Prologue. A New Life
ᗊ ─── ❖ ── ᗊ ── ❖ ─── ᗊ
What is 25 years? Half a lifetime? Or merely its beginning?2025, Moscow
Anna had always known she was different. She couldn’t quite explain why, but the feeling was undeniable: she was special, often sensing she didn’t quite belong to this world. Perhaps it was her grandfather’s legacy, a renowned chemist who instilled in her a love for science. His laboratory, brimming with countless flasks, glass tubes, and peculiar devices, was her enchanted realm. Though chemistry was her passion, Anna was multifaceted. She had a gift for learning quickly, graduating high school early at 15 and enrolling in a prestigious Moscow university. By 25, she was a recognized expert, working in one of the capital’s top laboratories. She thrived among test tubes and complex experiments. Mixing reagents, observing reactions, and seeking new solutions brought her joy. She was content with her career, convinced her place was in the world of science, where everything followed strict laws and precision. The loss of her parents at seven left an emptiness in her life. Her grandfather, her only remaining family, became her rock, raising her as both mentor and friend. He nurtured her love for chemistry and books, including tales of magical worlds. It was he who introduced her to Harry Potter, and they often debated how a magical world might intertwine with the principles of chemistry. But his passing changed everything. A quiet loneliness enveloped her, and Anna buried herself in work. Her career consumed her, leaving no room for thoughts of anything else. Relationships? She felt no need for them. All that mattered was chemistry, experiments, work. Yet, in the stillness of her apartment, she sometimes recalled cozy evenings with her grandfather, watching Harry Potter, arguing, and weaving theories about blending magic and science. She never found an answer to the nagging feeling that her life was meant for something greater than work. Then, as if fate itself decided it was time for change, her life transformed forever. That day, the sun shone brightly, and Anna was in high spirits. She sipped her morning coffee, smiling, feeling light and clear-headed. An important meeting awaited her at work, and she was ready for a new experiment that could be a breakthrough. Everything was going according to plan, and the world seemed as simple and logical as ever. She was in a taxi, gliding through familiar city streets, when the car suddenly lurched sideways. A massive truck barreled into the taxi at full speed. A flash of blinding light followed, and Anna’s heart clenched in pain. In an instant, everything vanished. Pain, anxiety, fear… all gone, as if she’d never existed. Everything she knew ceased to be. Darkness swallowed her consciousness, and she was certain it was the end. But… Anna awoke in a small, dimly lit room. Her first sensation was a pounding headache, as if someone had struck her with a frying pan. More importantly, something felt wrong. She tried to stand but nearly stumbled, barely avoiding a wooden table. Slowly, shakily, she rose to her feet. Turning, she caught her reflection in a small round mirror on the wall. Her face, yet not hers. She was still red-haired, her locks cascading to her shoulder blades like liquid flame, but she wore a strange, old-fashioned dress. For a moment, Anna faltered: this was her face, her hair, but what… Heterochromia. One eye was vivid green, the other brown. A flicker of panic danced in them. Her eyes had always been a striking emerald, her grandfather’s pride. “What the hell?” she muttered, as if caught in a prank. She raised a hand and blinked. Yes, this was her body, yet it felt foreign. Then memories flooded in—not hers. She saw fragments of another life: a girl with the same face but a colder gaze. A girl whose hands deftly brewed complex potions in an ancient laboratory. Images of walking through the halls of Koldovstoretz, taking exams, surfaced. But Anna caught herself—these weren’t her experiences. This wasn’t her life. Her name was Anna Belova. But Anna Volkova was a witch, a skilled potioneer with rare knowledge, a student trained at one of the most prestigious magical institutions. These memories crashed over her with such force that, for a moment, Anna couldn’t tell where she was or what was happening. She leaned against the table, trying to calm herself. This couldn’t be real. How was she here? In this world? And what year was it? It was… impossible. Fear mingled with excitement and anxiety. Too much, too fast. She glanced at her hands, noting her body was still hers—small, red-haired, with eyes that had always set her apart, now even more striking. She didn’t know how it happened, but this was her body. Her place. As a scientist, she’d deemed magic or reincarnation impossible, yet here she was. “What time is it? What year?” raced through her mind. Volkova’s memories, like fleeting slides, overlapped but offered no clarity. Anna realized she needed to understand her surroundings—what year, what world. She had to figure it out. Not waiting to feel worse, she noticed a newspaper on the small table. She sat on a simple wooden stool and unfolded it. The headline, in bold letters:“Russian Ministry of Magic Plans to Open New Magical Schools Nationwide!”
