Vesna

In Snezhnaya, the clan name "Strivozha" is one of certain importance.

This ancient Vila bloodline, which was already in existence long before Snezhnaya's turbulent early days, has weathered countless storms and earned countless honors over the years.

Vesna is evidently worthy of the name. Radiant and graceful, she exudes effortless refinement and quiet poise... well, at least most of the time.

A veritable free spirit, she refuses to be bound by the norms of polite society. This can often lead to surprising antics.

Sometimes, she drives the train at such reckless speeds that all it leaves behind is a blur — and a reprimand waiting for her at the end of the line. At other moments, she carefully, meticulously, scrupulously slips a chosen slice of sour lemon onto a colleague's plate...

But no one would ever question Vesna's virtue or honor, for they come from her sword rather than superficial mores and gestures.

The Druzhna is the blade wielded by the Tsaritsa herself, and Vesna is its keenest edge.

It was early February when winter had yet to release its hold. On the outskirts of Snezhnaya stood a secluded country estate of House Strivozha, wrapped in silence.

Grand Duchess Benigna had spent the nine months of her pregnancy in peaceful retreat here. Hers was an easy, untroubled existence, filled with little more than long hours among the flowers and greenery she tended herself.

Few gardens could boast such strange and uncommon flora. Among its collections were rare varieties sought out across the land: summer buttercups, white currants, five-petaled lilacs, berryless elderberries...

Then there were the curiosities created by House Strivozha's own perfumers and apothecaries: hybrids of dill and coriander, of saffron crocus and Snezhnayan winter aconite...

Some ancient strains were said to have survived since the days of Saint Strivozha. One of these survivors now held the Grand Duchess's attention: a red fern the color of flame.

It had stood in the garden since before she became its keeper, and never once in all those years had it strayed from the old rhythm of the seasons.

Autumn saw it fade, and through winter it lay dormant. Not until spring returned would its tender crimson fiddleheads emerge, tightly curled like the head of a violin, heralding another season of life.

But that year, winter had not yet relinquished its presence, and already the fern's stems were swelling, lush and full with a vigor wholly foreign to the season.

At its base, a fine blush-red fuzz was spreading over the soil, threaded with tiny, translucent scales shaped like hearts.

Within them, sap could be seen coursing slowly through delicate veins, like the first pulse of blood from a newborn heart. This was the earliest form of the fern's new fronds.

The Vila had always possessed an instinctive affinity with nature, and Grand Duchess Benigna knew at once that what she was seeing was no ordinary growth. For the fern's natural cycle had been brought forward by a full month.

She got to her feet and went to examine the other parts of the garden, only to find out that wherever she went, the surrounding plants immediately began to show the same signs of premature growth.

She was about to inform her father and husband when, perhaps from the strain of pregnancy — or perhaps because of some long-pending fate written high above — she stepped on a patch of unmelted ice.

With a startled cry, she fell.

The fall cost the garden its rare crimson fern. It also brought Benigna's child to follow the example of all those early-blooming shoots — emerging into the world a full month before she was due.

Thankfully, the little one was unexpectedly healthy, and her mother made a full recovery within just a few weeks.

And yet, it was the winter itself that came to an early end that year. Birches budded ahead of their season and grass pierced the frozen earth, bringing the long cold to an untimely close.

The story eventually reached Her Majesty the Tsaritsa, who came to the Vila estate in person to visit the Grand Duchess and her extraordinary newborn daughter.

It is said that the Tsaritsa took such a liking to the child, so much so that she gave her a name herself.

Vesna — the spring that walks beside her.

When Vesna was little, her mother would lull her to sleep each night with warm little stories.

Those stories were all made up from the flowers and herbs in her garden, and most began in much the same way:

"Vesna, my brave little snowball flower..."

"Vesna, my lucky little lilac..."

"Vesna, my clever little cornflower..."

Night after night, nestled in the tenderness of her mother's words, Vesna felt perfectly safe and warm.

Of all those one-of-a-kind endearments, there was one Vesna remembered more clearly than any other:

"Vesna, my immortal little flame fern..."

She knew that fern well. There was nothing else like it anywhere in the world, and nowhere else could it be found but in the gardens of House Strivozha.

It was a fern cultivated by the hand of her ancestor, Vaselisa von Strivozha, The Pure One, Lady of the Vila of Veneter.

