Chapter Text
December 23rd, 1952. Soviet Union. Moscow outskirts.
The cigarette burned low between Fyodor’s fingers, its ember glowing like the last remnants of a dying world. Smoke curled lazily around his face, blurring the sharp lines of his features into something spectral. He stood at the edge of the trench, boots sunk in frozen mud, his expression unreadable. Around him, the air reeked of cordite and despair.
Ahead, a man knelt before the firing squad. His eyes, once proud, were now wild with panic, white sclera flashing beneath a furrowed brow. He wore the same drab prison uniform as the others—gray, stained, nameless. His voice cracked, desperate.
“Please! Let me talk to Comrade Stalin! This is a mistake, I’m a loya—”
The gunfire tore his plea in half.
His body jolted, limbs twitching as bullets punched through his chest. He slumped, twitching once, then was still. A boot landed against his ribs and shoved the corpse into the mass grave, where others like him—traitors, dissidents, real or imagined—were stacked like garbage.
Fyodor didn’t flinch. Looks like you weren’t loyal enough, Comrade.
The executioner turned. His face was obscured by a mask, probably for anonymity.
“Fyodor Edinstvo.”
His name cracked the silence.
He exhaled slowly, took one last drag, and flicked the cigarette at one of the gunmen with a flick of casual disdain. The ash flared in the air, then died.
He walked forward with no resistance. No fear. His beige uniform still carried the faint smell of his blood. His long black coat, worn even now like a mantle of mockery, billowed faintly behind him as if the wind respected his defiance.
“Face the line,” the masked executioner ordered.
Fyodor did, his boots scraping against frozen dirt. The firing squad readied their rifles.
“Do you have any final words?”
Fyodor barked out a laugh—dry, cruel, hollow.
“Yeah. I’ve got something.”
He looked beyond them—not at their eyes, but through them. As if what stood before him were no more than puppets for an idea he’d already outgrown.
“I’m not a traitor. I’m a realist. I saw the writing on the wall long before any of you fuckers could even read.” Fyodor let the word hang in the cold air. “All I did was perpetuate what I knew was true, I'm not a monster. I'm a FUCKING REVOLUTIONARY!”
Fyodor released another bitter laugh as he continued.
“Look at you all, do you think Comrade Stalin, Molotov or Malenkov care about you? Do you think they value you? They don’t, because right now they're looking down at you. Watching, smiling as you scrub the blood off their boots and call it loyalty.”
The executioner’s voice came, flat. “Are you finished?”
Fyodor answered by spitting a glob onto the executioner's boot. “I was finished the moment I was born. You all deserve each other.”
The command came sharp.
“Aim.”
Fyodor didn’t look away.
“Fire.”
Everything stopped.
The sound of the rifles split the air—and the world.
Birdsong. Distant, melodic. Wind stirring branches overhead. The air was cool and clean, not reeking of smoke or decay.
Fyodor’s eyes snapped open.
He was lying on his back, staring up at a forest canopy that was… wrong. Not Russian pine or birch—no, these trees were taller, ancient, with twisted silver bark and leaves that shimmered like frost on crystal. The light filtering through them was blue-tinted, almost ethereal.
He sat up. His coat was still on. His uniform was intact, clean. No blood. No bullet holes. His hands searched his chest. Ribs unbroken. No pain. No wound. Nothing.
Fyodor blinked, scowling. Is this… death? He wondered.
He rose to his feet slowly, glancing around the clearing. The forest stretched in every direction, quiet but alive. Insects chirped. Leaves whispered. Mystery hung thick in the air, though he didn't recognize it as such—only as a wrongness he couldn’t explain.
“Where am I?” he muttered.
He took a few steps, boots crunching on grass. His mind reeled. Last he remembered, he was standing before a firing squad. Then—nothing. Not even pain. Just darkness. And now this.
Was this a dream?
No, too vivid.
An illusion? Possible. But who would waste this much effort? What was the point?
He pressed his fingers into the bark of a nearby tree. The sensation was too real. Too raw. He could smell the sap. He could feel it. This wasn’t a hallucination.
His moment of investigation was cut short by a deep, guttural croak.
Fyodor turned sharply, his muscles tensing on instinct. Through the mist, a grotesque creature emerged. A toad, but grotesquely large—easily the size of a bear, its slick, wart-covered skin glistening in the faint, eerie glow of the forest. Its eyes, large and bulbous, fixed on him hungrily, and a forked tongue slithered from its maw.