A stifled laugh escaped her lips. Her eyes caught the publication date. Frantically flipping through the pages, Anna bit her lip until it bled. 1992. A magical world. Could she really be in the world of her favorite books? She sank to the floor, squeezing her eyes shut, replaying the morning’s events. A cup of coffee. A taxi. A crash. “I died…” she whispered, eyes wide. “I died… and ended up in the body of a Russian witch, a gifted potioneer, a year before Sirius Black’s escape from Azkaban.” Anna knew the books by heart and could recite every movie scene by role. Though a scientist through and through, her grandfather’s love for the wizarding world had lived in her for all her 25 years. But could this be real? Rubbing her temples, Anna took calming breaths. Her eyes scanned the table cluttered with vials and parchments. At its center lay an old, worn diary. With a trembling hand, she pulled it toward her and opened the first page.September 14, 1991 Today, I returned to the idea of changing fate. How many times have I watched good people fail while the world spirals into ruin? Can a single potion or spell truly make a difference? It might be madness, but I can’t let go of this thought.
What if there’s a way to give someone else a chance to change the world for the better?
September 17, 1991 Where does any great potion begin? With theory. The soul isn’t just a spark of magic—it’s far more complex. To transfer it, you must bind its magical structure, sever its tie to the old body, and forge a new one. What ingredients could help?
Tears of a sphinx. They hold the power of foresight and can influence fate. If a soul can alter the future, this is essential.
A phoenix feather. A symbol of rebirth. Without it, the process could be unstable. The question is, how to obtain one discreetly?
Mandrake root. Traditionally used for magical paralysis. Could its extract sever the soul’s old bond?
Moon poppy pollen. Ancient Eastern mages used it to commune with spirits. Perhaps its dust can break the final anchors of a past life.
Thistle heart. A stabilizer. Without it, the potion could kill the body during the transfer.
But what troubles me is this: if I create this potion… who pays the price? Me? Or the unwitting participant in this experiment?
September 20, 1991 I tested moon poppy pollen in a basic stabilizing brew. When I added it, the potion turned deep blue, as if absorbing the night sky. I felt a slight dizziness, like someone briefly peered into my mind. The poppy does affect the soul.
If paired with the essence of Gaddi’s mirror, could it guide the process deliberately? I’m not sure yet…
September 25, 1991 Today, I realized what’s missing. The price. In alchemy, change demands sacrifice. Nothing is free.
A drop of blood. Symbolic but sufficient to complete the process. It’s the price of the one who dares to take this step. But… who would choose this? Who would willingly sacrifice themselves? I’ve made peace with it. I hope it’s worth it.
I fear someone will find these notes one day. If you’re reading this, know: the potion is ready, but I’m not sure it should exist.
Recipe for the “Threads of Fate” Potion
Ingredients:
Sphinx tears – 3 drops (unlocks the path to altering fate) Phoenix feather – 1 (symbolizes soul rebirth) Mandrake root extract – 7 drops (severs the soul’s tie to its former body) Moon poppy pollen – a pinch (blurs the boundaries of consciousness) Blood of the recipient – 1 drop (required for the “soul for soul” price) Thistle heart – 5 g (stabilizes the transformation) Immortal shadow – 2 g (rare ingredient, strengthens the magic of transition) Essence of Gaddi’s mirror – 4 drops (reflects and guides the soul) Gilded obsidian powder – 3 g (used to inscribe runes)
Preparation Process:
Creating the Base (Hour of Shadows) In a cauldron of purified water, bring mandrake root and thistle heart to a boil. Simmer for 25 minutes. Add moon poppy pollen, stirring seven times clockwise. Inscribe the runic symbol ᛉ (Algiz) above the cauldron—a protective mark to preserve the body’s magical structure.
