Babushka: Shadows of Betrayal (Book 2) - Prologue - Legacy
In a dim room steeped in legacy, an ancient ritual unfolds, thick with mystery and unspoken bonds.
In a room where memories seemed to slip through the cracks, Baba Mina sat surrounded by the past. Flames flickered in a hypnotic dance, candles casting a soft, golden light over the time-worn furniture. Faded portraits lined the walls—each a chapter in a book of legacies, each a face tied to stories she had lived or heard whispered over the years. For a fleeting moment, she felt their eyes on her, their silent gaze heavy with meaning, as though granting unspoken permission for the evening’s arcane ritual.
Above, dried herbs dangled from the ceiling, their fragrance subtle yet grounding. Nearby, the hearth held only the dying glow of embers, their warmth a faint reminder of the fire that once blazed. And from just beyond the main room, the comforting aroma of bone broth reached her, whisking her back to days when laughter and love filled every nook of her family home.
The groan of the door disrupted her reflections, ushering in a burst of wind that swept away the room’s stillness. Framed in that doorway, Roman stood—a tall figure silhouetted against the dwindling twilight. For a heartbeat, it was as if another portrait had been added to the room’s collection, one that was still living and breathing.
With a chuckle, Mina greeted him. “Always making an entrance, aren’t you, milyy?”
Sealing the room off from the world outside, Roman closed the door and grinned, his face breaking into boyish mischief. “Learned from the best, Baba.”
Mina’s eyes lingered on Roman as he moved further into the room. She looked at him with affection, but also studied him closely. He was tall, towering, a fortress of a man. But it was a fortress that had seen sieges; his skin was weathered, and his hands calloused. It was the roughness brought on by years in the Derge, a life far removed from the carefree boy who once played in this village, trailing dogsleds, and dreams.
Mina’s eyes traced the marks and lines on Roman’s skin, the familiar landscape of scars punctuated by one she didn’t recognize—a fresh wound, still healing. “Each scar tells a story, da? And it seems you’ve added another chapter,” she observed, feeling a pang of both nostalgia and sadness.
Roman looked down at his feet. “Stories for another day, Baba,” he said.
“Is that so?” she said.
Mina turned her attention to an intricately carved wooden box on the table. She opened it to reveal a single, perfect egg, cradled in a bed of aged cloth. Picking it up gently, her touch almost a caress, she held it before Roman. “This egg is more than it appears. It’s a mirror, a gateway.”
Roman smirked, his tone rich with irony. “So, if I crack it open, will I see tomorrow’s breakfast or another dimension?”
Mina allowed herself a faint smile but quickly straightened. “Quiet now, and watch,” she said, the weight of the moment pressing back the fleeting levity.
Her thoughts drifted to another time, another place—to her grandmother, a woman who always seemed to know more than she let on, holding an egg much like this one. “We’ve been doing this for generations,” she mumbled, half to herself and half to Roman. “This is our legacy, a way to find answers when the world around us becomes a labyrinth.”
“Ah, like the time you found me with those apple seeds from the cultivara. To a young boy’s hunger, each borrowed seed was a clue in that maze. How you knew I had been there still baffles me.”
Mina laughed. “You were always a handful, but a clever one. Catching you steal those apple seeds was just one of the many times your resourcefulness both worried and impressed me.”
The room fell silent, or perhaps it was just her imagination. A distant wind chime sounded, barely audible but distinctly there. Mina held the egg above a glass of clear water, hands steady as ancient stone.
She looked at Roman. Then, with a calculated force, she cracked the egg. The yolk spiraled down into the water below, forming sinuous shapes that twisted and contorted. The whites followed, settling around the yolk, creating contrasting patterns that Mina knew were a language all their own.
For a moment, the air in the room seemed to thicken, an unseen weight settling over her. Mina watched the patterns in the glass shimmer, almost like quicksilver, before settling into a shape that clenched at her heart.
She leaned closer to the glass, catching sight of Roman leaning in beside her. His face mirrored her unease, his expression a silent question that only deepened her sense of foreboding.