What the hell?
It lunged.
Fyodor barely managed to move in time, throwing himself to the side as the toad’s massive bulk crashed into the damp earth where he had stood. He scrambled to his feet, mind racing. He had no weapon, no means to defend himself.
The Toad coiled and jumped again. Fyodor braced for impact, but it never came. Instead a sickening wet sound was heard followed by the toad letting out a guttural croak. He lowered his arms to see the Toad spasming violently on the ground, blood pooling from its sliced open belly. Fyodor grimaced at the sight of the creatures' innards spilling out. Yuck.
Next to the dying amphibian was a black slimy humanoid holding a sabre. It wore a traditional tattered brown Red army uniform and a visor cap. In it’s other hand, an old revolver.
The toad let out one last groan of pain before laying still. Immediately the tar-esque soldier turned to Fyodor and marched to him.
Fyodor stepped back from the approaching figure, accidentally tripping over onto his back. He again prepared himself for an attack, but again it never came. In fact the soldier was now kneeling in front of him. Its arms outstretched offering the sabre and firearm.
After a few seconds, he lifted himself back up and spoke to the kneeling man. “Are these for…me?
The soldier didn’t answer, instead continuing to kneel and offer up his weaponry. Fyodor cleared his throat and asked again this time in Russian. “Ты даешь мне это?”
Instantly the soldier nodded its goopy, dripping head.
So with cautious hands he took the weapons. The sabre was surprisingly light and the revolver despite its age looked quite well maintained. He turned the gun over in his hands a few times before holstering it in his coat.
“Большое спасибо, товарищ.”
The soldier rose, nearly causing Fyodor to fall over for a third time and to his admiration actually saluted him. Though the sludge humanoid’s face bore no eyes or mouth, he couldn’t help but feel a sense of familiarity from the entity.
Before Fyodor could say anything else the soldier turned on his heel and marched towards the slain giant toad's corpse. Suddenly a pool of black tar began to emerge from beneath the toad’s body and hands sprang from the black abyss of the sludge. The hands pulled the carcass below the earth and along with it the Red army soldier who had saved his life.
Fyodor exhaled, gripping his new sabre tightly. “Well, that was interesting.”
“What was interesting?”
Fyodor jumped, startled by the new voice that had decided to make its presence known. He considered pulling his gun, but decided that that would be unwise given the recurrent circumstances he was in.
With deliberate slowness Fyodor turned around, expecting to see another human being; however what greeted him made him second guess his eyesight.
Standing a few feet in front of him was a short statured man. His skin was a deep, mossy green, his features sharp and lined with scars. A single tuft of black hair stood at the crown of his head, giving him a slightly disheveled appearance. He wore dark, layered clothing—practical, but with a hint of rogueishness. A crossbow rested easily in his grip, though it wasn’t aimed at Fyodor. Not yet.
What in the hell? Fyodor thought to himself.
The green man smirked, his sharp teeth flashing. "What? Never seen a goblin before?"
Fyodor hesitated for only a moment before finally managing to answer. "Not in the sense that you mean," he said smoothly, regaining his composure.
The answer seemed to amuse the dark clothed hob. “In what sense do you mean?”
The old Soviet cleared his throat. “I mean I've met people who some would call goblins in the comparative sense. Greedy, uncouth and penchant for scheming.”
The goblin let out a bark of laughter. "Oh, I can assure you, many goblins are, but you've never met one like me." He lowered his crossbow slightly, tilting his head as he regarded Fyodor with newfound curiosity. "You can call me The Roach. And you are?"
Fyodor considered his options. Giving his true name felt... insignificant in this strange place. But he had no reason to hide. "Fyodor Edinstvo."
The Roach grinned. "Edinstvo, huh? Sounds important."
"It was, at one point." Fyodor replied.
There was a brief moment of silence between the now cordially introduced men until Fyodor broke the silence with a simple question.
“So… ‘The Roach’. Is your first name The ?
Roach burst into laughter. “Oh, I like a mortal with a good sense of humor. Dark, dead-eyed, and quick with the sarcasm. Mr. Edinstvo you’ll fit in perfectly with the rest of the lunatics here.”
Fyodor glanced down at his coat, then back at Roach. “Where exactly is here ?”
Roach gestured dramatically. “Welcome to Elfhame. Land of enchantment, trickery, politics, murder, betrayal, beauty, and wine that makes you forget how to walk. Or to be more specific we’re in the Crooked Forest of Elfhame.”
