Once, I asked Zdislav if he believed his stories. Were Vale Sangora’s dark woods truly the home of mischievous fairies? Did proud heroes and mysterious warlocks once tread its winding paths? Should we all fear the bloodthirsty likhos that emerged from the shadows at sunset to drink of our blood?
For a moment, he said nothing, seemingly lost in thought. But then, he unbuttoned his woollen kaftan and showed me his neck. I noticed two small, round scars – right over one of the veins. And so, all my questions were answered, all my doubts resolved.
