Many years ago
The room was small. The ceiling pressed down. The beams were blackened with soot. They clung on out of stubbornness, but looked ready to crack at any moment.
The walls were dark. Crooked. Thin seams between the boards. Cold and damp leaked through them. The smell of mildew hung in the air, mingled with the bitterness of herbs. Bundles of dried stalks dangled from cords, swaying in the draft. Shadows jerked along the walls. Long and brittle.
On the bed—the mattress was sunken, the sheet bunched into knots. The girl lay crookedly. Her body was laced with bandages, dark stains caked on the cloth. They split at every movement.
Her forehead shone with moisture. Sweat trickled down her temples and vanished in her hair. The strands were tangled, stuck to her skin, heavy and wet. They were blue.
Her sleep was restless. Her lips moved; scraps of sound tore loose. Her shoulders twitched, her fingers clawed for purchase in the folds of the sheet.
Her eyes opened.
Dilated pupils. Her gaze wandered, snagged on patches of light, but everything was a blur. Minutes stretched until her sight began to clear. Only after a while did the pupil start to catch shapes, to tell light from shadow.
She lay quietly, motionless. Her chest hitched, her breath stuttered. Sweat slid down her neck, over her collarbones, disappeared beneath the bandages. Her fingers trembled, clenched into fists.
A sharp jerk, and she pushed herself up on her elbows, pitched forward. Her body arched. Her throat seized, broke into a rasp.
"Kha!"
The rasp came out dry and ragged. Pain tore through her belly, along her ribs. It knotted the muscles, dragged her shoulders tight. The spasm wouldn't let go until she sank back down.
She blinked rapidly. Her eyelids were heavy; the air burned her eyes. She forced her head up—her gaze skimmed the walls. The boards were dark with gaps between them, the cold seeping through.
She blinked again; sweat beaded on her brow. Her thoughts tangled. She tried to understand where she was—the room was unfamiliar.
A pounding in her temples. The last thing in her memory flared.
Night.
Rain came down in sheets, the streams poured in a solid wall, lashing the stone. Water ran over her face, strangled her breath. The noise drowned everything out.
Fire flashed before her eyes—bright jets of flame. They struck the air, coiled, flew straight at her. Golden, blinding, reaching through the rain, burning holes in the dark.
Her legs still moved forward. Her steps bogged down, each one wrestled from her. Her side burned. A dark stain spread through the cloth. Blood clung; cold mingled with the heat of the wound.
The edge vanished underfoot. The ground sheared off without warning. Her body plunged into the void.
Air whipped her face; her hair slapped her cheeks. The fall was swift and blind. A thick darkness below. The water hit hard. The blow shocked her chest. Cold locked around her from all sides.
She jerked her head, driving the images away.
Her head was heavy, her temples throbbed, but her body obeyed. She leaned forward. Her hands braced on the edge of the bed; they shook, but held her weight. Her foot touched the floor. The stone was cold, rough, and gave its chill back to her.
The first step was hard.
Her knees buckled, her breath faltered. The second step was easier. The third—steadier. Motion returned; her muscles obeyed grudgingly, but they worked.
Her things lay in a heap in the corner.
Her cloak was wadded up, her boots shredded, straps torn. Blood had caked on the fabric, the holes gaped open. The metal of the buckles had darkened with rust. She stopped. Crouched, reached out.
Tsk! I sunk so much gold into those enchantments…
Her fingers lifted the edge of the cloak.
The fabric stretched. Split along the seam. Runes marked the hem, drawn on the cloth. But the shimmer was gone. She poured mana into them. The symbols flared for an instant and died.
"Empty… haaa…"
She let the cloak drop. Sighed and ran a palm over her face. Strength was low, and she still had to figure out where she was and how to get out.
A rustle came from behind the door. Heavy steps. Far at first, then closer. The rhythm slowed and stopped right at the threshold. Metal rang. A key turned in the lock. A click; the bolt slid.
The door swung inward. The air shifted; the lamp by the window quivered. A figure appeared in the doorway.