Thousands of years ago, she presented Emperor Monomakh with a perfume blended from the fern's fronds, earning a renown that would endure for generations.

The fern came to embody the purity, benevolence, sincerity, and immortality of Saint Strivozha and the Vila.

But the legendary fern had been crushed in the accident that brought Vesna into the world, and from that day onward, it never grew again.

The once immortal life had left the garden, just as the immortal Saint Strivozha herself had long since departed from her faithful descendants.

Young Vesna thought she had discovered a truth: nothing in this world was truly everlasting. Sooner or later, everything had to leave.

And so she looked up at her mother, eyes shining with conviction, and declared,

"Mom, I understand what you were trying to say. Nothing lasts forever. Even spring has to leave someday."

"So when spring is here, we should enjoy spring. And when summer comes, we should be happy to see summer. Autumn and winter too."

"We just have to make sure we don't waste any of our days. That's what you mean, right?"

Benigna stared at Vesna in surprise, but a smile soon tugged at the corners of her lips.

"My clever girl. You've thought this through even better than I have. And yes, of course you're right."

"But think a little harder. Surely there must be something in this world that lasts forever..."

Vesna's eyes went wide. "What is it? What is it?"

Benigna pulled her into her arms, bent down, and planted a soft kiss on her tender cheek.

"Oh, silly girl. My love for you will last forever."

In the eyes of the Vila elders, Vesna had all the makings of a legend from the very beginning, born as she was with the blessings of spring and winter upon her.

Yet even with every expectation that she was destined for greatness, the pace of her growth never ceased to amaze them.

At one year old, while other Vila her age were still crawling about and babbling, Vesna could already name every flower and herb in the garden.

At two, when the first chitinous tips of her peers' scaled wings were only just beginning to show, she was already riding the wind on her own wings, circling the estate a dozen times over without coming down.

And by three, just as other young Vila were beginning to learn the art of blending flowers and herbs into fragrances and elixirs, Vesna's own creations had already become fixtures upon the dressing tables of ladies at court.

Within that tiny frame coursed a vitality far beyond the ordinary, as though the spring that had arrived alongside her all those years ago had never truly departed, but instead lived on in every radiant smile that crossed the girl's face.

Of all the elders who delighted in Vesna's smiles, only one truly understood what kind of power the girl might be displaying.

That person was Pyotr, Grand Duchess Benigna's father, Vesna's grandfather, the reigning Grand Duke of the Vila.

On the night of Vesna's fifth birthday, after the celebrations had drawn to a close, Grand Duke Pyotr summoned his young granddaughter to his study and entrusted her with a secret of immense importance.

It was a history older even than the Silver Court of Veneter, one that reached back to the very origins of the Vila, to the age of Hyperborea.

It is said that, in that distant age, the Angel of Angels stole a fragment of power from one who must not be named. Passed from hand to hand through the ages, that fragment eventually vanished into the bloodline of the Vila.

The strange signs that accompanied Vesna's birth — spring itself arriving ahead of its time — and the astonishing speed of her growth all pointed to the same conclusion: that ancient power had awakened within her.

Its name was Life.

At the time, Vesna was still too young to understand the full weight of that word. Even so, what her grandfather told her next still struck deep.

"Everyone knows we Vila stand for sincerity, honor, benevolence, and above all, our unwavering loyalty to Her Majesty the Tsaritsa."

"And yet, from the time of Grand Duchess Gluvasha five hundred years ago to this very day... not once have we Vila truly had Her Majesty's trust."

Had those words come from anyone but her own grandfather, Vesna would never have believed them.

But before she could ask why, he placed upon her young shoulders a burden no child her age should ever have been asked to bear.

"Vesna, pride of our people. You are the only one in our family for five hundred years fortunate enough to awaken the power carried in our blood."

"And in those same five hundred years, you alone have been blessed with a name bestowed by Her Majesty herself."

"Perhaps the fate of House Strivozha for the next five centuries now rests in your hands."

After the age of five, Vesna was never seen at a public school again. Her grandfather instead brought masters from various disciplines to the estate, each of them charged with overseeing a part of her education.

Her days were soon filled from morning to night with lessons meant for the very best. There was no longer time to run off and play with her friends, nor were there many chances to roam freely through the garden at home.

