an olua found their path, they would return to it in difficult times to gain understanding and change. This is how olua learned the magical dance.)

Children in the magical world were protected by their kin, though other olua sometimes cared for them. They were the ones who initiated children. If the essence was lost, powerful olua in magical duels took others’ essences. Weak and non-firstborn olua who lost their essence went to serve witches. Witches couldn’t give the essence necessary for the beginning, but they could delay death for centuries. Olua who survived in such unions became “spirits” — weak forest undead serving the witch kind. Such creatures were especially feared among the olua, for witches controlled their time completely and took their essence away.

To avoid this fate, the olua created the Pact. However, the era of terrible wars had taken much — many once beautiful and strong lines had weakened or disappeared completely.

Completely clumsy and strange, and considered too small by other forest olua, Ilangoria could scare anyone with her appearance, and more than anyone else, she seemed to be destined for such a sad fate. However, what was curious wasn’t that — it was the fact that she was the first magical creature without a beginning or essence, but this didn’t torment her to death.

Anne sincerely believed that Ilangoria was special — a magical being, not an olua, but still deserving to live nearby (since she had lived this long). Having grown attached to the girl, Anne wasn’t afraid of her but loved her deeply. There was something in Ilangoria that lifted Anne’s lost spirit.
That’s why Anne hid her in the impenetrable wilderness, avoiding any magical beings or olua, knowing that until Ilangoria found her protector, essence, and path, she was in mortal danger.

Everyone around was preparing for the long journey. Anne paced back and forth. The wolves sniffed the ground, digging here and there, arguing. Ilangoria followed her sister, filled with uncontainable sadness and disappointment.

Anne walked around the room in utter confusion. “Either take everything or nothing!” she muttered, shifting items from one place to another.
Ilangoria hurried to her secret place, puffing and swaying side to side, slowly freeing her overstuffed travel bag. Satisfied, the little one smoothed her floral outfit and, puffing and slouching, pulled on a thick woolen travel suit with long fur, under her sister’s muffled laugh
“What are you laughing at? What if it’s cold or raining? It’s always better to take something off than not be dressed fluff enough!” Ilangoria huffed, scratching her thick side.

If anyone in the house cared about intricate, handmade outfits, it was Ilangoria. For weeks, she collected tufts of shedding wool from bushes, washed it, spun it, or arranged flower buds in special concoctions to make them soft and durable, like silk (to later use in clothing). Anne never needed nor had time for such things. Her whole life, the older sister wore a single black

dress and occasionally fought with her sister over a spool of wondrous threads to patch it up here and there.
Ilangoria also laughed, deciding to support her sister in this difficult endeavor.
“I can take a little of this and that, the things that will remind me of this little, warm home in distant lands!” she said, puffing, as she went through stories, packing jars with dried herbs, berries, and nuts.
A few hours later, Anne became so tired and drained that she no longer noticed anything around her. She paced the house in frantic haste, shifting dishes from place to place, pulling books out and tossing them back— there was no sense or purpose to it.

“What are they digging for? What are they looking for?” Ilangoria asked, noticing something strange and distracting her sister.
“That’s an old huh, so ancient that it remembers many foreign stories and beginnings. They’re looking for special traces of the past.”
“Why are they doing it, and not us?” Ilangoria sniffed, looking displeased through the window.

“You see, whoever takes on the burden of burial also takes on a special curse. I can’t touch magical items anymore to avoid desecrating them, and neither can you. All magic becomes corrupted before decay. This is why we’re in a hurry. We’ve agreed that decay and disease can be contained if we lay the huh to rest, but we must do it quickly before the oak completely withers. Through the roots of magical trees, like our oak, the contagion can spread to other magical worlds. Without the oak, without the gate, decay, and disease will return to the earth, into the blackness. And in the blackness, everything will soon be reborn.”

