The sun blazed high in the sky, casting an unforgiving light over a clearing nestled deep in the noisy forest. The sound of axes rhythmically striking trunks echoed in the distance, mixed with the rasping of saws cutting through thick wood.
Beneath the shade of a sturdy tree at the northern edge of the clearing, a group of lumberjacks rested, their hoarse voices and muffled laughter blending with sips of water and bites of stale bread.
"So..." one of them said, breaking a conversation about harvests and wagers. He was a man of imposing presence, with shaggy brown hair and a thick beard that spilled over his protruding belly. His body was a rough mix of muscle and fat. "Heard about the village of Sens?" he asked, his expression tense and worried.
Another lumberjack, smaller and nimbler, sitting cross-legged while peeling an apple with a short knife, responded between bites:
"They say it was demons..." he said with a mouth full, as if it were already fact.
"I think so too," grumbled the burly lumberjack, rubbing his stomach with a calloused hand. "Who in their right mind would do something so monstrous? That's not human..." He turned, calling the attention of a third.
Lying on his back in the grass, a sun-weathered man of dark skin only grumbled in response. His unkempt black hair and patchy beard gave him a careless air, but his muscular build and lack of a shirt told a different story — he was strong, forged by hard labor.
"And you, Ivan?" the big lumberjack insisted. "What do you think?"
Ivan opened one eye, annoyed, and answered in a lazy voice:
"I don't care." He turned his face away, closing his eyes again. "Talking about this won't pay my bills."
The larger man let out a loud laugh, slapping his belly.
"That's the Gorynych we know!" he said, laughing loud, joined by the others.
Their laughter echoed among the trees until it was interrupted by a harsh and powerful voice from the back of the clearing.
"Hey, you lot!" barked a hunched old man, his skin worn by time, nearly bald with eyes barely open, as if he could hardly see. "Get back to work, you bunch of layabouts!" he shouted, mixing orders with curses without ceremony.
The lumberjacks quickly fell silent, grabbing their tools and returning to work with muted grumbling. All... except one.
Still lying on the ground, Ivan remained motionless, ignoring the movement around him.
"GORYNYCH!" roared the old man, this time so loudly that the trees shook and the other lumberjacks instinctively covered their ears.
Ivan, annoyed, finally stood up using a branch lying nearby for support, and replied in the same thunderous tone, "WHAT IS IT, OLD MAN!?"
"Get your butt up and go check the dam!" the elder ordered, shaking his fist in the air.
Ivan huffed, not hiding his bad mood, and with heavy steps began walking down the trail leading to the dam. As he walked away, the sun lit his sweaty back, revealing a symbol etched into his skin — a triskelion, three interlocked spirals in eternal motion.
Ivan whistled carefreely as he walked along the trail, the rustling of oak leaves accompanying his steps. In his right hand, he swung the branch he had taken from the clearing — the piece of wood sliced through the air with sharp whistles, as if playing with the wind itself.
He only stopped when the sound of the forest was overtaken by another: the steady murmur of the great Fontes River. The current was alive and crystalline, and its banks, covered in gleaming stones, reflected the sunlight like scattered jewels.
There, amid the construction of the dam — where thick logs were stacked to hold back the river's course — something made him pause. Ivan calmly climbed up the structure and began counting the logs, his low voice keeping rhythm with the numbers:
"Thirteen... fourteen... fifteen... sixte—"
He stopped counting.
Something caught between the logs was moving.
A wicker basket. And it was shifting on its own, as if it had a life of its own.
"What the hell...?" Ivan muttered, narrowing his eyes. Using the branch he still held, he carefully pulled the basket up onto the dam.
A strange smell filled the air, like that of freshly caught fish. The lumberjack wrinkled his nose, but curiosity won out. Gently, he began to open the lid of the basket.
Inside, wrapped in a soaked white cloth, was a baby — fragile, small, alive.
Even wet, the cloth revealed a single word written in faded red: "Samo."
"Samo...? What the...?" Ivan whispered, carefully unwrapping the fabric to reveal the baby's face, which immediately burst into cries.
The child had extremely pale, almost translucent skin, and deep blue eyes that seemed to peer into Ivan's very soul. Strands of red hair peeked from the small head, hinting at an unusual lineage.
"How could anyone... abandon a child like this?" the man said, somewhere between shock and sorrow, as he lifted the baby into his arms.
The moment he did, a warm, comforting sensation washed over him. And then, without him noticing, one of the spirals of the triskelion on his back glowed faintly — the central spiral, the one that represents... Life.
The baby stopped crying...