"What are you?" I demanded, standing well back from the door. "Identify yourself."

  A pause, then: "Small one... night-touched... seeking shelter from the day's eye. Please... harbor..."

  I glanced at Stormy, who had moved to stand beside me. Surprisingly, she showed no fear, simply watching the door with curious attention, her tail swishing slowly back and forth.

  "Are you alone?" I asked.

  "Yes... alone... alone since dream-mother died... daylight... hurts us... please..."

  The plea seemed genuine, the voice more frightened than threatening. And if this was an evil spirit, then hopefully my domain would render me effectively invisible to its magical perception.

  Decision made, I stepped to the side of the door, positioning myself to attack if necessary, and lifted the bar. "Push the door open then," I said retreating, "but know that any threat will be met with force."

  The door creaked open slowly, pushed by what appeared to be a small hand—dark, almost translucent, with elongated fingers that ended in points rather than nails. A very small figure slipped inside. It was about twenty inches in height.

  In the dim light of the pub, I got my first clear look at the visitor: a newborn-sized being with a dark body that seemed to absorb rather than reflect the meager dying sunlight filtering through the shutters. Its face was delicately formed, with large, entirely black eyes that contained no visible pupils or whites. Dark hair hung in tangled wisps and its limbs were unnaturally slender, moving with an odd, fluid grace that suggested bones arranged differently than in a human.

  It wore what appeared to be a shawl of dark gray feathers. Around its neck hung a small pendant—a piece of curved bone or ivory carved with intricate designs.

  "Thank... thank you," it whispered, its voice clearer now, like a child's but with an odd, echoing quality. "Harbor... good harbor. Warmth. Life. Magic."

  I maintained my distance, arbalest still at the ready. "What are you?" I asked again.

  The creature tilted its head, those black eyes unblinking. "Nightborn… a nav," it replied. "A child of dreams, shadow and starlight. You... You are a strange new Yaga. You sound… wrong, different. Are you a Yaga?"

  "I'm a... warlock," I said.

  The nightborn's eyes widened slightly. "Warlock," it repeated, as if testing the word. “Not a witch?”

  “Kind of like a witch, I suppose,” I shrugged. “How’d you find me?”

  “I have heard the call of a new Yaga being born across the Underside and have come to pay my respects to… you and to gain your blessing.”

  “What blessing?” I asked.

  “Warmth. Life. Dreams. Magic that would permit me to persist longer.” It glanced around the pub, its gaze lingering on my mound of soil. "May I... may I rest here? Until night falls again and I fade away? The dragonbreath and the sun..." It gestured vaguely toward the shuttered windows. "It burns us so. Makes us more visible, weak and sick."

  I studied the small, lanky creature carefully. It appeared genuinely distressed, its slender body trembling slightly, whether from fear or pain I couldn't tell. While caution was warranted in this strange world, turning away what seemed to be a frightened child-like being felt wrong.

  "Fine. You can stay," I decided, lowering my arbalest. "But only until nightfall. And you will answer my questions."

  “Yes. Until nightfall.” The nightborn nodded eagerly, its movement oddly fluid. "Yes, yes. Questions. Answers. Fair trade for harbor and life-warmth of your domain. Of course."

  “What do I look like to you?” I asked.

  “Nothing,” the nav replied. “You are concealed by your domain. I can barely hear your voice if I strain extra-hard and I know not where it even comes from as it seems to dance from every direction here. A full nature spirit like Glinka would not be able to discern you at all. May I rest atop your domain?”

  “Sure,” I uttered my assent, and the creature scurried to my soil pile. As it moved into the deeper shadows, its form seemed to blur slightly at the edges, as if it wasn't fully solid.

  Stormy, to my surprise, followed it, approaching with cautious curiosity rather than the hostility she'd shown the Sirin. The nightborn regarded the kitten with equal interest, extending one slender hand for Stormy to sniff.

  "Small guardian," it murmured as Stormy butted her head against its palm. "Wise Seer that witnesses beyond the veil."

  “Is that what she is?”

