Chapter 4: Siege on the 13th Floor

The shadow hit Dmitry like a physical blow, but this time he was ready for it. Baba Yaga's wine sang through his veins, and the transformed knitting needles moved in his hands as if they had minds of their own. The first shadow-touched creature to descend the cellar stairs met the gleaming point of his right blade and dissolved with a shriek that made the wine bottles rattle.

"Stay behind me," he told Alysa, who had positioned herself near the wine racks with her fire extinguisher raised like a club. The determination in her eyes reminded him of his grandmother—that same stubborn refusal to go quietly into the dark.

"How many?" Ryzhiy called from his perch on the cellar table, his sapphire fur standing on end.

"Too many," Dmitry replied, parrying a clawed swipe from something that had once been human but now moved like liquid darkness. The blade sliced cleanly through shadow-flesh, and the creature's essence flowed into the weapon, making the runes glow brighter. "They're not just attacking—they're feeding the building to something."

Above them, the apartment groaned and shifted. The spatial distortions his grandmother had woven into the walls were being systematically unraveled, reality compressed back into its mundane limitations. The vast rooms were shrinking, the impossible architecture collapsing in on itself.

"The wards are failing," Ryzhiy observed with the clinical detachment of someone who had witnessed the fall of kingdoms. "Whatever Chernobog sent, it's specifically designed to counter your grandmother's protections."

A new sound joined the chaos above—footsteps, but not the shuffling gait of shadow-touched minions. These were measured, deliberate, and they came with the sharp click of expensive shoes on hardwood floors.

"Dmitry Kozlov," a voice called down the cellar stairs, smooth as silk and twice as dangerous. "How delightfully predictable. Grandmother's emergency stash, grandmother's weapons, grandmother's sanctuary. Tell me, boy, do you have any original thoughts, or are you content to be her pale echo for eternity?"

The voice belonged to a man, but there was something fundamentally wrong with it—too perfect, too controlled, like a recording of human speech played through speakers made of ice and ambition. Dmitry knew that voice from his nightmares, from stories his grandmother had told him in hushed whispers on winter nights.

Chernobog. The Black God himself.

"I'm flattered you came personally," Dmitry called back, surprised by how steady his own voice sounded. "Though I have to wonder—if I'm such a disappointment, why not send more minions?"

Laughter drifted down the stairs, rich and warm and completely devoid of humor. "Oh, my dear child, you misunderstand. I'm not here to kill you. I'm here to make you an offer you can't refuse. And to collect what was stolen from me."

"Nothing here belongs to you," Dmitry said, but even as the words left his mouth, he felt a chill that had nothing to do with the cellar's temperature.

"Doesn't it?" The footsteps began descending, each one a small thunder that seemed to shake the building's foundations. "Tell me, grandson of legends, what do you know about your grandmother's final battle? The one where she 'disappeared' so mysteriously?"

Dmitry's grip tightened on the daggers. He knew the story—everyone in the magical community did. Baba Yaga had faced some great threat and vanished in the process, presumably dying in some heroic sacrifice. It was the kind of ending that made for good stories and bitter grandchildren.

"She died protecting the balance," he said, the words automatic and hollow even to his own ears.

"Did she?" The Black God appeared at the bottom of the stairs, and Dmitry's first thought was how utterly, perfectly ordinary he looked. Average height, unremarkable features, the kind of forgettable face you'd pass on the street without a second glance. Only his eyes gave him away—black holes that seemed to drink in the cellar's candlelight and offer nothing in return.

"She's not dead, boy. She's imprisoned. Locked away in a cage made of her own power, sustained by her own magic, unable to die and unable to escape. And you—" He smiled, revealing teeth that were just slightly too sharp. "You are the key that will set her free."

The words hit Dmitry like a physical blow. "You're lying."

"Am I? Think, child. Your power, your soul magic—where do you think it comes from? It's not just bloodline inheritance. It's a connection, a direct line to the source. Every time you use your abilities, you draw on her strength. And every time you do, you weaken the prison just a little bit more."

Alysa stepped forward, her fire extinguisher forgotten. "That's impossible. If she were alive, she would have—"

"What? Contacted him? Sent word?" Chernobog's laugh was like breaking glass. "My dear mortal, the prison I designed is quite thorough. She can feel everything he feels, see everything he sees, but she cannot act, cannot speak, cannot do anything but watch as her beloved grandson struggles in ignorance."

The cellar walls began to shake, dust raining down from the ceiling. Above them, the sounds of destruction grew louder, more systematic. The shadow-touched weren't just attacking—they were dismantling the apartment piece by piece, unraveling decades of careful magic.

"You want something," Dmitry said, fighting to keep his voice level. "What?"

