# Mara and Morok

Лия Арден

Таких, как я, называют Марами – отмеченными самой богиней смерти Мораной. Когда-то у меня и моих шести сестер был свой путь.

Тогда люди нас уважали и просили о милосердии. Они приносили нам подношения и молились нам. Но 200 лет назад все изменилось, когда принц Серата осмелился поднять руку на одну из нас.

Я пыталась отомстить, но погибли мы все. Теперь правители Аракена, погрязшие в длительной войне со своим соседом Сератом, решили вернуть меня к жизни. Дать второй шанс на месть и свободу, привязав меня к тому, против кого я никогда не пойду. Таких, как он, называют Морок, и их боятся абсолютно все.

Читайте любовное фэнтези теперь на английском языке!

Welcome to the world of belligerent kingdoms of Serat and Araken, where on the border of good and evil Mara is resurrected for revenge. Grey haired, wearing a scarlet cape, she is tied to the one who has brought her from the grave.

The perfect blend of dark epic fantasy and romance swirls “Corpse Bride” and “Van Helsing” under the scarlet cape of the one, whose spirit is free.

“There were seven of us. Maras – the ones marked by Morana, the goddess of death herself. Once in the world, Maras had their own way. Back then, people respected us and asked for mercy. They brought us offerings and prayed to us. But 200 years ago everything changed when Prince of Serat dared to raise his hand against one of us. That’s how one of us died. Driven by vengeance, the six of us came to the bloody Prince, but were all killed”

Moroks are marked by The Shadow, the non-existence, where the most rotten souls disappear. Prince of Araken, Daniel orders a Morok to revive a Mara called Agatha. Daniel wants Agatha to use her magic to save the heir to the throne, Nikolay, who’s thought to have been poisoned by the King of Serat.

Agatha knows, that she is tied to Morok, and that this is her only chance to take revenge. She is going to help Prince of Araken, but the price of her help will be very high.

## 1

I’m dragging my feet in his wake, doing my best to keep apace with him. For as soon as I slow down, he pulls the chains that are attached to manacles on my wrists and a metal ring around my neck. And if he does it with a jerk, then I’ll keel over right into the muck the road has turned into because of the recent downpour. And I wouldn’t like to stain my new, and so far, the only, clothes I have. Well regardless, this shirt and caftan are much better than the half-rotten rags they raised me from my grave in.

There is a crowd of curious onlookers gathered on the either side of the road. Even though they huddle together, especially when we walk past, they still can’t contain their curiosity – they haven’t ventured out to the middle of nowhere in these small hours for nothing, right? Thick, dark clouds have overcast the autumnal sky and it’s impossible to guess if it’s still morning or if the sun has already started on its way back to the horizon. I can literally feel that nip in the air that signals the upcoming winter. While they were pulling me out of the ground an hour before dawn, I saw my breath escape in tiny clouds of steam and heard the hoarfrost squeaking and crunching underfoot when I stepped onto the grass.

The faces of the people who see me show the whole range of human emotions: from curiosity, to awe, and even terror. But then again, why should I be surprised? I’m sure it’s not every day that they have an opportunity to see a creature from legends and old folk tales raised from the dead. But I have no intention of becoming an exotic beast shown off to entertain the audience, so I lower my head and hope my hood will allow me at least to ignore the prying stares.

Of course, I couldn’t escape those stares even if I tried. My scarlet cloak is too conspicuous against the pale background. My lips break into a thin smile as I realize they have dressed me in these ritual robes on purpose, to remind people of my origins and what I really am. Yes, my sisters and I used to wear these to stand out against the winter landscapes and snow-white shrouds that our Goddess owned. But now I’m splashing through the mud, leaving stains on the hem of my cloak. It shouldn’t bother me at all but that nagging feeling of resentment has already extended its tentacles and is reaching for my chest.

There were seven of us, including me. Maras. This is the name people gave us. We can do things common people do: drink, sleep, fear, die, and scream with pain. The only difference is that we were all marked by Morana, the Goddess of Death, when we were ten years old, and have been destined to do her bidding ever since. You are special, some people said; your mission means more than life, echoed others while taking us away from our families to bring us up in keeping with their illusory higher cause. I wish they’d repeated that to my sisters, now that their flesh is decomposing in the mass grave. Or they might have been burnt and my body alone had the bad luck of remaining intact.

A while ago they may have been right, we might have been special. But everything’s changed.

I died a long time ago and now the world is a far cry from what it used to be.

