The Sickle and the Flame

Seek not the monster in shadows, child, But in the mirror—where your own soul hides.

They say monsters live only in the imagination—and so they do. Go on, don’t be afraid! Peek under the bed when the blanket tickles your feet; step into the dark room when you hear a strange noise; glance into the mirror at night and sigh in relief, for you’ll see nothing there. But never look too long into people’s eyes. For the real monsters hide inside them. May bloomed in the village like love letters: apple petals carpeted the paths, and the air hung thick, so sweet it made stomachs growl against their will. Everything flourished—except the smiles on the villagers’ faces. A sickly, smothering fear had rooted itself in their hearts. Signs and warnings scrawled in charcoal screamed from every corner: Don’t walk out at night! Run if you dare, hide under a stranger’s roof if you value your life! Pray to the Tsar, if you can—maybe God’s wrath will pass you by. For gods did exist. And they were cruel. A shadow loomed over the village—an old woman with a scythe. Death reaped houses, scorched fields, and devoured the hearts of those mad with grief. None could escape. First, the maidens vanished, their braids woven with poppies. Then the mothers who searched for them—only bones were found, tied with ribbons of the lost. The earth drank their blood: no flowers grew, cattle refused to graze, and even crows veered wide of the cursed place. No carrion for scavengers here—only a beast lurking in the forest shadows, watching with blood-red eyes. Yet no one ever saw it. Only heard its roar, the snap of tendons and skin. Then the boys began disappearing—brave, foolish youths who swore they’d slay the fiend. "They brought this upon themselves!" the old priest wailed, clutching a faded scripture. "They summoned the devil—now they offer their own children!" The villagers nodded, then wove more wreaths, praying tragedy would skip their homes. It never did. Meanwhile, in the castle, a young princess withered—long-haired, fair, with a fragile frame and downcast eyes. Her father, the Tsar, locked her behind stone walls, never letting her walk among the people. The crowd only greeted their future ruler when she appeared on the balcony. The market women whispered: Too thin, that one! All sharp cheekbones and birdlike bones. A strong wind might snap her. Small, pale as a lost morning sparrow—yet the Tsar adored her, his only child by his wife. But no one had seen the Tsaritsa in years. After the birth, she’d hidden away, glimpsed only as a shadow in velvet dresses at the castle windows. A healthy woman, they recalled—back straight, a heavy braid of jet-black hair down her spine. None wondered why the Tsaritsa had withdrawn. She was protecting her child. The people had long prayed for an heir—women begged the moon for the royal family’s joy; men brought meat from distant lands, swearing it would help conceive. And at last, it worked—though not as expected. Whispers spread that a condemned thief had slipped into the Tsaritsa’s chambers the night before his execution. Seeking revenge, he’d eyed the lovely queen. Thus, the princess was born—though whose blood ran in her veins, none could say. Not that it mattered. The Tsar cradled her from her first breath—his heart didn’t care whose flesh she was. His daughter. His legacy. And when her mother whispered a name in the birthing room, it stuck: Lillian. So the princess lived, hidden away—seeing, hearing, understanding all. No one wept in her presence; they only smiled, hiding trembling hands behind their backs. They shielded her fiercely. Yet why had this horror befallen the village? Why must wives lose husbands, children lose parents? Ask anyone, and none could say when it began. Only one elder grinned toothlessly and muttered that the gods had cursed them with Lillian’s birth—though he wouldn’t blame the girl. At the Tsaritsa’s name, though, he’d look away, gather his things, and order them never to return. So the cursed village festered under a sweltering spring—and Lillian sat at her window, naming the stars. She memorized each, searching for them the next night—while below, executioners sharpened axes for another dawn beheading. She never watched, and her mother had covered her ears as a child: "Never look at blood, my star. It will sicken you." Lillian didn’t fear the