Even outings into the countryside with her mother were strictly rationed by her grandfather. All of it was justified because Vesna was the hope of House Strivozha.

Little by little, her time ceased to be her own. And as it dwindled, so too did the bright, springlike smile that had once seemed forever upon her face.

Vesna could never quite decide whether the Tsaritsa's distrust of the Vila truly existed, or whether it was merely something her aging grandfather had convinced himself of.

Another five years passed in much the same way, until one stormy winter night, when the arrival of a very special tutor changed everything.

According to her grandfather, securing this particular teacher had taken no small amount of effort. He had pulled every string he could and spared no expense to persuade them to come.

That night, Vesna sat stiffly in the study, waiting with a knot of unease in her stomach. Before long, the door eased open, and a diminutive visitor quietly stepped inside.

The visitor shrugged off a snow-dusted coat, revealing the face that had been hidden beneath the shadow of the hood. The moment Vesna recognized it, a small gasp escaped her.

Her mysterious new tutor was none other than Pulcinella, The Rooster, Mayor of Snezhnograd, Presiding Member of the Snezhnograd Veche, and the Fifth of the Fatui Harbingers.

The Snezhnaya's highest-ranking chief executive glanced around the room, then went to fetch a chair from the corner himself, one nearly as tall as he was. He set it before Vesna, took his seat, and spoke in a kindly voice.

"Good evening, my dear Miss Fern. I hope you'll forgive me for speaking with your mother beforehand. She suggested that little name might help put you at ease. I hope it did the trick?"

The mention of her mother and that familiar old nickname certainly helped lower the tension on Vesna's shoulders. "Yes, Mayor Pulcinella. I feel much better now."

The Rooster smiled and gave an approving nod, "I'm glad. You're very fortunate to have a mother like yours. Your grandfather, though... Grand Duke Pyotr can be rather less comforting company, can't he?"

A little of Vesna's unease returned. She could not tell what the Mayor meant by the question, and certainly did not dare answer it carelessly.

Fortunately, The Rooster raised a hand, sparing her the need to answer, "Your grandfather must have told you that he went to considerable trouble to secure me as your teacher. What do you make of that?"

This question seemed harmless enough. Vesna thought for a moment before answering, "If Grandfather really had the power to arrange such a thing, then you would have come long ago, Mayor Pulcinella."

The Rooster smiled broadly and gave his mustache a thoughtful twirl, "It seems I really should have come sooner to meet such a clever young lady. And you are quite right. The truth is, I am here at Her Majesty's behest."

Without waiting for Vesna to respond, his expression grew a shade more serious, "Her Majesty sent me to put one of your doubts to rest. The crisis your grandfather, Grand Duke Pyotr, fears is no figment of his imagination."

"To Her Majesty, House Strivozha has never been entirely beyond suspicion. Of all the seats on the Snezhnograd Veche, only a scant few are reserved for your family, even fewer than those allotted to the merchant class."

Even with the truth laid so plainly before her, Vesna still found herself unwilling to accept it. "But our family has such a long and glorious history... Why?"

The Rooster cast a mild glance toward the window. "Then I imagine your mother has already told you the story of the crimson fern..."

"The Vila have always had a gift for turning plants into fragrances and elixirs... But did you know that, if fragrance and medicine had a younger brother, his name would be poison?"

"Saint Strivozha may have used the fern for nothing more sinister than perfume, but five hundred years ago, Gluvasha of House Strivozha brewed its fronds into mead and used it to poison the former Grand Duke Photius with her own hands."

"She openly threw in her lot with the rebels who had risen against the Tsaritsa. First, she drove an envoy from the Zapolyarny Palace out of her lands. Then, without waiting for Her Majesty's sanction, she began raising retainers of her own..."

"As such, though wary and distrustful of one another, the rebels of the various fae clans were always willing to entrust their secrets to the Vila, leaving her to devise their plans."

"In the end, she handed every last scrap of that intelligence over to Her Majesty, helping her crush the rebellion in one fell swoop. She even surrendered her lands and abdicated of her own accord, all with her honor seemingly spotless. But indulge me for a moment, Vesna, had Her Majesty failed to swiftly defeat those rebellious Volkodlak lords, whom do you suppose House Strivozha's retainers would have turned their swords upon?"