He finally tugs at the chain and I stumble forward staining my boots even more. If it were anyone else, I would just hiss my curse and the person would bolt, scared out of their wits and worrying that the few words that have escaped my lips might bring bad luck to his whole kin. But with this man, all I can do is look up in terror and see that black-and-gold mask that hides his whole face, partly covered by the shadow from his hood. The mask reminds me of some beast, probably a jackal, with black holes where the eyes should be. Anyone would wonder if there even is a human being behind the mask. Though whether he is human is also a big question. There’s a rumor that there’s no face at all, just the darkness itself or a bare skull. No one can say for sure as no one has seen it and lived to tell the tale. Creatures like him are called Moroks. They serve the Shadow, which has no beginning and no end. It’s nothing but emptiness, silence and endless loneliness.

I drop my gaze and ask for forgiveness. Then, I awkwardly pull my foot out of the mud with a mortifying squelch, to be able to continue walking. I don’t have the guts to look up at him again but I can feel the pressure of his unwavering stare. Two platoons are accompanying us so as to hold back the crowd and prevent them from getting their hands on me. But it all seems a bit excessive, as no one would approach me, even at knifepoint, while Morok is in the vicinity. If I could, I myself would put as much distance as possible between us.

“How can we be afraid of anyone, we, marked by Morana herself?” I remember asking one of my sisters. Well, somehow, we can.

Absolutely everyone is terrified of Moroks.

And it was a Morok who raised me from the ground three days ago and by enabling me to walk and talk, magically tied me to him. I can breathe only while he is breathing. And it’s only the creatures like him who are capable of such sorcery. No one’s offered me a mirror, so I have no idea how I look, though during the first night I surreptitiously touched my face here and there and didn’t feel anything out of the ordinary, except for the hollow cheeks. While examining the rest of my body I just noticed that my skin had a cadaverous look to it and my long, black hair has turned grey. It doesn’t look silver now, just plain grey, like a mouse’s fur. I look at my hands with disgust: the fingers are too thin, like bones wrapped in a bit of skin, and I dread to think what my face looks like right now. Though people are not scattering away in repulsion, which I take as a good sign.

“The skin tone will get back to normal in a while,” Morok croaked a few hours ago when I kept scratching the skin on my wrists hoping I could rub that bluish tint that reminded me of death off my hands.

I froze, horrified. The sound is distorted because of the mask but I suppose it’s the voice of a man, though it’s impossible to tell his age or even if the voice is pleasant or not. I just had the time to register a cold and empty feeling spreading in my chest while he spoke.

“And my hair?” Why do I even worry about that?

But he replied, for the last time during our journey, “Your hair will stay as it is.”

I didn’t probe further.

“We’re here!” I hear the prince announce in a loud voice. He pulls on the reins and his horse comes to a halt. The road stops here. I see that we’ve reached the edge of the woods.

“HALT!” thunders the captain, also pulling on the reins.

All the soldiers, Morok and me come to a standstill and the common people stay fifteen yards behind, not daring to come any closer.

The prince faces me and smiles. He must be happy with the place though I still have no idea why they have dragged me all the way out here, so I don’t rush to join in his cheerfulness. I turn my gaze to the gloomy woods ahead. The trees are mostly leafless and their bare, gnarled limbs stick out in different directions. The further my gaze penetrates the gloomy darkness, the more the fir trees try to block it, and it becomes impossible to make out what is hiding there, in the shadows.

The prince dismounts gracefully and sets off in my direction. Unlike the other men, he hasn’t got any armor on. He’s wearing black trousers and a buttoned-up black coatee with long tails, which fits his well-shaped figure perfectly. The gold-thread embroidery and epaulettes highlight his high status and position of power, though his proud bearing and confident gait could do the trick just as well. He walks past Morok without a flicker of fear on his face, and my guard follows him with his gaze.

“Well, Mara, now, I hope you can show us what you can do.”

The prince speaks gently and the smile reaches to his warm, hazel eyes. He says it as if he is actually asking for my help, but he isn’t. He doesn’t look older than nineteen, the same age I was when I died. But he’s a prince and I’m his prisoner and a walking corpse. He nods to the captain, who hands him a sword, which the prince, in his turn, offers to me.

“Do you want me to chop some wood for the fire?” I ask indifferently.

“Watch your tone when talking to His Royal Highness!” the captain roars.

“It’s alright,” the prince chirps with the same gentle smile.

I may be afraid of Morok, but this Prince Daniel and his soldiers – please! The worst they can do is kill me, and to me that’s not even a threat. The prince takes another step towards me and leans forward so that his voice doesn’t carry.

“Let me repeat, Agatha. I would love to see what you can do.” I try not to reveal my surprise at the sound of my name, I wonder where he knows it from. “It took me a lot of effort to convince my father that your revival is in our own interests. Please don’t make me regret that. You may be dead but don’t forget that I can say one word and you will be sent to a place far worse than where you are now.”