Preparing the Ritual (Hour of Blood) Draw a circle on the table with gilded obsidian powder. Within the circle, inscribe the runes:
ᛈ (Perthro) – rune of fate, controlling the soul’s transfer. ᛟ (Odal) – rune of heritage, aiding the new soul’s adaptation. Chant the incantation over the potion: “Anima transitus, iter aperitur, vinculum fractum.” (Soul’s passage, path opened, bond broken.) Add a drop of blood. The potion should turn dark silver.
Final Stage (Hour of Fate) Add Gaddi’s mirror essence and sphinx tears. Stir counterclockwise nine times. Add the phoenix feather last, using silver tongs to avoid touching the cauldron. Chant the final incantation: “Dona mihi fatum, anima pro anima.” (Grant me fate, soul for soul.) Let the potion steep in complete darkness for 24 hours.
Potion Effects: After ingestion, the drinker loses consciousness, and runic symbols flare around the body. Within 3 minutes, their soul departs, and another takes its place. Initial hours may bring disorientation and fragments of the former owner’s memories. Full adaptation takes hours or days.
I hope I calculated everything correctly.
Side Effects:
Soul for soul: the original soul vanishes forever. Errors in the ritual may destroy the body or fracture the soul. Echoes of the former personality may linger in the body. (I’m not certain.)
October 1, 1991 I can’t sleep. I can’t think of anything but this potion.
What if it doesn’t work? What if everything I’ve done is a mistake?
I reread the formulas, analyze every step, but the deeper I go, the more I doubt. The magic of fate is more than alchemy and runes. It’s a force that could tear the fabric of reality… or destroy me.
If the potion fails, there are only two outcomes.
First—I die. My body becomes a useless shell, my soul scattering into the void. Perhaps no one will even know what I tried to do.
Second—I’m trapped between worlds, between lives, between existence and nothingness. That’s worse than death. I fear being forgotten, fear ceasing to be… entirely.
But worse still—what if the potion works only halfway? What if my soul is torn free but finds no new home? Or if the body dies before another soul can enter?
Panic grows within me, but there’s no turning back. I made my choice. Now I must see it through.
The next entry was written in a trembling hand, ink smudged as if the writer couldn’t contain their emotions.February 1, 1992 If you’re reading this, I’m gone.
I don’t know who you are. I don’t know who you were before you became me. Maybe you’ve just realized your life has changed forever, and you’re scared.
I was scared too.
Let me tell you about myself. My name was Anna Volkova. I was born in Russia, in a family that believed in magic but feared it. I always sought knowledge, always looked for ways to change the world, even when no one believed it was possible. I loved autumn—the smell of rain and decaying leaves. I loved tea with honey and books I’d reread a hundred times. I laughed at silly jokes and cried over stories that ended too soon.
But above all, I refused to give up.
I didn’t decide on this lightly. Before brewing “Threads of Fate,” I crafted and drank a potion of foresight. I wanted to see what lay ahead, what secrets hid beyond the veil of time. I thought I’d see a better world. I thought my research would lead to discoveries that would improve magic. I just wanted to know if I’d achieve the recognition in potion-making I dreamed of…
I was wrong.
I saw the future ten years from now. It was terrifying.
Magical Britain burned in the flames of war. The battle with the Dark Lord consumed everything, leaving ruins in its wake. I saw people fighting… and falling. I saw fear in the eyes of those who couldn’t escape.
But the worst part is that the war won't stay confined to Britain. Like waves spreading across water, this conflict will affect the whole world. I've seen the turmoil sweep over France, Germany, Italy... how mages in Russia are starting to fear each other. I've seen old foundations crumble, entire families vanish, magic itself shaken by the onslaught of chaos.
I realized: if nothing changes, our world will fall.