"Ironic, isn't it? The fern that symbolizes purity, sincerity, and benevolence among the Vila conceals a history of schemes far less fit for the light of day."

"You don't need me to spell out your ancestor's motives. A girl as clever as you should have little trouble piecing them together for herself."

"And Gluvasha was hardly an exception. The history of the Vila is littered with those who kept a foot in every camp, smiling sweetly while keeping a knife close at hand. That, Vesna, is why House Strivozha has never truly earned Her Majesty's trust."

Vesna sat frozen in her chair, too stunned by the revelation to find her voice. The Mayor had already taken his leave, but before he did so, he had made her a promise.

Tonight, he answered one of Vesna's questions. In three days, he would return. And this time, he would expect an answer to a question of his own.

Those three days were anything but peaceful for Vesna.

The proud history of her family, once a source of such certainty, had begun to crumble before her eyes. And before she could fully come to terms with that bitter truth, one question after another came crowding into her mind.

Why did the Tsaritsa choose to name her? Why did that fragment of sacred authority awaken within her?

Why did the Mayor himself come all this way simply to answer her doubts? And what did the Tsaritsa truly intend by sending him?

What question would she be answering three days from now? And would the answer she gave be one they could accept?

More troubling was the history her family had spent so many years carefully dressing up. The Tsaritsa had never once seen fit to expose the truth, and yet now, she had revealed it all to Vesna with such ease that startled her...

Could she be planning something against her grandfather, perhaps even against House Strivozha? And if so, would Vesna be forced to choose between her family and the Tsaritsa?

Vesna dared not follow that thought any further. Nor could she bring herself to voice these suspicions to her parents or her grandfather. But if matters truly came to what she feared, then somewhere in the silence of her heart, she had already made her choice.

Three days passed, and the two met again in the study as promised. Vesna sat rigidly at the desk, unable to keep the look of someone ready for battle from her face.

The Mayor shook his head, "Good evening, my dear Miss Fern. You don't mind if I still call you that, do you?"

Vesna blinked. After learning the uglier chapters of her family's history, she had expected herself to recoil instinctively from the name.

But she didn't. If anything, the moment she heard it, the first thing that came to mind was her mother's gentle and caring face.

"...My little flame fern... My love for you will last forever..."

Tears suddenly glimmered at the corners of Vesna's eyes. "Me too, Mother," she whispered. Then, as though some momentous decision had just been made, she raised her head and spoke each word with unwavering resolve.

"Sir, I will not betray my mother. I will not betray House Strivozha. And I will never betray Her Majesty the Tsaritsa, who gave me my name."

"If Her Majesty can no longer believe in the loyalty and honor of House Strivozha, then let my blood restore them."

"Don't ask me what my answer is. It's right here!"

With that, Vesna drew a dagger and drove it into the table between them. Then she stiffened her neck, squeezed her eyes shut, and solemnly presented herself like some valiant martyr awaiting the blade.

Pulcinella stared at the scene before him, momentarily dumbfounded. He quickly cleared his throat several times. "Miss Vesna... I believe there may have been a misunderstanding."

"The question Her Majesty wanted me to ask you was: What is love?"

Vesna's eyes flew wide, still bright with unshed tears. "What? What do you mean? What's the question?"

"Well... Her Majesty is, after all, the god who presides over love. She simply wished to know what love means in your eyes, Miss Vesna."

"Think of it as the sort of thing a mother might casually ask her child while they were out on a pleasant trip together. You know, Her Majesty chose your name herself, and she has always been rather fond of you."

"Oh... I don't mean to suggest that Her Majesty wishes to be your mother, of course. Though she has been keeping an eye on your growth all these years... But you already have a wonderful mother of your own."

"Er... In any case... I'm sure you can treat it as a perfectly ordinary question. Please don't read too much into it."

The Mayor chose his words with great care, wary of giving the imaginative young Vila any more ideas she might run away with.

Yet faced with his question, Vesna found there was nothing to think about. She had never been asked it before, but the answer had been part of her life for as long as she could remember.

"Vesna, my brave little snowball flower..." "Vesna, my lucky little lilac..." "Vesna, my clever little cornflower..."

Once more, she heard the sweet little stories her mother had woven for her. Not even a second passed before she gave the answer.