The words make me break out in a cold sweat. I cast a sidelong glance at Morok, who must have heard everything as he’s standing closest to us. Prince Daniel is right. He can utter one short word and Morok will send me to the Shadow. And it’s not death, it’s worse.

“What shall I do?”

“Good girl!” The prince is pleased. He grabs my hand, pulling me closer, and gestures towards the woods. “People say there’s a ghoul dragging young women off to his den, and he’s hiding there. Ghouls are your specialty, right?”

“Right.”

“There are not many evil spirits left in this area, but according to the folk legends, it was Maras and Moroks who used to help people get rid of them,” he goes on, taking no notice of my reply. “Unchain her,” he orders to Morok.

“Your Highness, are you sure it’s safe?” the captain butts in, eyeing me suspiciously.

“Stop worrying, Dariy. You’ll get yourself more silver hairs,” the prince brushes him off. Dariy frowns. “Don’t you know the powers a Morok has? These chains are just props, so that the crowd feels safe. Otherwise, we don’t need them.”

Morok steps closer and starts unfastening the manacles on my wrists, and then from my neck too. I try not to jerk nervously when his long fingers in black gloves brush my skin. Morok is a head taller than me. I can’t guess at his build as his body is covered in black armor and wrapped in a black well-worn cloak. But the shoulder-straps under the cloak make him look broad-shouldered and intimidating. When he’s standing close to me, I want to crouch down and stay as inconspicuous as possible.

“She’s magically bound to Morok and can’t get too far. And even if she attempts to escape, he will track her down in no time. He will follow her trail like a hound. Is that right?”

Morok nods in response and I sigh with relief when he finally steps away from me. I barely have time to rub my neck, sore from the metal ring, before the prince takes hold of my arm and drags me to the edge of the woods.He’s either mad or just stupid. The others at least have the sense not to touch me.

“Agatha,” he sings out my name with something verging on fondness, “I must admit that a lot of time has passed and people have forgotten about the true powers given to you by Morana, and what is left are silly tales to frighten little children and a bunch of fools.”

“And what do they say about us?”

“Hm, for instance, that in winter, you walk among the houses in the dark and call out names. Whoever answers – dies. And some people say that after you die, you continue roaming the earth but carrying your head under your arm.”

I gape at him wondering if he’s just made it all up or if people have really turned us into spooky fairy-tale characters.

“But I was brought up on ancient legends,” the prince goes on completely unperturbed, “about you, Maras, ridding the world of evil, severing the lifelines of tyrants and bestowing the gift of longevity upon the noble monarchs who were good to their subjects. About your scarlet cloaks standing out against snow-white landscapes, your ivory skin with rosy cheeks and ruby-red lips and flowing jet-black hair.”

I’d say he’s mocking me, if not for that dreamy look in his eyes when he runs his fingers through his fair hair, which only barely covers his ears.

“I heard each of you was young and beautiful, a mirror image of Morana herself.” The prince finally turns his gaze back to me and his awe is replaced by condescension, a shade of pity in his smile.

I can hardly keep myself from cringing when he sympathetically pats me on the wrist and holds on to my hand. I want to pull it away but he keeps it tightly in his grasp.

“It’s such a shame I never had a chance to get to know you and your sisters at the peak of your power. I wish I had lived when all the fairy tales were real. But we’ll have time to chat. I’d love to hear some exciting stories about your life. But now, please get rid of the ghoul.”

Prince Daniel stops somewhere between his guards and the edge of the forest. This time I take the sword out of his hands and stand motionless unsure what to do next. The prince folds his arms on his chest and looks at me expectantly.

“Would His Highness like to step back a little?” the corners of my mouth twitch when I see he understands that what I’m really saying is that he’d better clear off.

“He wouldn’t.” His smile becomes even wider, showing his snow-white teeth. “I prefer watching from the first row.”

“Have you ever seen a ghoul?” I’m trying to put him off his stride.

“I’ve seen colorful pictures in the books,” he retorts, obviously not taking the situation seriously at all.

“Then, would you be so kind as to lend me your dagger, too?”

The prince cocks an eyebrow, realizing that if he does, he will be unarmed. He doesn’t have a sword on him. I’m trying to keep a straight face watching his hesitation. I suppose he didn’t read his fairy tales carefully enough if he thinks his dagger could protect him from me. Though even to attempt to kill him would be a stupid thing to do.

“This dagger is my lucky charm, so I hope you’ll give it back to me soon,” he says offering his weapon to me.

“By all means,” I reply stiffly, taking the dagger and heading to the edge of the woods.

Ghoul.