The figure stepped into the room. Her gaze fell on the bed. She froze, rocked almost imperceptibly, as if about to turn back.
Cold steel brushed skin. A knife pressed to her throat.
"Don't move," someone whispered behind her. The voice was soft, but it scraped the ear.
The figure went still. Her shoulder twitched as if she wanted to turn, but the blade bit into the skin under her throat, denying her the step.
"Are you stupid or what?!"
The voice was sharp, angry. Now it was clear—the person before her was a girl. Her hair was pulled into a tight braid. She smelled faintly of lavender. She didn't move anymore. She stood straight, didn't resist.
"Heh-heh… Is this an ambush?"
Her voice sounded calm, even lazy. She tilted her head, as if trying to get a better look at the blade at her throat.
"Oh! That's my little knife… Where did you find it?"
Fingers twitched; her hand started toward the blade, but was yanked to a stop.
"Are you an idiot? I could kill you…"
"Really? Better not do that… Wouldn't I die?"
With every second, the absurdity became more obvious. She didn't shake, didn't try to break free. She stood calmly, as if they weren't talking about her life at all.
"How about you let go… and we talk like normal people?"
"How about you shut up?"
The hand jerked harder. The blade traced a thin red line. A drop slid down her neck and vanished into her collar.
The figure didn't flinch. No step back, not even a breath. As if the blood belonged to someone else.
"You know… it doesn't hurt that much," she smiled a little; her eyes gleamed. "But you do realize I'll have to wash my cloak now?"
The knife still pressed coldly. The silence weighed; the lamp by the window quivered in the draft.
"Who are you?" The voice was cold, clipped.
"Who are you?" came the lazy, amused reply.
"Why did you come here?"
"Well… This is my house?"
"Do you understand you could die?"
"I do. But at the moment that's more your problem than mine."
"I'm serious."
"I'm not. I've got a bit of a ruined disposition, I suppose."
"Are you mocking me?"
"A little. You do get mad so adorably."
They stayed like that—the one facing away, the other pressed close behind. Time stretched, the air thickened, as if the room were waiting with them.
She exhaled heavily. Her shoulders dropped.
"Listen… I did save you. So could you maybe calm down a little and put the knife away? No one here wants to hurt you…"
The blade still chilled her skin. The other tilted her head slightly; the corner of her mouth twitched. A laugh, light and teasing:
"Saved me… Let's say so. Or perhaps it's the other way around? Maybe I'm the one keeping you alive, not you me…"
"Heh-heh… Maybe. Or maybe not. You tell me…"
For an instant the knife bit deeper, leaving a stripe. A second—and the pressure vanished. She stepped back.
The girl before her turned slowly. Her gaze caught on the lines of the face, on each separate detail. Now the two of them stood facing one another, a careful distance between them. The lamp trembled in the window; its light threw shadows on the walls.
The girl was pale. Fair hair drawn into a tight braid. A white garment, and over it a cloak—the sort of vestment the Church's priestesses wore.
Something knotted inside her; her brows furrowed on their own.
"You're looking better," the priestess smiled, the corners of her mouth twitching. "Looks like my treatment worked. You should've seen yourself…"
"Yeah. Your people did a number on me… But why help me at all? So I'll feel indebted to you later? Bite me."
"In your debt? I'm not a loan shark…" there was a note of mockery in her voice. "You don't owe me anything."
She tilted her head, studying her, as if weighing her up.
"Hm. Maybe aside from a couple minutes of decent behavior? But even that seems too much."
"And about the 'bite me'…" she cocked her head. "Funny that the first thing you think of is dog habits. Explains a lot."
"Explains a lot?" Her lips pulled into a crooked grin. "Don't play the clever one."
Sofya gave a tiny shake of the head; the smile didn't leave.
"Hm. Cute… My name is Sofya. And you?"
"I don't want to tell you."
Sofya squinted a little; the corners of her mouth twitched again.