Then I made a choice.
I gave myself so that another soul could take my place. A soul capable of changing the course of events. Maybe that's you.
Forgive me.
Forgive me for what I've done with this body. Forgive my pride. For putting you in a position you didn't ask for.
But if you're here, then the potion worked. And that means you have a chance.
You can save this world.
I don't know if anything of me will remain within you. Maybe you'll feel a longing for books, hot tea, and rainy evenings. Maybe you'll feel like you've already heard my voice somewhere in the depths of your mind. But whatever happens next, know this: I believe in you.
You are my... our last chance.
Live. Fight. Change the future.
With hope,
Anna Volkova.
Anna knew these stories inside out, every book and movie scene etched in her memory. Despite her scientific mind, her grandfather’s love for this magical world had lived in her for all her 25 years. But could this be real? Rubbing her temples, Anna took several calming breaths. Her eyes scanned the cluttered table, filled with vials and parchments. At its center lay an old, worn diary. With a trembling hand, she pulled it closer and opened the first page. Anna’s fingers trembled as they gripped the dark, tattered cover of the diary. The ink on the pages was smudged in places, as if stained by tears. Whose? Anna Volkova’s? Or her own? Her eyes darted across the lines, but her mind struggled to process their meaning.“I gave myself up so another soul could take my place.”
Anna swallowed, feeling a suffocating, overwhelming sensation rise in her chest. This wasn’t an accident. Not a random tragedy. Her arrival here was… planned. Her fingers tightened, nails digging into the worn pages.“You are my last chance.”
Her throat constricted. She hadn’t asked for this. She didn’t want to be part of someone else’s plan. But that no longer mattered. Anna snapped the diary shut, clutching it to her chest as if it could warm her. Her eyes stung. The world around her felt too quiet, too fragile. What if I fail? The thought pulsed in her mind, spreading like a poison through her veins. She ran a hand over her face, taking a deep breath. No. She couldn’t just sit here and be afraid. Anna Volkova had given her soul for this. For her. And now, whether she liked it or not, her life belonged to this world. To this future. She slowly lifted her head, gripping the diary like an anchor in a storm threatening to consume her.“You can save this world.”
Anna exhaled. — Damn you, Volkova… — she muttered, closing her eyes. — Fine. I’ll try. As the words left her lips, a dull thud echoed in the room, as if someone had landed on the floor behind her. Anna flinched and spun around. Before her stood… something. A small figure, barely reaching her waist, with folded, wrinkled arms. A long, bushy, slightly disheveled beard stretched nearly to its waist, and cunning blue eyes glinted from beneath thick brows. It wore wide trousers cinched with a thick belt, a long linen shirt, and a heavy woolen cap that sagged to one side. Bare feet stood firmly on the floor, as if rooted to the earth. It stared at her silently, brows furrowed. Anna took a slow step back. — W-what… — she stammered, swallowing hard. — WHAT ARE YOU? The figure sighed heavily, rolled its eyes, and muttered: — May my beard get tied in knots, humans always get spooked. I’ve said a hundred times: why jump when you didn’t even call for me? — You talk?! — Anna pointed at it, horrified. — What, you thought I came to blink at you? — it scoffed, crossing its arms. — Alright, let’s get this over with before you faint. I’m Yefim. A domovoy. Anna blinked. — A what? — A domovoy, I said! — it grumbled, stomping a bare foot. — Not a house-elf, don’t mix me up with those freeloaders! I’m a Russian domovoy! Mistress Volkova summoned me in case her experiment worked. So, girlie, you’re my responsibility now. — Girlie?! — Anna bristled. — What, you expected ‘Your Ladyship’? — the domovoy snorted. — Enough gawking. That fool Volkova knew how this would end and still dove into her experiments. Now I’m stuck dealing with you since you’re her. Anna struggled to process this. — So… you’re saying she knew I’d show up and asked you to help me? Yefim sighed, adjusted his cap, and grumbled. — Exactly. She told me, ‘If a new girl shows up, make sure she doesn’t mess things up on day one.’ What choice do I have? Duty calls. He scowled, muttering under his breath, then looked at Anna again. — Alright, new mistress, we’re acquainted. Now figure out what you’re doing next, because I’ve got better things to do than stare at your dazed face. Anna realized she wanted to laugh. This grumpy, gruff, yet oddly harmless domovoy was so absurd that her fear ebbed away. — Well, Yefim, — she said, crossing her arms and steadying herself, — looks like I’ll need your help. — Oh, I’ll be gray before my time with you… — Yefim muttered, shaking his head. — Fine. Let’s make do. Everything felt surreal. Anna sat in a cozy armchair, listening to Yefim. The old domovoy recounted every detail about his former mistress. — My mistress, Anna Volkova, was born into a proud, ancient wizarding family, — he began. — Her roots run so deep, you’d think the first mages in these lands were her kin’s drinking buddies. But unlike many magical families, the Volkovs saw magic not just as a gift but as a great responsibility. They believed it was a force to understand, respect, and, if need be, fear. Her father, a skilled alchemist, used to say, “Magic doesn’t bend to us; we must bend to its laws.” Her mother, a wise but strict seer, always reminded her, “Every spell, every potion, is a debt to the world, not a toy for amusement.” They raised Anna with discipline, teaching her that magic wasn’t just dazzling tricks but a path laden with consequences. Yet her soul was like her father’s—she had a knack for potions, as if she spoke their language. She’d brew, mix, and select ingredients, and the world seemed to hush, watching her work. Once, I swear, she tossed something into the cauldron, and it sang. Yes, the potion sang a mournful tune that gave everyone goosebumps. She never tried that recipe again—too eerie. But as she grew older, she was drawn beyond the permitted. She didn’t want to repeat old recipes or memorize others’ formulas. She craved more—to understand the essence, to change, to improve… perhaps even to cross lines. Her parents worried, warning her that knowledge always comes at a cost. They feared her talent would lead to trouble. And they were right. Sadly, they passed last year. She lived alone. No suitors, no interest in them. She was always buried in books or work. If anyone tried courting, she’d chase them off. Said she had no time, that study mattered more. Maybe she was scared, or maybe she never met someone who understood her. I saw her sometimes, staring out the window when snow fell or the moon hung high. I heard her quiet sighs, thinking no one noticed. But I didn’t dare ask. She was the mistress; I was just a domovoy, though no slouch. When she planned her final potion… oh, if I’d known I couldn’t talk her out of it, I’d have told her grandmother. That old hag’s a real Baba Yaga. But the Volkova stubbornness was like flint. Once she decided something, convincing her otherwise was harder than getting a domovoy to bathe daily. That was my mistress. Brilliant, strong, and lonely. And now you’re here in her place. So, was it worth it? Anna listened without interrupting. Yefim’s gruff, slightly grouchy voice carried the weight of someone who’d known Anna Volkova her whole life—better than she’d known herself, perhaps. She looked down at the diary, where yesterday’s hurried scrawl held the final words of this enigmatic girl. The girl whose place she’d taken. — I don’t know if it was worth it, — Anna said softly, stroking the tattered edge of the pages. — — Honestly, I still can’t believe this is real. She swallowed, gathering her thoughts. — My name is Anna too. Anna Belova. I was born into an ordinary family, no magic at all. I lost my parents young—an accident, no mysteries, just tragedy. My grandfather raised me. He was old-school, hardworking, stubborn, and brilliant. He believed in science and logic, that everything could be explained with enough effort. I grew up trying to meet his expectations. Became a chemist. A researcher. I loved my work, understanding how substances bond, what reactions occur, how one molecule affects another. In a way, I was a potioneer in a world without magic. She paused, searching for words. — My life… it was different. Loneliness? I know it well. I know what it’s like when days blur together, when colleagues surround you but don’t know your heart. When you go home to silence. Anna ran her fingers