We headed deeper into the forest. As the minutes passed, the ache in my hands turned into a steady throbbing, and my legs wobbled from exhaustion. At last, I spotted a dark gash through the trees and sighed in relief. The river. Just a little farther.

Rusalki swam through the shallows, exposing a hand here, a webbed foot there. Their skin was even paler than Mikhail’s ashen complexion, their limbs disproportionately long compared to their gill-split torsos. One lifted her head above the water as we neared, her burgundy hair curtaining her face. I couldn’t see much more than her flared nostrils and the curve of her full lips—slick and crimson, like a gaping wound—but even that brief glimpse was enough to send a shiver down my spine.

I had never seen a rusalka lift her head above the water before. Maybe she could smell Mikhail. Smell his blood.

I swallowed the lump in my throat and stepped onto the rope-festooned bridge. The rusalki swam back and forth beneath us but didn’t attempt to climb up. I avoided looking at them directly, instead focusing on the path ahead.

One step after another. The slick wood creaked, and the bridge swayed in the grasp of the storm. One step after another. Why couldn’t I have been born a bogatyr? I would have killed to be able to levitate Mikhail right now.

No sooner had I reached the other side than two figures appeared ahead. Recognizing my parents’ lurching gait, I sighed in relief. Galina followed behind them.

“We need to help him,” I said as Mama pressed her hands against my face, my hair, my ears—all the parts of her that had withered.

“You’re not hurt, are you?” Her voice crackled like frost underfoot; it grew softer each year, until I was afraid that one day it would fade away for good.

“I’m fine, but Mikhail isn’t. I think he’s dying, Mama.” I swallowed hard. “And the other boy, the bogatyr, he’s dead. They killed him.”

“Toma, Galina, return home,” Papa said, his words muffled by the wooden mask covering his face. His entire body was restrained in leather belts and scraps of hide and oilcloth, leaving no amount of withered flesh exposed. His garments were the only things keeping him together, with the rusty splints providing additional support for where his joints failed him.

“But, Papa, Mikhail—”

His mask turned to me, a careful construct of the face he had lost, carved by his own hands. No eye holes, just the bulbous shapes of eyes, uplifted like those on a saintly icon. “Return. We will take him back.”

I wanted to argue, but I knew better. While my legs could fail me halfway up the next slope, Mama and Papa could go on until time tore them apart.

“All right.” I took a step back. “Come, Galina. Let’s go.”

I hurried in the direction of home, only glancing back when Galina and I climbed a low hill. My adoptive parents held the makeshift sled’s rope, soldiering on with grim determination. I hoped that the strain wouldn’t lead to torn muscles or severed limbs, the unfortunate consequences of pushing their bodies past the breaking point.