"At least call yourself something. It's awkward saying 'hey, you' all the time. Maybe 'Prickly'? Fits your temperament."
"…"
"Or 'Grumbler'? Not bad either. Though fine—let's go with 'Pin.' Small, sharp, and ruins everyone's mood."
She smirked, clearly enjoying how each guess grated more and more.
"Are you five?" The voice cracked into an irritated laugh.
Sofya spread her hands in mock-innocence.
"What? If you won't give me your name, I'll have to make one up. Might as well have some fun."
She exhaled hard, gave in for a moment, and muttered:
"Roxy…"
Sofya blinked. A teasing smile lit her face.
"Well, I'll be! I used to have a dog named that…"
"You—!" Roxy jerked, shoulders tensing, her eyes flashing with anger.
But the lunge faltered at once. Her face twisted; her teeth clenched. She pressed a palm to her side. Her fingers came away dark.
Her breathing hitched. Her shoulders trembled. The knife in her other hand wavered, but she kept her grip.
Sofya watched closely, that shadow of a smile returning to her lips.
"Oh…" Sofya breathed out softly, as if she'd just heard something amusing. "Were you really going to stab me like that? Stubborn, sure… but reckless to the point of comedy."
Roxy's eyes sparked; her breath frayed; her fingers locked spasmodically around the hilt.
"Shut up…"
"All right, all right," the priestess tilted her head, still in that lazy tone. "Just don't faint on me. I'm used to blood, sure, but I'm not mopping the floor after you."
Roxy bared her teeth, but her lips trembled with weakness. She clamped her side harder, still holding the knife, though the blade shook with her hand.
Sofya stepped closer, slowly, as if testing how near she could come.
"Don't come any closer…" The words tore out as a sharp hiss.
"And what are you going to do?" Sofya tipped her head, curiosity glinting in her eyes. "Collapse at my feet with a knife?"
"I'll… cut you…"
"Of course you will," her voice was soft, almost teasing. "But how about this: first make sure you can stand."
Roxy backed away, one step after another. Her spine hit the cold wall; her breath turned ragged. She held the knife at her chest, but her hand trembled harder and harder.
Sofya advanced, unhurried, as if her very presence pressed down.
"Oh, stop it," her voice stayed even, lazy. "You're wrapped in bandages and bleeding at the side. How much longer do you think you'll last like this?"
"I don't need your help…" Roxy ground the words out, glaring.
Sofya halted a pace away, cocked her head slightly.
"You're a strange one. I save your life, I treat you, and you still hiss. You do realize without me you won't make it to the door…"
A lunge.
Sofya—giving no time to react.
Roxy jerked back, tried to slip aside. But her body failed her; she didn't have the strength. Sofya was already there. A foot slid, hooked her.
A shoulder shoved her off balance; a leg knocked away her support. It all happened in a blink. The floor vanished under Roxy. She went down hard, the impact slamming into her back.
The knife slid from her fingers, but Sofya caught it first. The blade flashed cold in the lamplight, already in her hand.
"Let's just not make this harder than it needs to be, hmm?" Sofya held the knife lightly, like a toy. Her voice was calm, unforced.
Roxy sat on the floor, one hand clamped over the wound. Her eyes flashed with anger; her breath was heavy. She clenched her teeth, but kept silent.
Sofya crouched opposite her, head tilting a fraction.
"You know you haven't got a single chance like this. So why waste the strength?"
"And why should I trust you?" Roxy hissed through her teeth.
"Because I'm the only one here who can help you… Do you even know where you are?"
"Oh, I know," her lips twitched into a smirk. "Some stinking hole with an overbearing nurse."
As if she hadn't heard the jab, Sofya went on in the same easy tone:
"You're in the capital." She leaned a little closer, eyes gleaming with curiosity. "And judging by your hair… you're Migurd, aren't you? Ooh! I've heard you can read minds!"
She smiled wider, like a child asking a cheeky question.
"Go on then—what am I thinking right now?"
"You're thinking about how to grow a brain, fast."
