Chapter 3: The In-Between and Strawberry Wine Secrets

The portal opened beneath Dmitry's feet without warning, reality folding like origami around Borya's exhausted form. One moment they were standing in the rain-soaked alley with their unlikely allies, and the next they were falling through a kaleidoscope of impossible colors and screaming wind.

"Hold tight," Borya's mental voice was strained but determined. "The In-Between doesn't play by normal rules."

Dmitry's stomach lurched as up became down and sideways became diagonal. The transformed knitting needle in his grip blazed with green fire, its light the only constant in a world gone mad. Around them, fragments of a thousand different realities tumbled through the void—pieces of buildings, scraps of sky, the echo of voices speaking in languages that predated human civilization.

Then, as suddenly as it had begun, the chaos stopped.

They landed on what felt like solid ground, though the surface beneath Dmitry's feet rippled like water with each step. The air here tasted of copper and starlight, and the sky—if it could be called a sky—was a swirling mass of colors that had no names in any earthly language.

"Welcome to the In-Between," Borya said, his sapphire fur gradually returning to its normal luster. The ferret looked around with something approaching fondness. "My personal pocket of existence. Think of it as... Switzerland, but with more dimensional instability."

"It's..." Dmitry turned in a slow circle, trying to process what he was seeing. Floating islands of debris hung in the colored void—fragments of different worlds, different times. He could see what looked like a piece of medieval castle wall floating next to a chunk of futuristic metal and glass. "How is this possible?"

"When you've been bound to serve a bloodline of chaos-workers for several centuries, you pick up a few tricks. Your great-great-grandmother was particularly inventive when it came to dimensional manipulation." Borya hopped onto a floating piece of what looked like marble. "But we're not here for the scenic tour. You need answers, and I need to deliver a message that's been waiting twenty-two years to be heard."

The ferret's form began to glow, and suddenly the swirling colors around them coalesced into images—memories playing out like a three-dimensional movie. Dmitry gasped as he recognized the figure at the center of the visions.

She was ancient but not frail, with silver hair braided with bones and beads, and eyes that held the weight of centuries. Her face was weathered like old leather, but her hands were steady as she worked at an enormous loom, weaving patterns that seemed to move and shift even as she created them.

"Baba Yaga," Borya said reverently. "Your grandmother. This is her final message, recorded the night before the Silent Order found her hiding place."

The image of Baba Yaga looked up from her weaving, and her eyes seemed to focus directly on Dmitry across the years that separated them.

"My dear boy," she said, her voice carrying the accent he'd heard in the postal worker who'd delivered the package. "If you're seeing this, then the wine has awakened what sleeps in your blood, and Borislav has brought you to safety. Good. We have much to discuss and little time to waste."

She stood, moving with the fluid grace of someone far younger than her apparent years. "The Silent Order believes that chaos is the enemy of order, that wild magic is a cancer to be cut from the world. They are wrong, but their conviction makes them dangerous. They have spent centuries hunting our family, believing that if they can eliminate the source of chaotic power, they can impose their sterile vision of perfection on all of creation."

The image flickered, and suddenly they were looking at a map—not of any earthly geography, but of something far more complex. Lines of power crisscrossed between nodes of light, creating a web that pulsed with living energy.

"This is Veridian's magical framework," Baba Yaga continued. "Every city has one—a network of ley lines and nexus points that channel and distribute magical energy. The Order seeks to control these networks, to filter out anything they deem 'impure' or 'chaotic.' They have already succeeded in dozens of smaller cities, turning them into dead zones where only their sanctioned magic can function."

Dmitry felt a chill that had nothing to do with the strange air of the In-Between. "They want to turn the whole world into their personal playground."

"Worse than that," Borya said grimly. "They want to remake it in their image. No wild magic, no chaotic forces, no room for anything that doesn't fit their narrow definition of proper order. It would be like... imagine if someone decided that only one type of music was allowed to exist, and systematically destroyed every other form of artistic expression."

The vision shifted again, and now they were looking at a laboratory—if something so organic could be called that. Vats of bubbling liquid lined the walls, filled with shapes that hurt to look at directly. In the center of the room, figures in white robes worked with careful precision, their faces hidden behind masks that seemed to absorb light.

"The Whisper-things you encountered are not natural creatures," Baba Yaga explained. "They are constructed beings, crafted by the Order from the extracted essence of destroyed magical creatures. Each one represents dozens of fae, spirits, and other beings of chaos who were captured and... processed."

"That's why they're getting stronger," Borya said, his mental voice tight with anger. "Each generation of Whisper-things incorporates the abilities of their predecessors. They're evolving, becoming more effective hunters."

"But there is hope," the image of Baba Yaga continued. "The strawberry wine you drank—it was not merely a catalyst for your awakening. It contains the concentrated essence of wild magic, gathered over centuries and refined through alchemical processes known only to our family. A single bottle holds enough chaotic energy to destabilize an entire magical framework... if used correctly."