To Mina, the ritual had spoken. She discerned the faint outline of a withered rose, its petals scattered, and near it, a shadow that hinted at a cascade of fiery strands. Her gaze flickered between the patterns and Roman’s face. “You’re at a crossroads. Someone has entangled your fate with intentions obscured. One path leads to restoration. You will face hardship, but you will also unlock untold strength. The other path will be more enticing, but it will pull you away from your true destiny.”
Roman arched an eyebrow. “Destiny’s a loaded word, Baba. You sure it’s not just the way the egg decided to break today?” His words, though laced with humor, still carried a weight of sincerity.
Mina replied, “This ritual is older than both of us. It has never lied.”
Roman’s expression shifted subtly, and Mina saw something different in his eyes, a hint of vulnerability perhaps, as he turned his gaze toward the hearth. The faint flicker of the dying embers reflected in his face, casting shadows that softened the guarded lines of his features.
“On that frigid winter night, when the orphanage was engulfed in flames...it wasn’t just an accident, was it?” Mina said.
Roman took a deep, shaky breath before responding, “It felt like time had stopped. Every scream, every spark...it was all too real. I wasn’t thinking; I just knew I had to help. Those children...they deserved a chance at life, and if I could give them that, even at great risk to myself, then it was worth it.” Mina felt his gaze intensify, a silent plea for understanding reflecting in his eyes as he searched her face, “I just did what felt right.”
“To those frightened children, you were an unknown face. And still, you plunged headfirst into that blazing nightmare, rescuing one poor soul after another. It was then that I truly grasped the magnitude of your heart, Roman.”
“I did what anyone would’ve done.”
“Not everyone, dear. And that’s why I believe in you now, as I did then.”
“That night, I realized I had more than just my own life at stake. It gave me purpose, a reason to keep fighting.”
Mina’s fingers brushed against his, feeling the grit and callouses. She could sense the weight of decisions he had made, paths that shaped the very texture of his palm. “And that’s why I know you’ll make the right choice,” she whispered, “even when faced with insurmountable odds.”
Roman nodded. Their eyes locked, and in that gaze was a world of understanding, a maternal assurance meeting a warrior’s resolve.
Mina reached into a small drawer beside her, pulling out a wooden talisman. Its design was a curious blend of lines, both vertical and horizontal. Upon a closer glance, the wood bore ancient symbols, mere impressions on its surface, and the top had a smaller secondary crossbeam. The ends of each arm were ornately rounded. A humble leather strap was tied around, a testament to its age and the hands that once held it. “Take this,” she said, pressing the relic into Roman’s palm. “May it guide and protect you on the path you choose.”
Her other hand gently touched the amulet as she closed her eyes, whispering an ancient prayer in a tongue seldom heard in modern times: “Gospodi, spasí i sokhrani.” Lord, save and protect. The words were a plea to God, a hymn for guidance and a shield against misfortune.
“I’ll carry it close, always,” Roman said. “I promise, Baba, to honor our family, our traditions, and the teachings you’ve instilled in me.” As he spoke, Mina felt a burden lift, replaced by a different kind of weight—a weight burdened with love, the carrying forth of legacy, and the inevitability of parting ways.
“I trust you will,” she said slowly.
Mina watched as Roman filled the doorway for a final time before stepping out. As the door slammed shut, a brief swirl of snowflakes spiraled in, dancing in the dim light before settling on the wooden floor. The room regained its intimate silence. “Go, Roman. The world is waiting,” Mina whispered to the closed door.
Turning her attention to the table, Mina let out a sigh. In her hands, she cradled the delicate eggshell. With a sudden, resolute motion, she crushed it between her fingers. The sharp edges bit into her skin, a rare sting in hands grown numb with age. She held onto the sensation, letting it tether her to memories that felt too distant to grasp. With deliberate care, she brought the shards to her lips. She chewed, then swallowed, each piece an act of remembrance, of acceptance.
Her gaze lingered on the doorway where Roman had stood moments ago. The stillness of the room filled her with a strange, bittersweet calm. He would return to her; of that, she was certain. As she snuffed out the last of the candles, a solitary wisp of smoke rose, and lingered in the stillness. To Mina, it was more than just a fading trail; it was a silent promise. It was the promise that hope, no matter how faint, remained.
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