The prince’s information might be incomplete and partly distorted but most of what he was mumbling is true. It only sounds sinister that we were marked by the Goddess of Death, in reality we often did more good than harm, though maybe in an unexpected form sometimes. We can lay to rest something that has been dead a long time but has been clinging to the past life, reluctant to leave this world. That includes ghouls, demons, ghosts, souls of drowned people and other evil spirits. To kill a ghoul, you have to be fast. You have to know that you must cut off the creature’s head and hands, that you need to keep away from its teeth, and that the first spot where it will try to bite you is your neck. And even if you kill it, you have to burn the remains right away, otherwise all your effort will be futile. And that’s only a ghoul. For different spirits there are different rules, and very few people know how to deal with them. But Maras or Moroks can do it all on our own.

Maras have the power of seeing and touching things people can’t see. I only need to touch the spirit to sever its lifeline and give it another chance to move on. That’s exactly what we used to do with my sisters. We would send lost souls on their way to the next world.

It was the primary task of all Maras, but then we got dragged into politics. We started severing the lifelines of the rulers who had brought devastation on their land and people, the tyrants who had nearly destroyed their own countries.

There was a rumor that even before I was born, my sisters bestowed longevity upon two kings. This was also one of our powers but no one knew back then that you had to keep this information a secret, otherwise it would become the thing that’d destroy us. And that’s exactly what happened.

We are not immortal and our mission is dangerous, so a lot of sisters died in the process of cleansing the world from evil. And even if a Mara manages to live a full life, it will only be one and a half times that of a regular person’s lifespan. Before, there was a balance, there were always seven Maras. If one Mara died, another ten-year-old girl would be marked by Morana.

But now I’m the only one left and I can’t see any point in doing people good in return for the evil they have caused us. But first things first, I need to free myself from these ties with Morok, which means I’ll have to behave myself for a while. And in the end, I’m also curious why they risked so much to revive me. Somehow, I don’t think they did it just to get rid of a ghoul.

I throw back the hood and sniff the air trying to smell the ghoul. He’s sleeping in the shadow of the fir trees, waiting for dusk, when the sunlight won’t disturb him anymore. The stench of rotting flesh is easy to distinguish from the fresh fragrance of the woods and the smell of damp soil.

Prince Daniel wants a show, so why not.

And I strike up a song, a quiet ritual prayer set to music. My lips break into an involuntary smile when I hear the prince and his soldiers let out a collective sigh of admiration. It’s not only Maras’ faces that are beautiful, our voices, too. We need these to summon the evil spirits, which come running as if hypnotized. It makes hunting easier but there’s also a side effect…

I notice that Morok has got it all. He’s admiring neither the voice nor the tune, instead he unfolds his arms and starts walking towards me with an intensity that wasn’t there before. But I raise my hand and surprisingly, he freezes, probably deciding to give me a chance.

To be honest, I’m taking a huge risk. Maras only used to attempt a summoning song if at least three sisters had their back. But my own death made me somewhat reckless.

I keep singing for another few minutes. The sound vibrates in my chest, my lungs fill with oxygen and sounds are being pieced together in familiar words as if on their own.

I can feel them waking up. Just as I anticipated, the ghoul is not the only spirit that can hear me. I can feel a low hum spreading through the earth and vibrating in my legs. The birds fall silent terrified by the creatures that are hijacking their home. I finish the song and cast away my cloak, which would only constrict my movements. Under the cloak, I’m wearing plain black trousers, a simple shirt and a buttoned-up caftan in a shade of burgundy. None of it is going to protect me from a blade, nor fangs or claws, but at least I can move quickly. I tighten my grasp on the sword and the dagger, my spine prickling with the anticipation of the on-lookers behind me. I breathe out and start counting to myself, sensing each of their steps.

Nineteen…

Twenty…

Twenty-one…

“Dear Agatha…” the prince starts, he’s already tired of waiting.

Twenty-three…

“Are you going into the woods or do you need some help with that?” He’s almost sneering.

Twenty-four…

Twenty-five…

The first one springs out of the woods earlier than I expect. A foul creature, which looks more like a demon than a human being, but of course he’s neither. He has thin arms and legs with long, deadly claws, greyish skin with an obnoxious green tint is wrapped tightly around his bones, and the mouth is filled with razor-sharp fangs. I block his way when he’s trying to dart towards the soldiers. I dodge his claws diving under his outstretched arm and thrust the sword from behind between his neck and his shoulder. The sword enters his body and I hear the revolting sound of his skin being ripped apart and his collarbone being shattered. The creature trips and falls down in a heap. Everything happens so fast that no one lets out so much as a squeak. But I can see the prince’s face turn white when he glimpses the wrinkled skin of the ghoul, now lying prone in the withered grass. It’s an old ghoul who’s been treading the earth for a long time and his shriveled skin and rare patches of shaggy hair look sickening. I lean in to finish the job and to show them some real magic. To thrust a sword into the creature is no big deal, anyone from those standing around me could do that. I touch the ghoul’s neck lightly with the tips of my fingers and grasp them, sparkling, iridescent, pale golden threads stretching along his spine. Threads of life.