“How can that be!” Ilangoria gasped in fear. “You won’t be able to touch magical items anymore, to avoid desecrating them?” The girl looked around, wondering how many things Anne wouldn’t be able to touch in the future.
“There’s no other way,” sighed Anne, continuing, “This is undoubtedly a dark ritual, and by performing it, any olua gives up their old life, but the price in this case is just. It was the condition for us to receive shelter and protection in the Hills.”

Ilangoria shot a stern glance at the guests (who were now running around the yard, sniffing everything), scratching her head. “It always turns out that everyone but me knows everything!” she muttered, pouting. “And I don’t know anything about magical trees, even though I’ve lived under one since I was three!”

“This old tree, one of the few remaining, can shelter both ;h-olua (cursed olua) and weak spirits, giving them sanctuary and refuge. And this oak is one of the oldest in our world. Losing it now would be a great loss for the olua world. Let them search for witch’s holes, but this tree can’t be desecrated anymore!”
“Witch’s holes? What’s that?” Ilangoria sneered.
“In the magical world, the unclean and undead build special pathways to hide or store things. Witch’s holes, among others, are especially valuable,” Anne replied dryly.

“Why didn’t you ever tell me about the special value of our oak? About witches having secret holes? This is my home too, my ridge! This is important to me too! We used to tell each other everything!” Ilangoria exclaimed, genuinely surprised and upset.
These are the rules of the olua. Only after initiation are you allowed to learn the magical intricacies. I’ve already broken all the rules by showing you my bird essence. Though, as you can see, none of the rules matter now. Everything becomes insignificant when the end is near.”

Ilangoria furrowed her brow, realizing that an entire world of strange magical rules and rituals had been hidden from her all this time. It was painful and sad to come to this realization.
Her sister lowered her eyes.
huh — magic tree

“How do you plan to take the magical essence from the Witch’s Ridge? What happens to that essence afterward? Does it disappear, or does it become yours? Please, tell me!” Ilangoria asked softly.

“To take someone’s magical essence or blessing, if it’s about the huh, a special ritual is required: runes made from the first stones, a celestial light directly above the crown, and the first language that this forest heard — our language, the language of the olua. Tue is good only for dark spells and witchcraft, but true magic exists only in the olua. It was once the duty of my kin, the twisteded ravens, to protect the olua and the magical tales of these lands. But much has been lost since then, and my kin has become cursed. Today, I’ll show you what the first stones look like and how to find them, so you can do this for me, and my hands won’t defile it. And since you’ll become part of this ritual, they’ll teach you the first words of the olua. This is a known way, but no doubt there are others. What happens to the essence? Well, none of us would dare take it for ourselves. But if it were a magical duel over someone’s tree-essence, a special tree under which the olua live and receive power, knowledge, and shelter, then any spell must end with ‘ejah’ (I take power for myself, I make it mine).”

“Anne, so you once had your tree-essence? Why did you choose the huh? What happened to your tree? Why is your kin cursed and gone? May I ask?” the little one whispered cautiously.
Anne sighed wearily, pondering how to begin, but the soft nose that had already pushed through the open window, shoving the little one aside, deliberately nudged her older sister.

“What is it like, Anni, when your last refuge — the huh — rots from the inside? A fleeting breath of air, after centuries in the torment of having no essence, and then — another punishment? How does it feel?” the pale wolf snarled, grinning.

Ilangoria puffed up in indignation at such boldness, even raising her tiny fists “Uhh, you butter-snout!”, ready to scold the impolite guest, but her sister gestured to stop her.

“It’s like knowing your soul is decaying. The flesh, the spirit… What do you think could rot deeper and hurt more?” Anne responded with a voice that made the wolf retreat.

“Chya alja aja-jalu — every decay serves as the foundation for a new life, stronger and more resilient,” the pale wolf grunted in reply, “Come out, time is short, the shadows will grow soon.”
The little one, trying to comfort and cheer her sister up, gave her a tight hug and kissed Anne on the cheek.