She moved to another part of the vision, and Dmitry saw bottles upon bottles of the same wine, stored in what looked like a root cellar carved from living stone.

"I have hidden caches throughout the city—seven in total, each one protected by wards that will recognize your blood. The locations are..." She began to recite a series of addresses and landmarks, her voice taking on the rhythm of an incantation. The information seemed to burn itself into Dmitry's memory, becoming as familiar as his own name.

"Why seven?" he asked, though he knew the vision couldn't hear him.

"Seven is a number of power," Borya explained. "In the old magic, certain numbers hold significance beyond their mathematical value. Seven bottles, properly deployed, could either restore the city's natural magical balance or utterly destroy the framework entirely."

"The choice will be yours, grandson," Baba Yaga said, as if she'd heard his question across the years. "But know this—the Order will not stop with you, or with Veridian. They see themselves as surgeons, cutting the cancer of chaos from the world one city at a time. If they succeed here, if they manage to fully control this framework, they will have proven their methods work on a large scale. Other cities will fall like dominoes."

The vision began to fade, but Baba Yaga's voice grew stronger, more urgent.

"Trust the blue one—Borislav is bound to our line by oaths that run deeper than blood. Trust your instincts—they are sharpened by generations of survivors. And remember this above all: creation and destruction are not enemies, but dance partners. What you knit together with your hands, you can unravel with your will. The needles are more than weapons—they are tools of transformation, capable of reweaving the very fabric of reality."

The image of his grandmother stepped forward, and for a moment, it felt as though she were actually there with them in the In-Between.

"I love you, my dear boy. I have watched over you from afar your entire life, protecting you as best I could while you grew strong enough to protect yourself. Now that protection is ending, but your true power is just beginning. The blood of chaos runs in your veins, but it is tempered by your human heart. Use both. The world will need them in the days to come."

The vision dissolved, leaving them alone in the swirling colors of the dimensional pocket. Dmitry stood in silence for a long moment, processing everything he'd learned. His grandmother—a woman he'd never known existed—had spent her last years preparing for this moment, setting up safeguards and weapons and allies for a grandson she'd never been able to meet.

"She loved me," he said finally, his voice barely above a whisper.

"She did," Borya confirmed. "More than you know. The wards that protected you, the careful anonymity that kept you hidden from the Order, the network of allies she cultivated—all of it was for you. She died to keep you safe, and now it's up to us to make sure her sacrifice wasn't in vain."

"The caches," Dmitry said, his mind already working through the implications. "Seven bottles of concentrated chaos magic. That's... that's enough to level the city, isn't it?"

"Or save it. Depends on how you use them." Borya hopped onto his shoulder, tiny claws digging through his hoodie for purchase. "But first, you need to learn to control what's already in your system. The single sip you took has given you access to power that most practitioners spend decades learning to handle. Without proper training, you're as likely to destroy yourself as your enemies."

"Training from who? Grandmother's dead, I don't know any other chaos magic users, and something tells me the local community college doesn't offer 'Introduction to Wild Magic 101.'"

"Actually, about that..." Borya's mental voice took on a slightly smug tone. "Your new allies aren't as unlikely as they might seem. The elf—Alysa—she's from one of the oldest magical families in the Concordat. Her training is rigid and formal, but it's comprehensive. She could teach you control, discipline, the theoretical framework you need."

"And Radomir?"

"Raw power and centuries of experience with the chaotic forces of nature. His father was one of the storm gods, and while his own power has faded, his knowledge hasn't. Between the two of them, you might actually have a chance."

Dmitry nodded slowly, feeling the weight of destiny settling around his shoulders like a heavy cloak. "So what's our next move?"

"We go back. Face your new allies, convince them that working together is their best option, and start preparing for what's coming. Because make no mistake—the Order isn't going to sit idle while you gather your strength. They'll be mobilizing everything they have."

The In-Between began to shift around them, colors bleeding and running like watercolors in rain. Borya's power gathered, preparing to open another portal back to their reality.

"One more thing," the ferret said as the familiar sensation of dimensional travel began to take hold. "The knitting needles—they're not just tools, they're a focus for your power. Think of them as... amplifiers. They take your will, your intent, and make it real. The more clearly you can visualize what you want to create—or unmake—the more effective they'll be."

"Create or unmake," Dmitry repeated. "Grandmother said they could reweave reality itself."

"In the right hands, yes. Your hands, specifically. The needles were crafted by your great-great-grandmother from wood that grew in places where the barriers between worlds are thin. They've been soaking up chaotic energy for over a century."

The portal opened beneath them, and once again they were falling through impossible space toward an uncertain future. But this time, Dmitry felt ready for it. He had answers now, and allies, and a purpose that went beyond simple survival.

He was Baba Yaga's grandson, heir to a legacy of chaos and creation, and the Silent Order had no idea what they'd awakened when they came for him.

The game was about to change, and for the first time since this whole mess began, Dmitry was looking forward to playing his hand.