There is a town surrounded by woods, where children pore over fairy tales that are as real as the bread the bakery sells in the square.
“My dear, let me tell you a story.”
“A bedtime story?”
“A good one.”
This is the only village for hundreds of miles, with its crooked clocktower and lakeside cottages, its tulip-lined lanes immortalized in storybooks.
But do you know of the other villages?
“Now, the tale of Sankta Ilya in Chains begins – ”
“But I know that one. I know all of them from my book of Saints.”
In this town, the stories tell are of Sankt Feliks Among the Boughs, Sankt Grigori, Sankta Lizabeta of the Roses.
“Even the story of the enchanted school in the wood?”
“I don’t know it.”
“At this enchanted school, the children were taught magic. They had beautiful clothes, delicacies to eat, and many servants who brought them anything they wished for. At this school, they were taught to summon light and darkness. To command waves, the flames, the wind.”
“You mean the Little Palace where they train Grisha.”
“Oh, but my dear, this is the story of two little girls in a land far, far away from ours. Their names were Sofiya and Agata.”
“I don’t believe in magic.”
After all, it is only a fairy tale.
OMIGOD OMIGOD OMIGOD OMIGOD… THE GRISHAVERSE… AND SGE?!?!? TAGGGGG
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