Semyon Orlov stood fully now—bones wrapped in thin, rotted flesh, black frost clinging to his ancient boots. The snow around him had melted in a perfect ring, revealing dark, twisted roots writhing like veins beneath the earth.
Dmitri could not speak.
His great-grandfather—dead for over a century—looked at him with eyes that should not have seen. And yet they burned. Cold fire. Recognition. Madness.
"You look like me," Semyon rasped, voice brittle like dry bark. "But weaker. Frailer."
Dmitri stepped back. "You're not supposed to be here."
Semyon chuckled—a dry, guttural noise that sounded like stone grating against stone. "Neither is she. Yet here we are. Brought back by grief. By betrayal."
He took a step forward. The earth cracked.
"Vasilisa summoned you," Dmitri said slowly, trying to steady his voice. "She's using you."
Semyon tilted his head, almost amused. "She thinks so."
Dmitri's breath caught.
"She does not understand," Semyon said. "It was never love. She was a possession. A flame in winter. I left her because I could. Because I was Orlov. She thought herself eternal…"
He grinned, rotted teeth glinting under the moonlight.
"…Now she is."
Dmitri's stomach churned. The truth was more horrifying than any legend. Vasilisa wasn't just returning for revenge—she had resurrected her own tormentor. The one man who had broken her. And he had come back twisted by death. Not grateful. Not remorseful.
Power-hungry.
"Why return?" Dmitri demanded. "You're dead. Let her have her justice."
Semyon's face twisted into something monstrous. "Justice? She desecrated my bloodline by carrying my bastard. She was nothing but a wound in my legacy. But now… now I will rewrite the Orlov name."
A storm stirred overhead. Thunder cracked.
"You are the last," Semyon said. "And your body will be my vessel."
Dmitri stepped back, hand flying to the bone dagger at his belt.
But Semyon was fast—unnaturally fast. His hand shot forward, skeletal fingers brushing Dmitri's throat. The cold pierced him like a blade.
"You think that little charm can stop me?" the dead man hissed.
Then a sound broke through the air—
A scream.
High-pitched. Piercing. Familiar.
Vasilisa.
The forest beyond the cemetery howled as the wind rose violently. Snow whipped in every direction. Dmitri turned, just for a second—and Semyon vanished.
Gone. Like mist pulled into the night.
Dmitri stumbled, gasping, heart hammering like a drum.
He ran.
Back toward the estate. Toward the scream.
Through the snow-choked trees. Past the iron gates. Through the frostbitten rose garden. Until he reached the chapel—the oldest building on the grounds.
The doors were open. The candles inside had been lit. And in the center, standing beside the shattered altar—
Vasilisa.
But she was different now.
Her veil had been torn. Her white gown stained red at the hem. Her skin cracked like porcelain. And her eyes—once filled with vengeance—were now wide with terror.
"He's stronger," she whispered as Dmitri approached. "He was never supposed to return whole."
Dmitri stopped. "You brought him back."
"I wanted him to suffer!" she cried. "To be broken. Trapped. But he is whole."
The chapel trembled.
Dmitri's voice shook. "What does he want?"
Vasilisa met his eyes—and for the first time, she looked truly human.
"To live again."
A roar of wind blew the chapel doors open.
And Semyon's voice filled the room, deep and inhuman.
"Let the bloodline be born again."
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