This is our special power. We see these threads of life and can either strengthen them or if we want to, sever them. There should be three of them but the spirits have only one or two left, the others already torn. This ghoul still has two whole ones. I straighten up, holding the glittering threads in my fist, like a trophy, and stretch them as far as possible so that common people can see them too. And then, locking eyes with the prince, who doesn’t even try to hide his admiration, I tear them by jerking my hand upward. The ghoul’s body shudders and becomes still, now for good, and the threads disappear.

My palm is sore, there are two deep cuts where the threads cut into it. But there’s almost no blood as my heart doesn’t work, it doesn’t pump that red liquid through my veins anymore. I hide the cuts by balling my hand into a fist. I should have just cut the threads with a dagger like we always did before. But I put on a show in front of Prince Daniel on purpose, so that he knows that, if need be, I can cut off his life threads just as easily. I’d hoped he would be terrified, but there’s a glint of keen interest in his eyes and an almost happy smile lights up his face. The smile of a person who’s found a diamond instead of a quartz. But I don’t have much time to dwell on the thought as another ghoul jumps out of the woods. I turn to him now only clenching the dagger in my hand and wait for him to attack me. But the creature ignores me and makes a quick about-turn. I have just enough time to swing around and throw my dagger into his head before he jumps at the prince. The ghoul collapses right at Daniel’s feet.

I’ll give him that, the prince doesn’t pass out. Just takes a few steps back. There’s no trace of a smile on his face anymore.

“Oh, my Goddess…” I sigh, realizing my mistake.

I exchange quick glances with Morok. I can’t see his face or guess at his emotions but I have a feeling we are thinking about one and the same thing. I had expected all the spirits to attack only me but forgot that I’m a walking corpse myself. The creatures are attracted to warm blood. I run up to the second ghoul, pull out the dagger and cut off the threads before he can get up again.

“Should I be worried, Agatha?” the prince asks with some tension in his voice.

“Of course not, Your Highness!” I lie. “Or would you like to swap the first row for the last?”

He doesn’t have time to retort as there are new creatures rushing out of the woods. Though it’s only one ghoul and three ghosts. The latter are easier to deal with. I guess these are the souls of people the ghouls have dragged into their dens. But what surprises me is Morok’s behavior, he steps forward and puts some distance between himself and the prince so that the spirits see him first and Daniel later. He probably could finish off these four spirits with his bare hands but instead he turns to me and nods, waiting for me to…protect him? Or is he actually helping me by letting me deal with those on my own?

Maybe he has a fraction of sympathy for me, a Mara who has to prove her usefulness to the royal offspring so that he doesn’t think he’s revived her in vain.

My guess proves true when I see that the creatures dash to Morok and he doesn’t even turn to them, just keeps staring at me. If he weren’t that dangerous and terrifying, I would yell at him calling him every single, filthy swear word I know, but I only have time to rush to him to catch the first ghost stretching his long fingers out to Morok. The ghosts are easier to deal with because their bodies are not made of flesh and blood, instead they seem to be created from something soft, like concentrated energy. They don’t leave physical wounds but one touch of their fingers is enough to make you go mad. Their powers are useless against Maras though, so I stick my dagger-holding hand inside the ghost’s body and cut the threads stretched along the spine.

I hold my breath so as not to smell the stink, but the slime on my dagger hand and the revolting sight of it all catches up with me and I start feeling nauseous. The ghost vanishes at the exact moment when the ghoul jumps at Morok and I recklessly throw myself in front of him to protect him with my own body. I don’t allow myself to let out a scream, only a hiss, when the ghoul sinks his fangs into my shoulder and they pierce through it, shattering a bone. I’d hoped I wouldn’t feel the pain, buthell I was wrong. The pain is almost as acute as if I were alive. The ghoul drives his claws into my other shoulder and clings to me like an enormous leech. His repulsiveness sparks a fury deep inside and I tear him off me, widening my own wounds in the process and exacerbating the pain. As soon as he’s on the ground, I kick it hard and thrust the knife into its neck. It takes me far less time to deal with the other two ghosts. I make sure I cut the threads each time. The ghosts vanish right away but the ghouls, or rather the heaps of bones and flesh that are all that remain of them, are left behind spreading their putrid smell.