  “Yes, yes. She is broken now, blind and hurt, her magic nearly sniffed out by the dragon's roar but she could be your familiar, a seer of fortunes…”

  I pulled up a wooden stool, keeping a comfortable distance between myself and the strange visitor. "Right then. Start with your name," I said. "If you have one."

  Those black eyes fixed on me, unblinking. "Minnow," it replied. "My... sleep-mother called me Minnow. Because I am small and quick."

  "Sleep-mother?"

  "Yes. The one who cared for me after my death.”

  “Death?”

  “I am a stillborn, a half-spirit,” the nightborn answered. “It happens sometimes, to a child who is not aligned to a god, not baptized in the waters of Glinka. The sleep-mother could not let me go after my death. She dreamt of me, held onto my body. She taught me to speak, nurtured me in her dreams." A note of sadness entered its voice. "She... sleeps now. Forever sleeps. The dragon's breath took her away. What echo remained of her is bound to your domain now."

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  "You're from Svalbard?" I asked. "You survived the dragon attack?"

  Minnow nodded, fingers fidgeting with the bone pendant. "Nightborn hide well. We sense danger before it comes. I hid deep, deep in the dark places, the catacombs beneath. But sleep-mother..." It shook its head. "The dragon found her."

  I felt a pang of sympathy. Whatever this odd creature was, it had lost its mother during the same disaster that had somehow brought me to this world.

  "I'm sorry about your sleep-mother," I said. "What exactly are nightborn?”

  Minnow tilted its head, considering. "We are... born of the night, of goddess Nox’s marriage to mortal dreams. When humans sleep deeply, sometimes their dreams grow so strong they take form. Become nightborn." It gestured to itself. "Not human, not spirit. In between. I am a walking dream bound to a stillborn body, a soul that could not find its resting place for I was bound by my mother’s love forevermore to this half-form."

  "You're... what—a ghost, an undead of some kind?" I asked.

  "Yes, in simple words. A wish, a dream given form, given half-life. I walk the boundary between waking and sleeping. See what is hidden. Hear what is silent, peer into the Astral through the shadows."

  I thought about the odd, anomalous building I'd discovered earlier. "The round stone building in the village, with a spiral roof of red clay tiles, small black windows, with the door that opened by itself—is that yours?"

  Minnow's expression changed, a flicker of what might have been fear crossing its delicate features. "No, no. Not mine. That place is... old. A cursed place. ‘The Threshold’, we calls it. From long ago, when Svalbard was a big, grand city. Do not enter there, warlock."

  "What's inside it?"

  "Hunger," Minnow replied with a shudder. "The nightborn avoid it. Even sleep-mother feared it. It is where dreams go to die. Nothing returns from its maw."

  “A hungry, cursed building? That sounds… concerning,” I said. “Why hasn’t the village destroyed it then?”

  “Those who seek to destroy it, cannot find it. It only shows itself to new, unaware, or curious eyes afflicted by wanderlust.”

  A chill ran down my spine at the words, recalling the unnatural darkness I'd glimpsed within the doorway.

  "You lived in Svalbard before the dragon came? How long have you been alive?"

  Minnow shrugged, the movement oddly fluid. "Time moves differently for nightborn. At times, I fade in and out of existence. Sleep-mother loved me when others would have destroyed me. Nightborn are feared by many. Misunderstood."

  "Why would people want to destroy you?" I asked.

  "Because we walk in dreams," Minnow replied simply. "We can... see into sleeping minds, sometimes influence what humans dream. Some nav use this power to harm. To feed on fear and suffering." It touched the pendant at its neck. "But sleep-mother taught me differently. Taught me to help, to guide the sleeping safely through darkness. You are a kind wi… warlock and so I shall aid you in kind!"

  I absorbed this information, wondering exactly what kind of strange ecosystem of magical creatures populated the local environment. "Have you encountered other magical beings?”

  Minnow nodded vigorously. "Many, yes. Through the shadows, I watch. The Sirin of the thousand-winter oak—I saw her hunting, singing to mortals who wandered too far into the forest leading fools to their doom. Beautiful and terrible." It shuddered. "The Jotuns who prowl at twilight—twisted and seeking to make more of their kind. And the dragon..." Its voice dropped to a whisper. "The dragon was ancient. Angry. Her fire consumes more than flesh—it shatters, shears, devours life and magic itself."