"Heh-heh… close. But no. I'm wondering how long you can stay on your feet before you collapse right into my arms."
She tilted her head, meeting her gaze straight on.
"And you know, I'm genuinely curious—will stubbornness beat blood loss, or the other way around?"
Silence settled. Only their rough breathing and the faint crackle of the lamp. Sofya didn't rush; she stood and watched. Roxy looked away, her lips tugging into an irritated smirk.
"Fine… do whatever you want."
Sofya stepped closer, knelt beside her, and held out a palm. Golden light flared at once—thick and warm. It wrapped Roxy's side, flowed over her shoulder, across her chest. Blood dried; skin drew together.
"Silent magic…" Roxy grated out. "Tsk… Not bad."
Her cheeks flushed; her eyes flashed with anger, but no more words escaped. She sat still, trying not to show the roil inside. She herself couldn't work Silent magic, and that ate at her worse than the wound.
The feeling that someone handled magic better than she did stung more than Sofya's barbs.
The wounds pulled taut, knitting under the gold light, while fury bubbled in her chest. Every heartbeat of healing was a reminder she couldn't do it herself.
Sofya looked as if the whole thing didn't cost her a sliver of effort. Her palm hovered steady over the body; her gaze stayed calm, almost lazy. That only made it worse.
"What kind of magic is that?" Roxy narrowed her eyes; her voice rasped. "Some church trick of yours? I know healing is green, not this."
Sofya smiled at one corner of her mouth, her hand still glowing over the wound.
"It's a secret."
Finished, Sofya drew her hand back and stepped aside, giving Roxy a long, assessing look. The light faded; the room was once more only the lamp's dull flame.
Roxy pushed herself up from the floor.
The movement was sharp. To her surprise, the pain didn't return. No fatigue, no heaviness in the muscles. She ran her fingers along her side. Smooth skin. Not even a scar, though church healing usually left traces.
She frowned, shot Sofya a brief look.
"Your clothes are a little…" Sofya glanced to the corner where the shredded things lay in a heap, the fabric soaked in blood. "You can take some of mine."
She shrugged, smiling slightly.
"You don't really have a choice."
Sofya moved to the table. Sat, as if none of it mattered. Propped her chin on her hand. With the other, she fished a small yellow vial from under a stack of papers. The glass caught the lamplight.
Roxy said nothing, just watched every motion. One thought kept circling:
Why is this priestess helping at all?
She expected a catch more than any real help.
"So you decided to help me out of the goodness of your heart?" Her voice broke into a skeptical laugh.
Sofya rolled the little vial between her fingers; the corners of her lips twitched.
"Believe it or don't." She popped the cork and lifted it to her mouth. "But you were so pathetic I couldn't resist. The Creator commands we help the wretched."
She took a swallow and grimaced, as if she'd choked down something bitter enough to gag on.
Reddish cracks raced across her skin. Flared and vanished. It lasted only an instant—but Roxy still saw Sofya's body arch with pain. Teeth clenched, fingers digging into the edge of the table.
"What the fuck was that?" Roxy's voice split the silence.
Sofya straightened as if nothing had happened. The easy smile was back on her face.
"Clothes are over there," she nodded toward the screen. "You'll find everything you need in the drawer."
As if there'd been no pain, no cracks at all.
Reluctantly, Roxy got up and went to the screen. Behind it—a drawer stuffed with neatly folded clothes. The fabric smelled clean, faintly sweet. She chose a simple shirt and dark trousers, threw a cloak on top. Her movements were careful, still mistrustful.
A couple of minutes later she stepped out.
Sofya glanced up, lazily ran her eyes from head to toe, and smirked.
"There we go. At least you don't look like a stray anymore."
Roxy was already opening her mouth to snap back—
Thud! Thud! Thud!
The door rattled under heavy blows.
The booming knock rolled through the room, making the lamp tremble for a heartbeat.
Sofya moved toward the door. Paused. Frowned.
"I wasn't expecting anyone today…" she muttered, mostly to herself.