I come to a halt and try to catch my breath. I suppose that’s it for today. There’s no one else crawling out of the woods. I take stock of the damage: torn clothes, lacerated wounds that expose injured muscles. There’s more blood than on my palm but no real bleeding. However, the pain is still throbbing and my arms start to go numb. Morok is gazing at my wounds with such indifference, that I can’t help shooting him a dirty look.

“That was fabulous! To kill so many, all by yourself!” Prince Daniel is grinning at me, almost ready to applaud.

I have to fight the urge to stick his own dagger into his stupid, hazel eye and wipe that charming smile off his face. But instead, I stretch out my hand, returning his weapon. Captain Dariy comes running with his soldiers in his wake, to check on the prince.

“Burn the corpses,” I give the order to the Captain and he passes it on to his soldiers.

Daniel accepts my red cloak from one of the soldiers and stepping behind me gently throws it over my shoulders, covering my gruesome wounds.

“It hurts,” I almost whisper.

“Can it hurt?” the prince asks Morok with surprise in his voice.

“Yes, but the wounds will heal in a few days.” Morok’s voice is as low and flat as usual, with zero emotion.

“But I’m… dead… my body can’t heal…”

Morok turns back to me and I instantly regret saying anything.

“Our connection. You will be healed with the help of my powers. The same ones that make you walk and babble right now.”

I bite my tongue and wince in pain. I’d love to ask when the wounds will stop hurting but I don’t dare try his patience.

“Are you satisfied with the performance, Your Highness?” I do my best to keep the contempt out of my voice.

“More than satisfied, my dear Agatha!” He gently wraps my hand with both of his. “Now, it’s about time we cleaned you up and introduced you to my father.”

## 2

220 years ago

“How lucky!”

“The family is blessed!”

“Marked twice!”

The villagers are whispering to each other, huddled together around the house where six Maras, their scarlet cloaks standing out against the snow, are gathered to meet their new sister. And I am among them.

That’s because one of us died of old age last week. And as soon as she let out her last breath, we all felt that a new sister was born, the one who is to take her place. And it is the first time I’m welcoming a new member to the family.

We are already a few days into the first winter month but snow has taken its sweet time this year. The landscape stayed grey and brownish with rotten leaves and sticky mud covering the earth, the legacy of frequent rains, for what seemed like an eternity. But no sooner than we set off on our journey, what does it do? Start snowing – heavily, all day and all night, blanketing the ground and slowing us down.

When we finally arrive at the village, it is after midday. The sky is a dazzling blue, the sun is high and its rays are reflected off the painfully white shroud of snow. The villagers freeze when we brush past them in our scarlet cloaks and the ground is crunching under our boots. I’m thirteen and till now I have been the youngest sister.

I became a Mara three years ago, a week after I turned ten. It happened the same way it does to all of us. Only ten-year-old girls with jet-black hair can discover these powers.

“Are you happy, Agatha?” asks Irina, whose hand I’m clinging to.

Irina is my mentor. It is she who is responsible for my training. She must be around seventy years old but looks no more than thirty. Maras live longer than ordinary people. Up to nineteen, we grow just like everybody else and then our aging process slows down significantly. Or so I was told. That’s why even the oldest of us, who has turned one hundred twenty-three years, looks about fifty.

Irina, like other Maras, has long black hair, a beautiful face and a pleasant smile.

“I’m nervous,” I mumble. “Do you know who she is?”

“No.”

“And when you came to take me, you didn’t know either?”

“We didn’t. You feel that invisible thread… we all feel it as if she’s summoning us,” I nod and she smiles at me. “So, we follow the thread till we find her, our new sister.”

“Why is everyone whispering?” I mutter again, looking around me.

I’ve hated being the center of other people’s attention since I was little, but now thanks to my garments and my powers, everyone notices me, wherever I go.

“Who knows… they might have an idea about who the new sister is,” says my mentor, a mysterious smile playing on her lips.

We arrive last, the other sisters are already gathered in front of the house. We are not going to enter though; everyone knows why we are here. At this very moment the parents of our new sister must be wrapping her in warm clothes and packing some food for her journey… and saying their goodbyes. They must be doing the same things my parents did a few years ago. I’ve never seen them since.

Even if I’d wanted to, I wouldn’t be able to see them because they left our village. That’s another rule. After a girl is taken by Maras, the family must leave. It keeps newly marked Maras from running back to their parents’ home in the first few years of living in the temple, before they get accustomed to their new family.

You can’t run to your parents if you don’t know where to run.