"Simple. I want you to embrace your full power. Stop fighting what you are, stop limiting yourself with human morality and restraint. Become the weapon your bloodline was meant to forge." The Black God spread his hands in a gesture of false benevolence. "In return, I'll show you where she is. You can see her, speak with her, even touch her—though freeing her is, sadly, beyond my capabilities."

"And if I refuse?"

"Then your mortal friend dies, slowly and creatively. Your talking ferret becomes a very ordinary animal with no memory of what he once was. And you get to live with the knowledge that your grandmother remains trapped, watching helplessly as everyone you care about suffers for your stubborn pride."

The apartment above them gave a final, groaning shudder and collapsed. What had once been a vast, magical space was now just another cramped Soviet-era flat, its windows overlooking the gray city like dead eyes. The dimensional expansion was gone, the protective wards broken, the illusion of safety shattered completely.

But in the cellar, surrounded by bottles of liquid magic and the lingering scent of his grandmother's strawberry wine, Dmitry felt something he hadn't experienced in years: clarity.

"You know what your problem is?" he said conversationally, rolling the daggers in his grip. "You think like a god. All cosmic perspective and divine authority. But this isn't some mythic battleground between order and chaos."

He took a step forward, and the runes on his weapons flared brighter. "This is personal."

The Black God's perfect composure cracked slightly. "Boy—"

"My name is Dmitry Kozlov," he interrupted, power crackling around him like crimson lightning. "I am the grandson of Baba Yaga, heir to seven generations of witches who have protected the balance between worlds. I have drunk my grandmother's wine, wielded her weapons, and inherited her very particular brand of fury."

Another step forward. The Black God actually retreated, his forgettable features shifting into something more cautious, more alert.

"And right now, I am very, very angry."

The power that erupted from Dmitry wasn't the wild, uncontrolled surge from the tavern or even the focused destruction from the market. This was something else entirely—deliberate, surgical, and absolutely merciless. It wrapped around the Black God like chains made of liquid starlight, and where it touched, the ancient deity's human disguise began to smoke and burn.

"Impossible," Chernobog snarled, his voice losing its perfect modulation. "You're untrained, unfocused—"

"I'm motivated," Dmitry replied, and drove both daggers forward.

The blades met divine flesh and passed through like it was made of mist. But the runes carved into the metal blazed with power, and where they cut, they left wounds that leaked darkness and smelled of winter graves.

The Black God screamed—a sound that shattered every wine bottle in the cellar and sent Ryzhiy scurrying for cover behind an overturned crate. Shadow poured from the wounds, not the controlled darkness of his minions but something raw and primal and afraid.

"This isn't over," he gasped, already beginning to fade. "She's still trapped, boy. Still suffering. And every day you delay, every moment you waste trying to play hero, is another day she pays for your cowardice."

"Then I guess I'd better get to work," Dmitry said, and the last of his power sent the Black God screaming back into whatever hole he'd crawled out of.

Silence fell over the ruined cellar like a heavy blanket. Alysa stood among the shattered bottles, her shoes crunching on broken glass, staring at Dmitry with something that might have been awe or terror or both.

"So," she said finally, her voice steady despite everything. "Your grandmother is alive."

"Apparently." Dmitry slumped against the wine rack, suddenly feeling every bit of the power he'd expended. The daggers in his hands had returned to their harmless knitting needle form, and the berry stain on his palms was darker than ever.

"And you're some kind of magical weapons platform designed to free her."

"That's the theory."

"And we're being hunted by an ancient god who wants to use you to destroy the world."

"Pretty much."

Alysa nodded thoughtfully, then picked up a shard of broken bottle and examined it in the flickering candlelight. "You know what this reminds me of? My organic chemistry professor used to say that the most dangerous reactions were the ones where you mixed two stable compounds and got something completely unstable."

"Is that supposed to be reassuring?"

"No," she said, meeting his eyes with a smile that was equal parts terrified and determined. "But it means we're not predictable anymore. And if there's one thing I learned in chemistry, it's that unpredictable reactions are the ones that change everything."

Ryzhiy emerged from his hiding place, shaking glass dust from his sapphire fur. "Touching sentiment. Now, can we please leave before the building inspector shows up to ask awkward questions about the sudden architectural changes?"

Dmitry pushed himself upright, tucking the knitting needles into his jacket pocket. His grandmother was alive. Imprisoned, suffering, but alive. And if Chernobog was telling the truth, then every time Dmitry used his power, he was drawing on her strength, weakening whatever held her captive.

Which meant he had work to do.

"Come on," he said, heading for the cellar stairs. "We need allies, information, and probably a very large cup of coffee."

"In that order?" Alysa asked, following him up into the ruins of what had once been his sanctuary.

"Definitely in that order."

Behind them, the last candle guttered and died, leaving the cellar in darkness. But on the wooden table where his grandmother's journal lay open, the pages glowed softly with their own inner light, as if the words themselves were alive and waiting.

The siege was over. The real war was just beginning.