Her thoughts scattered.
Edgar? Harry? The patrol knights?
The lock clicked.
The door swung open, and a flood of sunlight poured in—harsh, blinding after the dim lamp.
Roxy had time to slip into a corner, vanish into shadow. From there she could already see who it was. Armor gleamed like a mirror. Warding runes against blows shimmered on the metal. Blue cloaks draped from their shoulders, the same color showing beneath the plates.
Church knights.
"Dominus vobiscum.
(The Lord be with you.)"
The knight inclined his head slightly. His voice was steady and assured, but his gaze was already sweeping the room, noting every detail.
"Et cum spiritu tuo.
(And with your spirit.)"
Sofya stepped forward, blocking part of the room with her body. Sunlight streamed past her shoulder, reaching all the way to the far wall.
"What brings you here?" Sofya smiled warmly, as if greeting old acquaintances.
The knight nodded again; his eyes stayed cold.
"I think you already know why we're here, Sofya…"
Her expression didn't change; she only spread her hands a little.
"Perhaps you mean stock inspection? Or another audit from your chapter? I haven't had time to report on the last shipment…"
"Sofya," the knight raised a hand to stop her. His voice hardened. "You know what this is about."
"Hm… interesting," Sofya narrowed her eyes a touch. "And how did you find out?"
"That is irrelevant," the knight said without a trace of emotion. "High Priest Harry invites you and your…"
His gaze slid deeper into the room. He seemed to feel another presence, but the shadows stubbornly hid the figure.
"…friend to see him."
Sofya let out a long breath; her shoulders sank. There was nothing to say. She turned toward the depths of the room.
"Roxy… be so kind—"
"Are you fucking kidding me?" the angry voice lashed from the shadows. "I knew it! The stupid bitch decided to have me killed!"
"No! Listen, that's not—" Sofya lifted her hands, taking a step toward the corner.
She meant to go on, but the knight halted her with a calm voice:
"Sofya, you're expected. Tell your friend she is in the very heart of the capital, surrounded by knights. The chance she leaves alive if she resists is zero."
Sofya whipped toward him, her voice snapping:
"Quiet! Why would you say that?"
He didn't even blink. He stood in the doorway, serene, as if chiseling each word from stone:
"We are not threatening. We are warning."
A harsh chuckle came from around the corner.
"Warning me? I warned you first—stay out of it!"
Sofya raised a hand, as if to hold her words back.
"Roxy… please, don't make this worse."
She lifted both hands, asking for quiet.
"Listen," her voice trembled, but held firm, "I didn't know about this. If I had, I would have told you straight away. I truly meant to help. And I still do."
Roxy pressed herself to the wall, eyes sparking.
"Help? Dragging me to your people under guard—that's help?"
"No!" Sofya took a step closer, peering into the dark corner. "You don't understand. This isn't the Inquisition or the headsman. Harry is the High Priest of the Church. And he stands for all races, not just humans. Even nonhumans find protection with him."
She sighed heavily and lowered her hands.
"Nothing bad will happen to you. I promise. It'll be all right."
"Promise…" Roxy's smile was crooked. "Funny. You, priestess, make promises—and then someone else decides what to do with me."
"I won't let them, do you hear?" Sofya stepped closer, her gaze stubborn. "You're alive. You're under my protection."
"Tch… words, words…" Roxy clenched her teeth, but her hand trembled as she pushed off the wall. "Fine. Let's see how strong your protection is."
She took a step. Then another. The shadows let go, and the sunlight hit her full in the eyes. Roxy squinted, raising a hand to shield her face. The world outside was too bright after the room's half-light.
"Please, put up your hood. Your hair must not be seen…" the knight nodded, and several others stepped forward at once, closing around them in a tight ring.
"Tch."
Roxy yanked the cloak and threw the hood up. The fabric fell over her shoulders, hiding her face and blue hair. To outside eyes, she looked like any other Church priestess.
Sofya gave her a quick side-glance and a barely perceptible nod.