Fyodor hummed. Well Elfhame sounds a lot like my home.
Roach grinned wider. “So care to share with me how you ended up here? Make a deal with fae? It was a deal wasn’t it? He let out an amused sigh. “It’s always a deal. A deal or you drank something you shouldn’t have when it was offered to you by some strange person with a charming personality.”
Fyodor shook his head. " It’s a long story, but to clarify. I’ve made no deal with anyone, fae or human. And I would know because I haven’t been fooled by another person for years."
Roach whistled, impressed. "Now that's an interesting claim. Either you're very smart, or very delusional. Maybe both." He slung his crossbow over his shoulder. "Either way, standing around here isn’t the best idea. The Crooked forest ain’t a safe place for mortals or most fairies come to think of it."
Fyodor considered his words. Judging by the orange hue of the sky it was closing into the late evening. He wasn’t a fool, he didn’t stand a chance alone, in the dark with various unknown hazards around. So it appeared the only logical choice was to accept the goblin’s offer, at least until he had a better grasp of his situation.
"Lead the way," he said.
Roach chuckled. "Now that’s the smartest thing I’ve heard all day."
With that, the goblin turned, gesturing for Fyodor to follow. And so, with a sabre in one hand and his revolver holstered in his coat, Fyodor stepped forward into the unknown.
The forest grew stranger the deeper they went.
The trees stretched higher, their branches weaving into a canopy so thick the sky barely bled through. Roots jutted from the ground like ribs. The air smelled faintly of iron and flowers long dead.
Roach led the way with a casual swagger, cutting through thick brush and humming tunelessly. His movements were twitchy but deliberate, like someone who’d spent years navigating invisible threats.
Fyodor followed, boots crunching behind him, eyes constantly scanning. Everywhere he looked made him feel suffocated. Eventually he set his eyes on his green skinned navigator.
Come on Fyodor, information was the biggest advantage you could ever hope to have in unfavorable situations. Just keep it simple and concise.
After a silent inhale, Fyodor broke the silence. “Do humans often get found wandering these woods?”
Roach barked out a sharp laugh without slowing down. “You kiddin’ me? Just yesterday, I had to pull three glamoured mortals out of the trees—literally. Thought they could fly. One even tried to flap his arms like wings. Broke both legs on the way down. Idiot even apologized to the tree when he landed.”
Glamoured? What is that? Fyodor wondered.
“Not only that.” Roach continued “Last week I had to drag two horses —which, by the way, turned out to be enchanted humans —all the way to the Queen so she could change 'em back. Poor bastards were eating hay and everything.”
Fyodor’s expression remained unreadable. “Sounds…excessive.”
Roach shrugged. “It’s Elfhame. A lot of the fae have a… let’s call it a hobby when it comes to humans.”
Fyodor narrowed his eyes. “Is there any particular reason why they do it?”
Roach stopped walking just long enough to glance back at him. His expression is neutral. “Because they’re bored. And because they can. As far as I know they don’t need any other reason.”
Fyodor carefully stepped over a twisted root that looked far too much like a hand reaching out of the earth.
“These glamoured mortals,” he said, his voice low, even. “Are they all just entertainment? Sadistic amusement for your kind?”
“That’s only half of it.” Replied Roach, resuming his walk. He brushed a thorned vine aside like it was silk and kept moving.
“The rest?” Roach continued. “They’re turned into tools. Mindless, obedient, blank-faced things. Maids that don’t tire. Stable-hands who never flinch. Shoe polishers that’ll work ‘til their fingers rot off and still keep buffing. Hell they even use them as nursemaids from time to time.”
Fyodor’s brow twitched. “Like slaves.”
“Oh, worse than that,” Roach said cheerfully. “Slaves remember who they were. These ones? Once they are glamoured, they forget everything. Names, families, purpose, even pain. Just vacant things with perfect posture and blank stares.”
Hmm, reminds me of the Politburo meetings. Fyodor mused.
They walked in silence for a while longer, the forest gradually thickening with bramble and shadow. Somewhere in the canopy, an unseen bird gave a laugh that sounded far too human.
Then Roach stopped.
Before them sat a structure that could barely be called one—a small, sagging cabin with a caved-in roof and crooked windows, its timbers warped and black with rot. A half-collapsed chimney leaned at a dangerous angle, and moss crawled across the door like mold devouring a corpse.
Roach clapped his hands together. “Well. Here we are.”
Fyodor raised a skeptical eyebrow.