"Love is creation! It's the power to create strength for those we cherish, to create laughter, courage, and hope. Yes, love is creation."

The Mayor left the Strivozha estate with a joyful expression on his face.

He couldn't say whether Her Majesty would be pleased with Vesna's answer, but he himself had a good feeling about it — and about Vesna too, that charming little girl who seemed to carry spring wherever she went.

Before departing, he had made a point of telling Grand Duke Pyotr that he was no longer to oversee Vesna's education. Her Majesty, it seemed, already had something far more suitable in mind.

Perhaps in a week's time, Vesna would become his student in earnest. Perhaps a year from now, she would take her seat as the youngest councilor ever to serve on the Snezhnograd Veche.

Whatever the future held, Pulcinella was certain that after tonight, warmth and laughter would return at last to the once silent and joyless Vila estate. After all, "Vesna" was never meant to describe winter.

"Vesna, Vesna... There is an unconquerable spring within you. May you one day help Her Majesty create a world with much love in it."

After the banquet celebrating Vesna's appointment as commander-in-chief of the Druzhna, she returned to her family estate and climbed up to the roof, where she unearthed an old recruit's badge buried beneath a layer of dust.

It ended up there because of a little story her mother once told her: if a soldier left their badge somewhere high above the ground, then their career, too, would only climb higher.

Vesna was already too old to believe such stories by then, but she followed her mother's advice all the same.

After all, from the very day she joined the Druzhna, she had known that becoming its supreme commander was only a matter of time.

And when that day finally came, her mother would surely be delighted to know that one of her made-up stories had truly helped her daughter along.

Still lost in thought, Vesna made her way to the edge of the roof and sat down quietly beneath the eaves. Her fingers traced the grooves in the badge's metal surface, and before long, her thoughts drifted back several years.

On the night The Rooster got Vesna's answer, he also told her what Her Majesty the Tsaritsa envisioned for her future.

She might remain at his side and learn from him, eventually taking a seat on the Snezhnograd Veche when the time was right and working her way toward the heart of Snezhnaya's government.

Or she might join the Fatui's military directly, with a place among the Eleven Harbingers perhaps awaiting her in the future.

With possibilities like those filling her head, Vesna arrived at the Zapolyarny Palace a week later for an audience with the Tsaritsa, only to walk away with something neither path had prepared her for: a Druzhna recruit's badge.

And the mentor she had expected to be The Rooster, turned out instead to be The Captain, the First of the Fatui Harbingers.

The Rooster caught her eye from across the hall and gave her a "change of plans" look before declaring with impeccable solemnity, "This was Capitano's idea."

After the ceremony, Vesna, now visibly uneasy, followed the silent Capitano to the training grounds.

She was already beginning to worry about what's ahead of her. Exceptional though she was among her own people, the Vila had never been a race known for their combat prowess.

The Captain opened his mouth, his voice deep and firm. "I've heard about you."

"With your talent, you have no reason to doubt yourself. And with the kind of person you are, you have every reason to hold your head high."

Those words eased some of Vesna's tension, but did not entirely put her fears to rest. She ventured cautiously, "Lord Capitano..."

"You should call me Teacher." The deep voice cut her off.

"Teacher... It's not that I lack confidence. I've always believed myself to be the finest House Strivozha has to offer."

"I'm just worried... if the day ever comes when that power that was never truly mine leaves me, will I still be able to live up to everyone's expectations?"

The Captain did not answer at once. Instead, he slowly lowered himself into a crouch, bringing his imposing frame level with Vesna's.

Then, facing her directly, he reached up and removed his mask. An overwhelming presence suddenly washed over her.

Vesna instinctively sensed that whatever lay behind that presence was of the same order of power as the force of Life coursing through her blood.

"As you can see. Just like you, I carry within me an extraordinary power that was never truly mine."

The Captain put on his mask and rose to his full height. The moment he straightened, Vesna felt as though even the sun had disappeared behind him.

"But I give you my word as a soldier, even stripped of that power, I would be no lesser than the man standing before you now."

"Vesna, you are the only one in House Strivozha for centuries to awaken a fragment of the authority of Life."

"It was not that power that made you extraordinary. You were the one who stirred it, awakened it, and brought it to heel. You are the extraordinary one."