over the diary’s rough paper. — Then I ended up here. In the body of a witch who created the impossible. In a world I only knew from books and movies. A world where people wield magic without thinking of formulas or equations. It’s incredible. It’s terrifying. She looked at Yefim. — I don’t know what to do. I don’t know if I can be Anna Volkova, if I can continue her work… But I know one thing. If she gave her life for this, I owe it to her to understand her. To honor her sacrifice. Anna took a deep breath and smiled, a bit sadly. — So, Yefim, you’re stuck with me. I’m here. And I’m going to figure out what I’ve gotten myself into. — Hmph, — Yefim grunted, scratching his beard. — You’re not so different from Mistress Volkova. Anna raised her head, surprised. — Why do you say that? — Because you’re stubborn as a goat on an icy slope! he snorted, crossing his arms. — She was always diving into things others wouldn’t dare touch. Brewing new potions, theorizing about magic’s ties to nature. And you—chemist, potioneer, researcher. It’s all the same drive to understand the world and change it. Anna chuckled, recognizing the truth in his words. — Speaking of magic, — Yefim added, pointing at her hand. — Do you even know what’s on your finger? She glanced down instinctively and noticed a ring she hadn’t thought about before. It sat on her right ring finger—not too heavy but noticeable, smooth and cool to the touch. The ring was striking: silvery metal with a faint blue sheen, set with a stone like a fragment of the starry night sky. — That’s a Russian wizard’s ring, — Yefim declared proudly. — We don’t wave wands like those Europeans. Since ancient times, we’ve channeled magic differently—rings, bracelets, sometimes amulets. But rings are the most practical. Anna turned the ring, studying it. — What’s it made of? — Silver mixed with lunar iron, — he explained. — Mined in the Ural Mountains, it conducts magic better than plain silver. The stone? Starry lapis. Old, very old. Its magic has been building for generations. Anna swallowed, sensing an ancient weight in the ring, as if it held more memories than she’d ever know. — And how does it… work? — Simple, — Yefim shrugged. — Magic flows from you; the ring’s a conduit. Picture the spell in your mind, channel the power through your hand, and the ring does the rest. Just say a word to sharpen your intent. Anna frowned. — So it doesn’t do the magic for me? Yefim snorted loudly. — Of course not! It doesn’t make you a witch on its own—it guides your power. Feel the magic? Anna paused. She hadn’t noticed before, but focusing now, she felt a stir—a warm wave from her chest to her fingertips. — A little, — she said. — There you go, — he nodded, pleased. — It’s working as it should. Volkova never trusted her ring to anyone, and you got it for free. So deal with it, mistress. Anna laughed nervously. — You say it like I have a choice. — You don’t! — Yefim grumbled. — But since you’re here, don’t disgrace Volkova’s legacy. Learn. I don’t need you whining that magic’s too hard! Her laughter rang out, nervous but bright, as if the whole world could hear it. — Russian wizards have it easier, — Yefim began, scratching his beard importantly. — No need to memorize fancy Latin! Our magic’s old, native, simple. Want something done? Say a word—not like a fool, but with intent. Anna raised a skeptical brow. — So… no complex spells? — What spells? — he waved dismissively. — Anything you say with belief and will is a spell! ‘Burn!’ ‘Fly!’ ‘Freeze, you pest!’ As long as the magic feels your intent. Anna considered this. It made sense. Magic was part of the wizard—needing no coded language, just clear purpose. — Go on, try it, — Yefim urged. — See that candle? Light it. Anna stood in the middle of the room, extended her hand, envisioned a flame flickering on the wick, and said firmly, “Flame!” The ring warmed slightly, but nothing happened. Yefim snorted. — Well, good effort, but you’re a witch like a goat’s a ballerina. Anna clenched her fists, ignoring the jab. — What went wrong? — Not enough force, — Yefim shrugged. — Magic’s like a punch: swing weakly, you’ll only scare a mosquito. Put some strength in it, and it’ll hit right. Anna exhaled, focused, and tried again. — Flame! This time, the ring glowed faintly blue, and a tiny flame sparked in the air before her. It lasted mere seconds before