“Good boy.” Rubbing its fuzzy ears, I waited for my racing heartbeat to return to a normal rhythm.

The monastery’s gate creaked open on rusty hinges, and an older woman stepped out. Her crimson robe hung loosely on her frame, its voluminous folds enveloping a lean face and deep-set blue eyes fanned with wrinkles. Silvery hair fell in straight, thick tufts to her shoulders.

“Come.” She clucked at the dog, who returned to her side. Glancing at our packed rucksacks, she furrowed her eyebrows. “Ah. Refugees?”

“Yes,” Mikhail said, his shoulders sagging in visible relief.

“It’s a bad night for travelers to be out wandering. The Unclean Force is heavy in these parts. The drekavcy are more active than usual, and if you keep going down this road, you’ll pass through a potter’s field. Come inside.”

When the monastery was first built, it must have been beautiful. Now, the paint flaked from the walls, pieces of colored tile were missing from the mosaic floor, and cobwebs festooned the corners of every room we passed through. Paintings of the Three Sisters, minor deities, and saintly bogatyri decorated the walls and ceiling, chalked with dust so that they were nearly as ashen as their caretaker. The icons’ eyes seemed to follow us from room to room.

The main hall contained a massive marble statue dedicated to the Three: Voyna, with her balance scales held aloft and her sovnya pointed skyward, the polearm so tall its curved blade nearly scraped the ceiling; Seredina, carrying her distaff and spindle; and the empire’s namesake, Kosa, with her sheaf of wheat and reaping hook. Rarely were the goddesses referred to by their individual names. Mama and Papa had always called them by their formal title of the Troika or used some variant of the Three Sisters, speaking with quiet reverence.

Passing under their stone-cold faces, I found myself thinking back to Mikhail’s question about who I worshipped. It had been important to Mikhail, a way for him to fit me into a tidy compartment—Strannik or Troika, koldunia or bogatyr.

Why was it so important who I was? The only thing that mattered in this world was the division between life and death.

“My name is Nikita Aleksandrovich,” Mikhail said. “This is my sister, Tamara.”

“Just Toma actually,” I corrected, earning a hard look from him and a bemused smile from the priestess. I cleared my throat. “Thank you for offering us shelter, um...?”

“Irina Sergeyevna, and it is my pleasure.” She led us into a large kitchen where a lone cauldron smoked atop the masonry stove. The oven’s whitewashed stucco had fallen away in patches, revealing underlying bricks. “Sit. Rest.”

“Thank you,” I said, settling into one of the empty chairs. Mikhail chose a seat at the other end of the table, far enough from the hearth that his features were cloaked in darkness.

Irina leaned over the cauldron, stirring its contents. She ladled the stew into bowls and topped each one with a generous spoonful of what could only be sour cream. My mouth watered at the soup’s savory fragrance.