  This aligned with my observations of the dragonfire's effect on Vesna's crystalline form. "What about the Yaga of the Shalish Wood? Grandhilda?"

  Minnow's expression darkened. "The ancient witch. One of two. Sleep-mother warned me to avoid her. Said she collects secrets like others collect precious stones. Uses them to bind heroes and witches to her will." It leaned forward slightly. "She and others of her kind know you are here, warlock. Their spies are everywhere—in trees, in water, in wind. Nothing escapes their notice for long. She and her… sister plot to use you."

  “Use me how?”

  “I do not know.”

  That was concerning but not entirely surprising. Grandhilda had been the one to create me—or rather, to transform whatever remained of Ioan into a witch. It made sense she would keep tabs on her creation.

  "What can you tell me about the White Blight affecting the forest? And the Children of the Wormwood Star?"

  Minnow's fingers worked nervously at the pendant. "The Blight is... hunger without mind, magic gone wrong. It spreads from the North, turning trees to dry ash from within. Some say it is the world's fever, trying to burn out sickness." It paused, those black eyes darting to the shuttered windows as if checking for eavesdroppers. "The Star-Children are not of this world. They were human once, but no more… no more. The Wormwood Star changed them. Minds different. Bodies warped by decaying magics. Souls hollowed out by its light. Serving magic bound into crystal form. Worshiping her. They call themselves… the Arcanicx.”

  "You mentioned that nightborn can see into dreams," I said. "Can you see into mine?"

  Minnow studied me curiously. "Your dreams are concealed from me, protected by your domain's magic." It hesitated. "But, if you wished it, it could perhaps work. Maybe. I don’t know. It works with witches. Sometimes seeing another's dreams reveals truths hidden even from themselves."

  I considered the offer. On one hand, allowing this creature access to my unconscious mind seemed risky. On the other, it might provide insights into my own situation—how I had come to inhabit Ioan's body, what had happened to his original consciousness, perhaps even clues about my purpose in this world.

  "Maybe another time," I decided, not ready to trust the nav that far.

  Minnow nodded, seeming to understand. "Harbor is enough for now. Questions are enough. Nightborn remembers kindness."

  A thought occurred to me. "If you've lived in Svalbard all this time, you must know a lot about the village and its surroundings. Are there places I should explore? Resources I've missed?"

  “Resources? Explore?” The nightborn's expression brightened. "Yes, yes! Things hidden, things forgotten. Gold and old weapons in the catacombs from the old city. Buried wealth… from before the ice came." It gestured excitedly. "And the caves beneath the eastern cliff—ores that shine like starlight, good for crafting tools of magic."

  This was valuable information. "What about the dangers I should avoid? Besides the obvious—dragons, Jotuns, and mysterious buildings with dark doorways."

  "The river Glinka to the south—she sleeps beneath ice, but she also always watches, trades memories and souls for power. A very dangerous bargain, for she takes as much as she gives," Minnow's voice lowered. "The stone circles in the forest clearings—old magic lingers there, not always friendly to the living. And the white fog that sometimes creeps from the North at dawn and at midnight—it carries whispers that can lead travelers astray, into Chernobog's waiting arms."

  I made mental notes of these warnings. "Thank you, Minnow. One last question for now: do you know of any other survivors from Svalbard? Anyone else who escaped the dragon?"

  The nightborn was silent for a long moment, head tilted as if listening to distant sounds.

  “No humans,” it replied. “Only spirits or half-spirits like me remain. They might come to you to hunt you, trade or beg for magic. It will take them time to find you. It took me days to locate you. Your domain moves around, which is… most strange. I expected to find you outside, yet I could not.”

  “Yaga said I won’t be able to speak to spirits,” I said.

  “At night, in my full spirit form I would not be able to see or hear you,” Minnow explained. “During the day… I am a bit more flesh, half-life… half sunk into the Astral Ocean. I become more physical in dark times. The last of Svalbard humans are dead. The echoes of their demise, their final dream fuels my physical existence. Once this echo fades, I too will fade away… that is unless a witch dreams of me.”

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