fading. Anna’s eyes widened. — It worked?! — Well, — Yefim drawled, — if you wanted the world’s most useless matchstick, sure. — Ah You!... — Anna shot him a glare but held back. — I’m learning! — Then learn faster, or you’ll only master tea-warming by retirement, — Yefim muttered, though a hint of approval crept into his tone. Anna crossed her arms. — Fine, give me something harder. — Oh, your impatience is itching already? — Yefim pointed at a heavy bronze candelabrum on the table. — Move that. Anna took a deep breath, extended her hand, and focused. — Move! The candelabrum didn’t budge. — Don’t just bark orders—put meaning into it! — Yefim goaded. — What are you, a stump? Put your soul into it! Anna gritted her teeth, anger flaring, and thrust her hand forward. — Move! The candelabrum jerked, slid across the table, tipped, and crashed to the floor with a clang. Yefim roared with laughter. — Now that’s more like it! Next time, add ‘Smash!’ and you might break something! — You’re mocking me! — Anna snapped. — Me? Mock? — Yefim feigned innocence, eyes wide. — I’d never! Anna shook her head, torn between laughing and fuming. — I’ll go mad with you around… — And I think you’ll get the hang of this soon, — Yefim said, suddenly serious. — You’re stubborn. That means your magic’s stubborn too. That’s good. Anna looked at him, surprised. — Was that… a compliment? — Don’t get used to it, — he grunted. — Come on, mistress, let’s keep training. Watching you struggle is the most fun I’ve had in a century! Two months passed since Anna found herself in this strange, increasingly captivating world. At first, magic was elusive, like trying to catch the wind with bare hands—too weak one moment, too wild the next. But day by day, practice by practice, things changed. Her early spells were feeble, uncertain, but she learned to infuse her words with strength. She watched in awe as flames sparked at her fingertips, books flew from shelves at her command, and water boiled without fire. — Now you can boil tea without fraying my nerves, — Yefim grumbled, but his eyes glinted with pride. Anna soon realized the hardest part of magic wasn’t the words but the intent behind them. When she first made a quill write on its own, it wasn’t through force or focus but understanding—she pictured herself writing, and the magic obeyed. Astonishingly, wandless magic came as naturally as spoken spells. But potion-making was her true revelation. One day, diving into Volkova’s old notes, Anna tried brewing a simple potion from the diary. She recalled university labs, hours spent calculating formulas and measuring reagents. Here, it was different yet eerily familiar. She measured ingredients, heated the cauldron, and stirred the brew instinctively, as if her hands remembered Volkova’s skill. When the potion glowed the right shade, she froze. — Why’re you standing like a statue? — Yefim muttered. — It worked, — she said, stunned. — I just… knew what to do. — What’d you expect? Volkova didn’t pour her life into this for nothing. Her knowledge is in you, flowing like it’s your own. Anna traced the cauldron’s edge, watching the potion shimmer in the lamplight. Warmth bloomed in her chest. Now she knew potion-making was hers. And perhaps, through it, she could earn her place in this world. Of course, there were clashes with Yefim. The old domovoy grumbled constantly, teasing her at every turn, muttering that “the old mistress was calmer” and “stubborn women are a headache.” But Anna grew used to it, even firing back, which sparked both irritation and amusement in him. His cooking, though—that was its own magic. Over two months, Anna tasted dishes she’d never imagined: savory kulebyaka, crumbly buckwheat with mushrooms, slow-cooked shchi, fragrant pirozhki, and borscht so rich you could eat it with a spoon standing upright. — Did I ever beg you to cook for me? — she exclaimed once, wiping her mouth after devouring divine pelmeni. — You didn’t, but your stomach did, howling like something haunted the house, — Yefim retorted. Anna shook her head, but inside, she was grateful. Two months ago, she’d arrived in this world alone, lost, and afraid. Now she had a grumbling but loyal companion, magic that was starting to obey her, and a craft she could excel in. Though the future remained uncertain, for the first time in ages, Anna felt she held her destiny in her hands.