“Don’t listen to them, as if they know everything or understand it all! It only seems that way!” Ilanke said.
Together, the girls stepped into the yard.

“We must say goodbye according to the customs,” Anne
whispered.
Ilangoria shuddered. She suddenly realized that this farewell wasn’t just to the house, or even to their past, but to everything she had ever known or understood.

Singing ancient prayers, the girls circled the magical oak. They tied long ribbons, adorned with beads and runes, to its lower branches, and placed protective charms in the roots.
“The first stones protected the seeds of life, the sprouts of the huh. They lie at the foundation of all magical paths. This is how to find them, Ilangoria,” Anne said seriously, lying down on the ground. She pressed her ear to the earth and began chanting, repeating without stopping.
“N;n mav;, n;n nykh,
N;n sala, n;n tsih.”

At that moment, Anne became completely black. Her nails and fingers sank into the earth, and her eyes, wide open, stared unblinking. Strangely, her voice could still be heard. Deep and chesty, it now sounded hushed, almost like rustling and tapping.

“The stone, eldest son of the earth, show yourself, help me. Show me the way,” whispered the pale wolf into Ilangoria’s ear, explaining what Anne was saying.


When the little one’s head spun and she slumped, sitting down on the black wolf’s paw for support, the full moon finally broke through the clouds and illuminated everything around them.

Surrounding them, various sizes of boulders, pebbles, and gravel jumped across the meadow. Oddly, the moonlight painted intricate patterns on them and Anne.
“Come on, little one, no time for watching! We need to gather them before they burrow back into the earth!” the black beast growled gently, nudging the girl with his warm nose.

Ilangoria, barely stepping and struggling with dizziness, began carefully picking up the smallest stones, as only those she could lift and carry.

Anne, also out of breath, slowly raised her head from the ground. She gestured for her sister to place the stones under a few roots to form a circle around the tree.

Ilangoria did as she was told without hesitation. She scattered the stones all around and tied wondrous threads, securing knots along them. Slightly embarrassed, she stuffed the ones she didn’t need into her pockets.
“No one will disturb you or touch you now,” Anne whispered with sadness. She slowly crawled up to the tree, resting against it and gently stroking its wrinkled bark.

The beast swiftly crossed the meadow and stood beside Ilanke. “Repeat the words after me. Yja, olua ya, uchy, uny, uly, achy,” the pale wolf growled.
“The words weren’t frightening, but the sounds, coming from an olua, were like snakes — they slithered, alive, and bit to the very heels.” Ilangoria flinched and shrank back.

“Touch the tree, where the grace is buried, and say these words. If you’re lucky, you’ll have a year to find a better essence,” Anne said, guiding her sister.

Ilangoria hesitated, watching Anne closely. Her sister, now covered in runes and ancient writings, appeared completely different: blackened, with long fingers and distorted features. She looked so foreign, so distant, that Ilangoria almost squeaked, feeling like she was facing not her beloved sister, but a creature from another world and time.

But, overcoming her fear, Ilangoria crawled toward her. Just as she did, a horrible thought crossed her mind: “How can I be part of this ritual and not end up cursed like her?” But Anne already grabbed her hand and pulled her into a long, deep burrow that had appeared before them.
The little one gasped, as only now she noticed the burrow was covered with the same runes made of thin roots, white mycelium threads, and other strange lines.

“Loeru yur!” Anne whispered in a rasping, hoarse voice, pointing to the wondrous threads that started to unravel and jump out of her pocket. With a gesture, Anne indicated the burrow, and the thread obediently followed.

Loeru yur — wondrous threads!
Ilangoria gasped as something warm suddenly touched her, and the entire world around her instantly transformed. What she saw was no longer just a tree, but a source of endless power, light, and love. The warm touch she had felt was the tree itself. Hundreds of thin golden threads pulsed, not only inside her but also within her sister. Thousands of these threads stretched through the earth, reaching out to everything around them: stones, trees, and plants, flowing into streams, settling in puddles, and even touching the paws of animals, bowing nearby.