The villagers, too, start gathering around the house. They stand behind us, buzzing with anticipation, casting occasional glances at the closed door. Some people are wondering out loud how beautiful the girl is going to be. Everyone knows she’s going to have a fair complexion and jet-black hair, matching Morana’s. But all Maras have different eye-colors, so there’re no rules here. The Goddess herself is said to have dark-brown eyes, almost black. Irina has hazel eyes and Kira – brilliant green, like dewy grass on a summer morning. My eyes are blue, as cold as ice so my mom used to say. Like beautiful half-transparent ice.

The sisters stand in complete silence, waiting for the family to finish their preparations. I am the only one shifting my weight from one foot to the other, trying to keep warm. I’m looking round a small vegetable patch in front of a simple one-storey house, the lopsided roof of which, like everything else around it, is blanketed in snow, making the walls look almost black. The curtains on the windows are closed, allowing no curious glances inside. White smoke billows from the chimney showing that the family is at home. By the time the door opens, my hands are freezing. I breathe the tiniest cloud of steam onto my cupped hand for the last time and look up.

“Mom…”

Irina gives my left hand a gentle squeeze. She is still holding it in hers but doesn’t resist when I pull it out and take a few steps forward.

“Agatha!” My mom gives a sob.

I hesitate. I’m looking at my parents who are standing in the doorway not daring to take a step towards me. They are not sure if it’s allowed. I glance at the house again, not knowing what to believe, if it is even possible. Peering out from behind their backs is my little sister. She is wearing a blue, winter fur-lined jacket. We were never rich; I would even say we were pretty poor, and this simple winter jacket must be the most expensive item of clothing my sister owns. It brings out the color of her eyes, which are also blue, like mine, but a darker, deeper sky-blue. Our mom often told us that we were beautiful, but even back then I knew it wasn’t true. My sister is the real beauty, you just can’t take your eyes off her. Her complexion is fairer and her hair is darker and shinier than mine, and she has enormous eyes. She always looked like a fancy doll and she still does.

Our mom opens her arms, still sobbing, and without any further hesitation I run up to her and fall into her embrace. Then I hug my dad. I also try to pull my sister in but I can’t reach her.

“That’s true then…”

“The second daughter in the same family!”

“What a blessing!” the villagers are whispering louder now, watching us with rapturous attention.

I look back at my sisters, Maras, and I see them smiling. But these smiles are thin and sad for, unlike the villagers, they realize what a tragedy it is for the family. They know people only talk about the blessing till it comes to their own house and forces them to give up their own child.

And my parents have to give up a second one.

I feel a treacherous joy rising up in me, mixing with bitter disappointment. I know this pain of separation, I know the lessons my sister will have to learn the hard way, the destiny that awaits both of us. We are destined to live a lonely life, devoid of love of our parents or a husband. We can’t marry, our lives are dedicated to ridding the world of evil. I don’t want that for my sister. But the warm feeling that I’m no longer alone is already spreading inside my chest.

“Anna,” I reach out for my baby sister again and now, she presses against me like she used to when she was a baby.

My father wipes away the tears before they fall, but my mother is not trying to hide hers. She cries openly, gently stroking my hair. They don’t say anything to the other Maras because they know that no pleas or threats will stop them. Anna will be taken away no matter what, even if she has to be prized away from her parents’ arms.

They say there used to be families that tried to escape and save their daughters from their destiny. But it would always end the same way. The girl would be either given up voluntarily or taken from the arms of already dead parents. So now, no one even tries to resist. No girl who was marked by Morana has ever managed to escape her fate.

But no family has ever been ‘blessed’ with two Maras either. I glance at the Maras again and it hits me. Anna must be special.

Irina steps forward and gives me her hand. I grasp it like a straw and follow my mentor. My other hand is still grasping Anna’s, so I’m dragging her away too, to some new, magical world that she’s only heard of from the fairy tales and legends. The world that will become her new reality, so different from the one we used to dream of, huddled together around the fire on cold, winter evenings.

## 3

I grit my teeth when Prince Daniel orders his men to find a white steed for me, even if they had to turn the whole village inside out in the process. The more time I have to spend in his company, the more annoyed I become. His childish enthusiasm and the way he talks about the old legends, which for me are (or rather used to be) harsh reality, are really starting to get to me.

“I don’t need a white steed, Your… Highness.” I add the last word under Dariy’s intense and hostile stare. I’m doing the best I can not to snap at him that the dislike is mutual.

Daniel turns to me and his lips break into a ready smile. Either he doesn’t notice the way he sets my teeth on edge or he’s doing it on purpose, just to have a little fun at my expense. And judging by the fact that his smile that doesn’t stretch to his observant eyes, I’m gravitating towards the latter.

“Oh, my dear Agatha, but you do! For two centuries people have thought of Maras as a thing of the past…”

“We are.” I butt in.