“This,” he said flatly, “is a hideout?”
Roach turned, grinning. “What’s wrong with it?”
Fyodor gave the place another once-over, his lip curling in disgust. “I’ve seen mud huts mortared with horse shit that looked more structurally sound.”
Roach wagged a finger. “Ah-ah. Rule number one, friend— never trust what you see in Elfhame. ”
With that, he stepped forward and vanished. Not blinked out of existence. Not walked behind a tree. Just vanished —like the air itself swallowed him.
Fyodor’s eyes immediately narrowed. He approached slowly, gun hand at the ready, eyes flicking across the slanted walls and rotted wood.
Then Roach reappeared—just a step from where he’d vanished—grinning from ear to pointed ear. “So,” he asked, spreading his arms theatrically, “what do you think of my glamour? It's a pretty neat trick if I say so myself. And I certainly do.”
Fyodor blinked. He didn’t answer at first. His mind, sharp as a scalpel, reeled at the seamless vanishing act.
He took a step forward and squinted at the cabin. For a second, it shimmered—just faintly—as if the wood wasn’t wood, the rot not rot, but something else wearing a disguise.
Fyodor exhaled through his nose whilst his brian struggled to come up with a response.
Come on say something damn it.
“...Impressive.
Roach beamed. “I’ll take that as the highest praise from a man who doesn’t seem impressed by much.”
He motioned toward the decrepit cabin. “Come on, then. Try stepping through. Won’t bite—I promise.”
Fyodor approached cautiously. He extended his hand first, watching as his fingers passed effortlessly through what he now realized was an illusion—a mere trick of perception. With a quiet hum of acknowledgment, he stepped forward, allowing himself to pass through the false image.
The moment he did, the world around him shifted.
Gone was the crumbling cabin, and in its place stood a solid stone stairway, leading downward into the earth. The air was thick with dampness, the scent of wet stone and something vaguely metallic lingering in the space. Fyodor’s expression remained unreadable, but inwardly, he noted the effort put into the deception.
The goblin descended first, moving with the ease of someone who had walked these steps a thousand times. Fyodor followed, his boots clicking against the cold stone as they ventured deeper underground. The deeper they went, the heavier the air became—thick with moisture, clinging to his skin like an unwanted embrace.
Fyodor exhaled slowly, his breath visible in the chilled air. “It’s damp.”
Roach snorted. “Yes, well, welcome to the underbelly of fae espionage.” He shot him an amused glance over his shoulder. “Don’t worry you’ll get used to it.”
“I hope I don’t.”
Roach just chuckled and continued downward.
At the bottom of the stairway, the passageway opened into a sprawling chamber. The space was lit by flickering lanterns, their golden glow casting long, shifting shadows along the stone walls. Several shelves lined with books stood against the far wall, their spines worn and aged. A handful of tables were scattered throughout the chamber, some covered in parchment, others littered with odd trinkets and alchemical tools.
“Welcome to the hideout,” he said with a grin. “Or at least one of them. The Court of Shadows tends to move around—harder to assassinate when you’re slippery.”
Roach strode toward one of the tables and promptly collapsed into a chair, kicking his feet up with an air of complete ease. He gestured toward a chair across from him. “Well, make yourself at home, stranger.”
Fyodor didn’t move. Always remember to gauge your surroundings before putting yourself at ease.
Roach arched his brow. “Not a fan of sitting, either?”
“I prefer to remain standing for now,” Fyodor replied, his gaze sweeping the room, cataloging every possible exit, every potential weapon.
The goblin smirked. “Paranoid. I respect it. It’s a good trait to have in a place like this.” He leaned back, folding his hands behind his head. “So, tell me, Fyodor Edinstvo… how did you get here?”
Fyodor regarded him carefully.
The truth was, he didn’t know.
One moment, he had been standing before a mass grave, awaiting his execution, and the next, he had woken in the depths of a twisted forest. He had no memory of transition, no clear explanation. It was as though the universe had simply… decided he would not die that day.
He could lie, of course. Misinformation was often a weapon greater than any bullet or blade. But something about this place, about this creature before him, made him reconsider. Roach was no simpleton—he would see through a falsehood as easily as he had woven his illusions. Then again it was possible he wouldn’t believe him regardless.
I’m here because I got killed and then woke up in a strange forest with giant killer toads and viscous looking soldiers. Completely believable, everyday occurrence. Well Occam's razor I guess.
So, Fyodor simply said:
“I died.”