“Oheya!” Anne pointed toward the burrow. Ilangoria obediently lay down on the ground, extending her hand to allow the open force to guide her.
Oheya — watch!
Inside, the little one felt warm, dry roots — thick and gnarled — reaching out in all directions. It was then that Ilangoria realized this wasn’t just a force of light and love. The strength flowing through the oak tree was the very essence of life itself: the olua, the animals building their homes in these burrows, the plants living in symbiosis with the ancient oak — everything alive around them was protected by this mighty force.
Anne breathed heavily. With every breath, she seemed to gulp air with monstrous speed and greed, and soon something

was summoned. Powerful gusts of wind struck them from all directions.
Ilangoria, afraid she might be blown away, shoved her second hand into the burrow and grabbed a thick root with all her strength.

“Yja, olua ya, uchy, uny, uly, achy…” Anne croaked, gasping for breath. She kicked her sister’s leg to get her to do the same.

“Y-a, olua y-a, uchy, uny, uly, achy…eyaf yalu seya,” Ilangoria muttered, stumbling over the monstrous sounds. She cried out, burying her face in the damp, warm earth, as the last words slipped from her mouth. She hadn’t meant to say them, but they escaped her lips, scaring her. “What have I done? I didn’t say it right!” she cried, tears falling.
But soon, she quieted.

Something suddenly tugged at Anne’s body, and she sprang up, crouching. She swayed back and forth, and Anne began to glow, just like the tree itself. Ilangoria looked at herself and realized that she, too, was now made of light.

Anne stretched like a string and cried out, “Heto ya!”
Heto ya — “I entrust you to the earth (bury you), where all life begins and ends.”

At that moment, the full force of the magic struck them and, as if it had touched every cell, it disappeared.
Ilangoria collapsed and trembled.

Anne slowly crawled over to her and gently embraced her sister.

Then, finding a bit of strength within herself, she pulled the little one up and began to crawl away.

The beasts, whining and snarling, circled nearby, but they were afraid to approach now.

After a while, the old oak tree under which they had sat withered. Acorns and black branches with leaves fell off, and the paths became overgrown. The tree shriveled up, creaked, and sank into the warm, damp earth, following the same path.

The girls began to cry.

“Let’s leave a barrel of raspberry liqueur as a gift to Aunty Full Moon, who visited us!” Ilangoria mumbled, wiping away the bitter tears that stung her nose and cheeks. She hurriedly rolled one of the fat barrels under the thick root.

“No one came to us but the rats and geese — no one cared,” Anne suddenly laughed through her tears.
“Osu ya olua. We are the children of the stars, always under their protection! But everyone forgot that long ago,” the black beast spoke softly, lowering his warm nose to help Ilangoria. “This isn’t the end! It’s just a new beginning!”
“You’re so sentimental in moments like these!” the pale wolf said, scratching himself, watching his friend, then sniffing the ground here and there again.
A fern bush, growing nearby, rose above the old witch’s head and rustled, bidding farewell.

“Children of the stars,” Ilangoria whispered, approaching her and smoothing the stray hair from her wrinkled stone forehead. “Your time has passed.”

“Osu okya uso!” the black one spoke softly, sneaking up behind Ilanke and nudging her to look at the bright stars in the distance. “If you ever hear the stars whispering to you, it means it’s time to change and understand what the distant stars are saying. It’s time to learn something new and tell them your story in return.” If translated literally from the ancient tongue… But in Tue, it means: “In the toughest times, everything inside you mourns and stays silent, and in that silence, you can hear the unknown whispering about something new.
When you hear this, it’s time to change, time to accept the challenge and speak in response.”

“Talking about the stars doesn’t sound as scary as the challenge from the unknown!” Ilangoria stuttered, looking at her sister, who still hadn’t recovered from her tears.

