Echoes of the Oracle

The air in the hidden alcove tasted of damp earth and forgotten secrets. Moonlight, a pale, spectral visitor in Wallachia’s perpetual twilight, painted slivers of silver across Marishka’s face as she traced the lines of an ancient parchment. Her brow was furrowed, her lips pressed into a thin line of concentration, and the faint hum of power that always emanated from her was amplified, a restless energy vibrating against the stone walls. I watched her, a knot of apprehension tightening in my chest. This was not the Marishka who laughed with the wind in her hair, nor the one whose touch ignited a wildfire within me. This was Marishka, the sorceress, wrestling with shadows I could only glimpse.

“What is it?” I finally asked, my voice low, an echo in the hushed space.

She started, her hand flying to her chest as if I had startled a trapped bird. Her eyes, usually pools of twilight reflecting my own anxieties, were wide with a fear that was not entirely for herself. “Mihail,” she breathed, her voice a tremor. “It is… a prophecy.”