DIMITRIS DAWN

CHAPTER ONE

1920. The year felt old, worn like the patched fabric of my trousers. The sky was a bruised purple, barely hinting at the dawn to come. The biting Russian wind clawed at my face the moment I stepped out of the house, a familiar sting I’d known since I was a boy.

I moved with a practiced quiet, pulling my worn sheepskin coat tighter around me. Anya, my younger sister, was a light sleeper, and the last thing I wanted was to wake her before time. The small bedroom we shared was cramped, the air stale, but it was home.

First, the animals. The chickens clucked nervously as I approached, their breath puffing out in white clouds. “Alright, alright,” I muttered, scattering grain. “Breakfast is served, you feathered gluttons.” The cow, Bess, mooed a more welcoming greeting, her large brown eyes gentle. I milked her with numb fingers, the rhythmic squeeze a comforting routine. The milk was warm, a temporary balm against the cold.

Next, the wood. The axe felt heavy in my hands. Each swing was a battle against the frozen wood, against the gnawing hunger that never truly left, against the uncertainty of the times. With each log split, I pushed those thoughts aside, focusing on the task at hand. We needed to stay warm. Winter was relentless, unforgiving.

The sky was beginning to lighten, painting the snow-covered fields in shades of pink and gold when I noticed Father and Jarik by the cart. They were loading it with the few precious goods we had to trade: eggs, hand-knitted scarves from Mother, and a small bag of dried herbs.

Father, Fredrick, was a man of few words, his face etched with the hardships he’d endured. He was solid, dependable, like the ancient oak tree that stood sentinel at the edge of our land. Jarik, my older brother, was all restless energy, always dreaming of something more than the farm.

Mother, Nina, emerged from the house, a beacon of warmth in the frigid landscape. Her smile could melt the snow, and her eyes held a love that seemed to defy the world’s harshness.

“Dimitri, you’re up early,” she said, her voice soft, but carrying over the crisp air. “Come, breakfast is ready.”

We all gathered inside the house. It was a modest space, just three rooms, but it was filled with the scent of woodsmoke and Mother’s cooking. A simple porridge, but it tasted like a feast.

“The cart is loaded,” Father announced, his voice gruff but kind. “Jarik and I will leave soon.”

“Be careful,” Mother said, her brow furrowing slightly. “The roads can be treacherous this time of year.”

“We will, Mama,” Jarik replied, his eyes sparkling with anticipation. “I’ll bring you back something nice from town, maybe a new ribbon for your hair.”

Mother smiled, a genuine, radiant smile. “Just come home safe, that’s all I want.”

“Dimitri, you’ll look after things here?” Father asked, his eyes searching mine. It wasn’t a question, but a quiet expectation.

“Of course, Father,” I replied, meeting his gaze. Responsibility settled on my shoulders, heavy but familiar.

“And Anya?” Mother turned to me, her voice suddenly sharp. “Don’t let her wander off on her own. Stay away from the woods, the trees are not safe to play in winter.”

I nodded. “I will, Mama.” Anya was always adventurous, drawn to the stories of Baba Yaga and the dark mysteries of the forest. With everything that was happening, I was afraid something would happen to her.

“Good.” She sighed, her shoulders slumping a little.

We ate in silence for a few moments, the only sound the crackling of the fire. Then, Jarik broke the quiet. “Perhaps, I can earn enough this trip to buy us some new boots.” He looked down at his worn and cracked pair, a sheepish grin on his face.

“Maybe, Jarik,” Father said, but his voice lacked conviction. Money was tight, always.

After breakfast, it was time for Father and Jarik to leave. We all stood outside, bundled in our warmest clothes. Mother embraced them both tightly, whispering blessings and warnings. Anya, who had finally woken up, clung to Jarik’s arm, tears welling in her eyes.

“Don’t worry, little one,” Jarik said, ruffling her hair. “I’ll be back before you know it. And I’ll bring you a sweet treat!”

With a final wave, they climbed onto the cart, Father taking the reins. The horses, their breath steaming in the cold air, strained forward. The cart lurched, and then, slowly, they were gone, disappearing down the snow-covered road, two small figures swallowed by the vastness of the Russian winter.

I watched them go, a knot of anxiety tightening in my stomach. The future was uncertain, the world was changing, and all we could do was hold onto each other and hope for the best.

The next few weeks bled into one another, a monotonous cycle dictated by the demands of the farm. Each dawn, I’d pull myself from sleep, the cold biting at my exposed skin as I threw on my warmest clothes.

I’d chop piles of wood, the rhythmic thud of the axe a grim soundtrack to the endless winter. The animals needed feeding, their hungry cries echoing in the crisp air. It was a life of toil, of survival, but also, undeniably, of routine. And within that routine, there was a strange comfort.

Evenings were different. They belonged to Mother and Anya. We’d huddle together by the fire, the flickering flames casting dancing shadows on the rough-hewn walls. Mother would tell old folktales, stories of mischievous and benevolent forest spirits, her voice a soothing balm on our anxieties. Anya would listen, wide-eyed and mesmerized, completely lost in the magic. I’d listen too, even though I’d heard them all a hundred times. It was a blessing, a moment of solace in a world that felt increasingly unstable.

Then, today, Mother looked at me, really looked at me, and something shifted. I saw concern etched in the lines around her eyes, a weariness that mirrored my own.

“Dimitri,” she said, her voice softer than I’d heard it in weeks. “You’re working too hard. We’ll manage here. Go out. See your friends. Have some fun.”

The words hung in the air, unexpected and jarring. Fun felt like a distant memory, a luxury we couldn’t afford. But in her eyes, I saw a plea, a desperate hope that I could recapture some semblance of the boy I used to be, before the weight of responsibility had settled so heavily upon me.

So, I went. I walked the long, familiar path to town, the crunch of snow beneath my boots the only sound accompanying me. The air was biting, but the sky was a brilliant, cloudless blue.

When I reached the bar, the warmth that blasted out as I opened the door was almost shocking. The air was thick with the smells of ale, woodsmoke, and unwashed bodies. Laughter and boisterous conversation filled the room. It was a world away from the quiet, anxious atmosphere of our farmhouse.

I found a spot at the bar and ordered a drink, the strong liquor burning a welcome path down my throat. I saw faces I knew, friends I hadn’t seen in weeks. We swapped stories, shared rumors, and drank deeply. The hours melted away, fueled by alcohol and the temporary illusion of normalcy.

The walk home was a blur, a drunken stumble through a landscape shrouded in the inky blackness of a winter night. I vaguely remembered the crunch of snow under my boots, the biting wind, the sting of the frost on my cheeks. Then, I saw it – a hellish glow painting the snow a macabre crimson. The flames.

My breath caught in my throat, a choked gasp lost in the howling wind.

My own small cabin, a haven of meager comforts, was engulfed. Orange and red tongues of fire licked at the wooden walls, consuming everything in their path. The acrid smell of burning wood and something else, something sickeningly sweet and cloying, filled the air. The smell…the smell of burning flesh.