“And how much do you know about the first stars? What do they really tell us?” the pale wolf smirked in reply, exchanging glances with his brother and whining. “Oh, come on, stop sulking and turning green like a forest toad, ready to bow down before you.”

The pale wolf jumped towards them, bit the black beast on the ear, and sat down, stretching his warm muzzle towards the now frowning Ilangoria.
“We’ve seen it all, that’s enough for today, Linden!” the black one growled, scratching his bitten ear. “I just wanted to comfort them a bit, give them a little boost, the way I know how!”

Ilangoria climbed onto the pale wolf’s back. She fastened a harness around his neck and tied several ropes to the saddle. (It was plush, decorated with stones and beads, the kind they’d made a couple of centuries ago, and it now looked quite fancy.)

“Did one of you make this, or is it a family heirloom?” Ilangoria asked curiously, hopping around the saddle, inspecting the crests, intricate embroidery, and patterns that bordered the magical item. She cautiously measured the golden stirrups. “I’ve made a lot of things myself, but I’ve never tried telling a whole story using patterns and stitching. What’s the purpose of this? So elaborate and complicated… It’s hard to understand all at once!”

On the saddle, there was an embroidered scene of coachmen-rats pushing and shoving, driving carriages between giant trees, while a cunning fox floats above them on a maple leaf.

Ilangoria’s curiosity gripped her so much that she became completely absorbed in studying the strange saddle.

“Hurry up, toaty! You’ll get plenty of chances to look later. The Hills are full of this kind of thing!” the black beast grumbled, carelessly grabbing bags and belongings with his sharp muzzle, and both wolves sprang into dense thickets.
Anne took off in a swoop.

The wind settled in the branches.

HOW TO WALK THE SECRET PATHS?

Ilangoria never imagined that one day she would be riding a wolf through the forest. She had always gotten along with wild animals, particularly the wild rats, mostly because they shared her curious habit of sticking their noses into everything.

She sat on the wide back of the wolf, looking around. It seemed like there was nothing to fear in the vast, dark forest that stretched endlessly in every direction. Even the predatory owls, upon seeing the strange sight, would stop hunting in the dense thickets and fly off, disappearing into the twisted branches…

The animals moved freely, rarely even slowing down to walk. Ilangoria looked around and couldn’t hold back her tears any longer. Her favorite paths were long behind her now; the familiar thorns and brambles had given way to magical glades, which then led to stone idols of strange shapes, eerie tunnels, and winding paths, thick mists along the waters, and an overwhelming number of flickering lights that seemed to hypnotize her with their slow, rhythmic dance.
Soon, Anne had completely disappeared.

“This will be a long, exhausting journey…” the rider sighed.
As if noticing her unease, the wolf growled encouragingly and pointed with his nose toward the distant hills.

“It’s all done now, and I agreed to this… There’s no point in being sad,” Ilangoria thought to herself and lay down on the massive ridge of the wolf’s back. Then, feeling tired, she slid into a secret compartment — like a pocket — deep enough for her to curl up completely. She secured herself and began counting the stars. The night had fully consumed everything around her, and it was impossible to see anything beyond the bright lights as they traveled at a steady pace.

Three days and three nights passed as the animals ran along the forest edges and through the brambles to the hills. Not once did they stop to eat or rest. Occasionally, they drank water from spring-fed wells, looking around warily, and howling and whining to each other as they ran, like shadows that grew thicker and wider as night fell, urging them onward.

“How well they know all the hidden paths around here! The springs, hidden in the lowlands!” Ilangoria noted with a touch of envy. She still tried to take in as much as she could, trying to remember everything so she could satisfy her thirst for adventure and discovery.

On the third night, deprived of proper food and enough rest, Ilangoria crawled into a pocket and fell into the deepest, most restless sleep.
Ilangoria woke up, rolling off and painfully hitting the wet ground.
“Did some strap come loose or did the saddle break, and I fell off?” she wondered. She carefully adjusted her bleeding nose and felt the scratches on her chin and cheeks. “Did I crush some flowers? But I don’t think they grow anywhere around here!” she thought, surprised, as she pulled a couple of tiny white buds from her face. “Some kind of magic!”