“…and here you are, in your scarlet cloak…” he goes on paying no heed to my comment. “…entering the capital on a white steed. A living legend. White is one of your colors, isn’t it?”

“It is, but…”

“Good!” says Prince, turns away from me and shouts to his soldiers to double down on the search.

I feel an overwhelming urge to give him a good kick, but one glimpse of Morok stifles it immediately. He’s standing still like a statue, in his black armor and his black-and-gold mask, half hidden by the hood. If Maras’ colors are red, black and white, Moroks are said to wear only black and gold.

The Shadow’s servants are just as real as Maras or evil spirits, but back when I was still alive, they were somewhat of a legend or a cautionary tale for Maras. They have a similar job to ours, they lay lost souls to rest. But if Maras were always easy to reach and anyone could come to the temple and ask for our help, Moroks are hard to come by. Rumor has it that there are only three to five Moroks out there at any one time and only a few people know for sure where their temple is or if they have one at all. Moreover, not many people would have the guts to reach out to them even if they knew how to. Maras are merciful, even when we sever the life threads tying you to earth, we offer a chance of reincarnation, of life after death. The soul finds its peace and flies to the Goddess, who will determine its next life form. Death at Morok’s hand is… the end. There’s no rebirth, no second chances. Some say that Moroks can also send a soul to the Shadow forever. No one and nothing is there, there are no smells or sounds, it’s neither hot nor cold in the Shadow. Just an eternal excruciating emptiness that you can’t escape. The mere thought of that place, impossible even to imagine, makes me shudder.

Kings used to take interest in Maras for our ability to prolong a life. But a Morok has a different power, to raise the dead from their graves by tying them to him. One Morok can only raise one person. However, I still haven’t figured out how they managed to raise me from the dead. It’s been two hundred years since I died. Why hasn’t Morana taken my soul? Why hasn’t my body completely decomposed? However, now is not the time to pester my convoy with questions. For now, I’m just watching the prince and Morok as carefully as possible. And that’s another mystery: why is a Morok helping a prince in the first place?

Apart from this one, I’ve only seen a Morok once. It was when I was seventeen. That Morok was wearing a raven mask. I know each Morok has his own mask, it’s magically tailor-made to suit each particular servant of the Shadow and is given some additional powers. But neither when I was seventeen nor now can I seem to muster enough courage to pry further.

I am back in my room at an inn. It’s our last stop on our way to the capital. We’ve already been on the road for about a week. The rumors about a live Mara who has been raised from the dead and showed her powers by vanquishing a few ghouls have spread quicker than we expected. I hear people ooh and aah whenever they see our procession. But as soon as they glimpse Morok, they huddle in small groups, apprehensively watching us pass by.

As it has turned out that manacles are excessive and Morok could hunt me down easily without them, Prince Daniel has decided to discard them. But barely a minute passes without me wondering if I can ask him to put them back on, if it means I don’t have to travel on Morok’s mount together with the Shadow’s servant himself. The first time, he lifted me up like a sack of potatoes and sat me down right in front of him, pressing hard against his chest. But he relented when the pain in my shoulders made me hiss. Since then, Morok has been gentler while helping me on his horse, but for the first couple of days every time he put his arms around me from behind, I shuddered with fear. On the third day, the fear didn’t subside, but I learnt how to relax my muscles while sitting so close to this monster.

Back in the room, I’m packing my few possessions. Prince Daniel treats me now a bit less like a puppet he has taken hostage, and more like a welcome guest. How ironic. These cute gifts he’s been showering me with, like a hair comb with an exquisite bone handle from one village, a piece of fragrant lavender soap from another, a brand-new dress to replace the caftan, ruined by the ghoul, from a third village, just make me want to roll my eyes. But beggars can’t be choosers, so I gratefully receive all the presents with a smile, albeit condescending. It’s all I can manage, considering that the prince can be showering me with gifts one day, and tossing me back into the grave the other.

The wounds have already healed, just as Morok promised, and even my skin has turned a shade pinker. In one of the villages, I finally found a full-length mirror. I wanted to see how bad a walking corpse could look like. On the whole, it was better than expected.

I smell like lavender because of the soap, my skin doesn’t peel off anymore, and my body is not falling apart. On the contrary, with each passing day, I’m starting to look more and more like a living person. At the beginning, my skin did have this blueish tint to it, but now it’s just a bit paler than normal. I have lost a lot of weight and my jawline is sharper than I’m used to, which makes me look older than nineteen. But Morok has reassured me that it will get even better and the more time passes, the more I will resemble myself. Apart from my hair and eyes. My once jet-black hair has remained grey and my eyes have become lighter and foggier, which makes me look eerie.