"Remember, Vesna. The spring that came early that year did not come for that power. It came for you."

"So become a disciple I can be proud of. I'll be waiting for the day you stand at the very pinnacle of the Druzhna."

Word of The Captain's passing reached Snezhnaya while Vesna was busy sneaking slices of sour lemon into Danica's cup.

The Druzhna soldier who brought the message didn't interrupt the Commander's work. She simply kept slipping the slices in.

One after another, until the water spilled over the rim. Until lemon filled every last inch of the cup. Until there was no room left for anything else.

She waved the soldier away. Then she sank back into her chair and rested for a while, as though stuffing a cup full of lemon had somehow taken every last bit of strength she had.

A little later, once she had had enough rest, Vesna got up and wandered out to the training grounds. Danica was there. "Come on. Let's spar."

Danica nodded, and the two picked up wooden swords and began to fight.

Not long after, Vesna tossed her sword aside while yelling that she's done. Then she let herself fall flat onto the ground and narrowed her eyes at the sun overhead.

Days of blazing sunshine were rare in Snezhnaya. But on the day The Captain had taken her as his disciple, the sun had burned even brighter.

Danica walked over and said, "You're not even a tenth as good as Teacher was." Vesna pursed her lips, but for once, said nothing back.

After a while, she raised a hand and began directing Danica as though she were maneuvering troops. Danica had no intention of indulging her at first, but seeing as Vesna had let the earlier remark pass without a retort, she decided to humor her.

And so Danica marched back and forth across the training grounds like an honor guard taking orders from its Commander-in-Chief.

At last, she happened to stop in just the right place, completely blocking the sunlight from Vesna's face. A small, almost imperceptible look of satisfaction appeared on Vesna's face.

Vesna closed her eyes as though she were reminiscing. Her lips moved faintly, and a few words slipped out, soft as a murmur in sleep. "Teacher... I knew you were still here."

Danica remained where she was. She had no idea what exactly Vesna was doing, yet for some reason, her eyes had begun to sting.

The two stayed like that in silence for a while. Then, without warning, Vesna scrambled to her feet. "I'm going home for a bit. And don't forget to drink the lemon water I made you — that way, if you start crying, you'll have an excuse."

With that, she took off in a flash. That afternoon, she returned to the garden where she had first come into the world. And there, once more, she stood before the crimson fern.

Vesna reached out and gently ran her fingers along the fern's serrated fronds. It was a strange thing indeed. More than ten years had passed, and yet it was neither dead nor truly alive.

It simply stopped growing. Even its fronds remained exactly as they had been when the plant was crushed all those years ago. Sometimes Vesna wondered whether this, too, might count as a kind of immortality.

Then she called upon the power of Life within her and slowly let it flow into the fern's roots and stem.

The thought had never crossed her mind before. Even now, she couldn't tell what possessed her to try.

But the miracle didn't happen. The fern's veins remained limp and listless. Vesna let out a sigh, shook out her hand, and turned to leave.

Just at that moment, something at the edge of Vesna's vision caught her eye. Nestled among three of the fern's fronds was a tiny bud.

But Vesna knew perfectly well that ferns do not grow buds. They reproduce by spores. They bear neither flowers nor fruit.

She leaned in again and poured more of the power of Life into the plant. And the little bud began to swell, larger and larger it grew.

Until at last, the bud burst open with a pop, releasing a thick cloud of poisonous spores straight into Vesna's face.

Just before the poison knocked her senseless, she finally realized that this was no ordinary fern. This was House Strivozha's one-of-a-kind, lethally poisonous crimson fern.

By the time Vesna opened her eyes again, stars had already climbed into the night sky. She shook her heavy, muddled head and dimly recalled that, somewhere in the brief darkness, she seemed to have had a dream.

It was a world painted with every color, and at its farthest edge stood her teacher, straight and steadfast as she remembered him.

"Vesna. Go back." "Teacher... Aren't you coming with me?"

"This is where my journey ends." "But Danica and I miss you. We miss you a lot."

"We will meet again, among the myriad lives touched by the thousand winds."

The dream scattered like mist, and Vesna, still half lost in it, looked to the fern and found a single green jewel cradled in the center of the bud that had just bloomed.

As though all the centuries it had endured had at last borne a single fruit, one that would never perish.