Andrei and Rhian

Ivana Novak was born the eldest of five girls, and like her sisters, she was tall with an olive complexion, dark brown hair, and equally dark brown eyes. But unlike her sisters, she was dissatisfied with her life in the village of Oskari. She would be the next to take over the Wayfarer's Inn, but her father was robust and showed no signs yet of slowing down. Still, there were certain things a man expected of his eldest daughter: to step in the shoes of his late wife, to care for her sisters, to marry well, and to grow their family.

Horseshite. Aye, she loved her sisters but it all sounded so bloody awful, didn't it? Ivana was plain—not pretty like the other Novak girls. But she was sharp as a tack and smart as a whip. So, when she was seventeen, she hitched a ride destined for Jaska. And with a sack of notes she'd earned in tips, she set out with dreams of becoming more than a wench, more than a wife, more than a sister. Just more, basically.

She enrolled herself at the Jaskan School for Remarkable Young Women, an institution that no longer exists at the time of this retelling. She'd always had a head for math and science, and she passed the entrance exam with flying colours—a full scholarship. For three years she studied endlessly, working her way to the top of her class, relishing in the company of other like-minded young ladies. She'd even sparked a romance with one, but for Ivana, work always came first.

She wrote home once a week, and then once a month, and in her final year at the School for Special Young Lasses, she wrote only once or twice. They never wrote her back, until they finally did. A letter from the fourth sister. "You're needed home," she said. "Father's passed." So, she packed her things and off she went, back to the shit fly's dinner.

For five years she ran the Wayfarer's Inn in her father's shadow, using her skills and newfound knowledge to grow the business tenfold. At the time, Oskari was still bustling—booming and on the verge of becoming something greater. The place to be was the Wayfarer's Inn, and Ivana's garlic potatoes and her unmatched hospitality were the talk of the town. "Hungry? Thristy?" she'd ask. And they always were.

The lad who proposed came from a big family, owners of the distillery across town. The partnership was inevitable and whatnot. Bar owner, booze trader. Ivana was thrilled. He didn't care that she worked too goddess-be-damned much, or that she was always so bloody matter-of-fact. It didn't hurt he was handsome, thoughtful, and chose her over her younger, prettier sisters, wouldn't you know. They got married in a summer ceremony on The Hill. He gave her a golden locket with their portraits inside.

By their third year of marriage, he was still handsome but he was less thoughtful, and the things he'd once found endearing about her seemed to irritate him at every turn. Why must she work so much, and why didn't she dote on him? Ivana began to notice a change in his behaviour. She'd catch him leaving their bed in the middle of the night, and money had been going missing from the safe. Small amounts at a time, but Ivana was a mindful accountant.

Stolen novel; please report.

Finally, she did what I'd do. She followed that fucker one night, watching from the shadows of an alley while he exchanged a sack of notes with a grisly looking fellow. "That's the last of it," he said, and the grisly fellow agreed. "You'll make it look like an accident?" her husband asked, and the grisly fellow nodded. "Good. I can't wait to be rid of her. She's cold as an Endican's teat. And besides, the inn will be better off in my family's hands."

Horrified by what she'd heard—her husband was paying to have her killed!—she ran through the alleys frazzled and confused. Had he ever truly loved her? Was it all a ploy to steal her family's business? She ran and she ran in the pitch black of the night—past the tailor, and past the tanner, and down the steps around the side of the bakery, but—she lost her footing and fell. Crack went her head against the wall. The blood trickled down her face, warm and metallic against her tongue. She would die alone in that alley, she was certain.

But then he came. The man in the sapphire suit. The one with all the goddess-be-damned promises. Said he'd help her. Said it would all be new again. Said she'd be powerful, and capable, and no one could take advantage of her ever again. He promised it wouldn't hurt on account of he'd done it once already.

That night, he brought her to the old schoolhouse where her transformation took place, and when she returned to her husband late the next night—no longer distraught and no longer afraid of murder or bad footing on awkward steps—her husband said, "I thought you w—where have you been?" and she replied by draining the life-force from his body. "He seemed perfectly fine the night before," she said. And for twenty years she ran the Wayfarer's Inn widowed and alone.

Got to be a bit strange, mind. Twenty years and she hadn't aged a bit. So she packed up her things and left a note for her sister. "I can't do this anymore. The Inn is yours now," she said. And then she left, or so everybody thought. Most nights she'd be lurking in the shadows, watching through the windows. She didn't like him, her sister's husband. He was always nagging and he was so bloody needy. Left her sister with nothing for herself. Late one night, she found him alone. "Ivana? I thought you w—," he said, and she replied with cold-blooded murder. And then, she killed her sister, too. Only, one of them wasn't permanent.

The second eldest Novak sister ran the Wayfarer's Inn for ten years as a widow until it was time, and when it was time, she left a note for her younger sister, "I can't do this anymore. The Inn is yours now," it said, and she, too left—or so they thought. But they lurked in the shadows and watched through the windows. It wasn't long before they decided they didn't like their sister's husband. And the pattern continued until all five Novak sisters were widowed and turned.

Right. So, they propped a new sign outside, leaning into the legend. The Widow's Peak. They married, they murdered, and just about every fifteen years, they'd rotate running the inn. They'd pretend to be an aunt. A cousin. Whatever. But the Widow's Peak was theirs. It belonged to the Novaks, and it'd stay that way for centuries.

And over those centuries, each of the Novak sisters were killed—by Partisans, by other Anima, by unfortunate accident. In the end, only Ivana remained, and with the death of the final sister, the cycle came to an end. She no longer felt compelled to marry and murder men, but the hate she felt burned a hole in heart she was desperate to close. And so, on that fateful night when Oskari burned to the ground, five hundred and three years from the day she was born, instead of taking a man's life, she saved a man's life, and with that, she was cured.

Rest in peace, mate.

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