monster. She closed her eyes, feeling the breeze lift her sleeves—until the door creaked open. She didn’t scream when cold steel kissed her throat. Rough hands gripped her waist, pulling her against a firm chest. Warm breath grazed her ear: "Don’t scream, Princess. Stay silent." Her pulse fluttered. She knew that voice. "Zaki," she said softly. "The butcher’s son." The knife trembled. Then clattered to the floor—followed by Zaki himself, collapsing like a puppet. His shoulders shook with ragged sobs. "The gods are blind!" he spat. "They hint, but we don’t understand! The monster walks among us, and we search for answers in children’s tales!" Lillian knelt, taking his calloused hand. "No man could do such things. Only a demon." Zaki’s eyes darkened. "It kills everyone. Except the royal family. Why spare you?" She never answered. He shoved her, her head striking the floor. Dazed, she saw him grab the knife, fist tangled in her hair — "Maybe the gods want you as the sacrifice!" The blade flashed — Then Zaki screamed. Lillian’s teeth sank into his wrist, tearing flesh. Metallic blood filled her mouth. He struck blindly, steel slicing her brow — Then he crumpled. The Tsaritsa stood behind him, sickle glinting. She kicked Zaki’s body aside and offered Lillian a hand. "Up, little star. Some things never change." Lillian laughed, wiping blood. "I thought he’d come to save me. Even picked our daughter’s name." The Tsaritsa smirked. "Not a suitor. Supper." She remembered tearing a thief’s throat years ago. He’d tamed her wild hunger — but the Tsar never could. No one would blame him. Hard to refuse when your wife is Marzanna, Goddess of Death. The villagers never knew they prayed to the wrong gods—or that Marzanna fed her child with their unwanted. One village gone—who’d notice? "They won’t believe a monster came here," Marzanna mused. "Feed him to the hounds. He died like the cattle he slaughtered." Lillian nodded. The gods were cruel—but Marzanna was her mother. That made her the best woman alive. The executioners stayed silent when the Tsar ordered Zaki’s body removed. Silent when Marzanna retreated to her chambers. He hadn’t seen his wife since Lillian’s birth—brought from distant lands, promised fertile fields and prosperity. Instead, he got fire. An elder once prophesied: "Only spring’s flame will fulfill the promise—but something must burn for it." The villagers remembered. They laughed when Lillian appeared on the balcony—stacking hay and wood beneath the gallows. They knew: a sacrifice was needed. Marzanna never noticed the trap—never heard Zaki rallying the people before his arrest. "If I die in the palace, not the gallows—BURN IT!" he’d roared. "Kill the serpents they sheltered!" Lillian and Marzanna knew nothing when the Tsar invited them to the festival. "They’re burning an effigy for the harvest," he said. "What’s its name?" Lillian asked. "Marzanna." She giggled—until she saw her mother dragged from the castle, screaming. No sickle in her hands. Betrayal. Strong arms seized Lillian. Ropes bound them to the pyre. Without her sickle, Marzanna was powerless. The Tsar raised a torch. The crowd howled like beasts. "We’ll dance on your ashes!" Marzanna hissed. The torch fell. Flames swallowed the village. Houses, clothes, flesh—all dissolved. Only the Tsar stood unharmed, watching the inferno. "You almost scared me, Papa!" Lillian slipped free, grinning. "I thought we’d stay!" Marzanna kissed the Tsar’s cheek, eyeing the charred bones. "Maybe next time, we won’t be royals." They left the wasteland behind—mother, father, daughter. The gods had played their game. Grown bored. Lillian thought it over. Marzanna too. Only the Tsar looked back—swearing he saw eyes in the ashes, burning with hate. But why fear men when you walk with Death? (Or so he thought. He didn’t know the next village’s hunters would tear Lillian apart. Didn’t know Marzanna would lose her sickle in the woods, weeping over her child’s corpse.) People are the real monsters. Fathers and mothers who’d burn the world to save their own. So breathe. Smile. See? Nothing to fear. But check your friend’s pocket for matches. Check your drink for poison. Monsters are everywhere. Just don’t become one.

Fear not the creature in the dead of night, But the friend whose soul has frozen tight. And before you trust a hand so kind, Make sure it doesn’t hold a match behind.