The little one suddenly jumped up, frightened, and quickly looked around.
“Well, at least I’m not dead! I’ll be eaten here faster than anyone notices!” Ilangoria sighed, looking up at the sky. “Anne!” she shouted at the storm clouds, hoping her sister would catch some bad omen and turn back. Of course, there was little hope in that, as Anne hadn’t visited her once in the last three days, having to conserve her strength.
Suddenly, something sharply pricked Ilangoria in the side and crawled into the mist. She spun around but saw no one nearby.
The hustle was interrupted by a cascade of rising creaks and groans: the louder it got, the more terrifying everything became. Trees shifted, bushes stirred, crushing the sleeping animals, stones flew in every direction, and tall grass “bristled with tufts.”
“Every path demands a sacrifice,
Stray from the way, and pay the price.
Betray your path, and there’s no retreat,
In the darkness deep, The Fate you’ll meet.
Be generous with such a due,
Put everything on the line, all is true.
No star will guide you through the night,
No lantern’s glow, no guiding light.

Listen to your heart, the only one that’s always right,
For the flame within is the light you ride.” A strange voice whispered.
“Those witches’ tricks, devilish schemes!” Ilangoria squealed and, forgetting everything, bolted from the dark place. “Cursed wilderness and all! I’m too small to get into any big trouble!”

From beneath the wide old tree, a twisted figure emerged, covered in dry leaves and withered roots. Sniffing the night air with a dry nose, it jerked after the fleeing girl. The creature moved strangely, writhing and pausing as though allowing the wind to lift and toss it with a loud whoosh. With each leap, the figure got closer to the girl.

Before the creature could catch her with its bony hand, Ilangoria pulled back and ran. Her legs seemed to buckle beneath her, weighed down with an unbearable heaviness. She felt as though she might collapse at any moment, her body overwhelmed by an unearthly terror and exhaustion. She jerked away, slamming into a thick root and stumbling to the side.

The old woman hung from a nearby branch, laughing wildly, crying out and wailing. She almost managed to grab the girl, but Ilangoria miraculously slipped free and darted away, like a wet, heavy, awkward badger that had gorged itself.
Only when Ilangoria finally broke free and hid in the thick, thorny underbrush did everything suddenly falls silent.
The girl broke down in tears.
However, after a while, she found the strength to crawl through the thorny bushes towards the boulders ahead.
“Guess the travel outfit worked after all!” she muttered, pulling sharp thorns out of her tangled fur.
The terror returned in full force as the witch reappeared, blocking her path.

Branches jutted out from the witch’s blackened eye sockets, roots, and earth spilling from her torn nostrils. The creature reached out a bony hand, quickly snatching the gold medallion from Ilangoria’s neck and tearing it off the chain with a snap. But as soon as she touched the medallion, she recoiled, her hand burning black as she looked at the painful burn.
“You’ve hidden it,” the old woman whispered dryly, then laughed loudly. “I’ll take it another way.”

Ilangoria’s heart pounded with frantic force. She stumbled back, tripping and falling. A wild deer, leaping from the bushes, collided with a flat boulder, crashing into the poor girl and crushing her with its weight, breaking every bone in her body.
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Who’s hiding in the burrows of Witches’ Ridge?
Why must you hide when Rokhosha is near?
What secrets linger beyond the crooked doors of Olua’s families?
Why should you never speak to your shadow?
What truly happens at the Toloche Ceremony?
Who chases the churs and forest imps?
Who’s wiser than all the witches?"
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Mila Rada
ILANGORIA AND “SURVIVAL GUIDE IN THE WORLD OF MAGIC: FOR MOLES, WITCHES, AND OTHER MISFITS”