Night had fallen upon the capital of Alenthera. Beneath the pale light of the blue moon, the city stirred with quiet life—merchants drawing their shutters, cloaked figures passing in hushed conversation, the clatter of hooves fading into the distance. The air carried the scent of smoke and worn stone, and above it all, the hum of a people content in their forgetting.
At the heart of the city stood the great cathedral—solemn, unmoving. Its bell tower loomed above the rooftops, cloaked in shadow, yet faintly silvered by moonlight. Like a watchful elder, it kept silent vigil over the city's restless dreams.
Within its quiet walls, Serena lay upon her straw-stuffed bedding. Her robes, carefully folded, rested beside her. She wore but a simple white shift, the fabric plain yet clean. Her breathing was slow and steady, the rise and fall of her chest as measured as a monk's chant.
Time slipped by like water from a worn stone basin.
Then—her eyes flew open.
Emerald green, startling in their clarity, they caught the dim flicker of candlelight. She lay still, listening to the silence, to the fading echo of something not heard but felt.
"Again… that dream," she whispered, voice scarcely louder than the flame.
She sat upright, the movement smooth. Her long, dark hair spilled over her shoulders and back like ink poured across parchment. She raised her arms and slowly gathered it, binding it with a cord in practiced silence.
Her mind wandered still.
She reached for a pewter jug and poured water into a chipped clay cup. The faint trickle was the only sound in the chamber. She drank, then lowered the cup, staring into the hearth's dying embers.
She did not dream. Not like other folk.
Only one vision ever came to her—and it returned again and again, unbidden, like a ghost with unfinished vows.
She could recall nothing of the dream upon waking—only that it had come. Of that, she was certain. And it had been visiting her more often of late, each time leaving her with less and less.
Yet tonight, there lingered something.
A voice.Not in words she could name, nor in a tongue shaped for mortal speech. It was like wind across glass, or the hum of distant bells—too ethereal for her waking mind to grasp. Only the faintest wisp remained, clinging to the edges of memory like smoke slipping through fingers.
Perhaps she had been more troubled by the news delivered by Mother than she cared to admit. Perhaps the dream was only a shadow cast by that revelation.
But even then, she felt… nothing.
Not fear. Not wonder. Not even the urge to remember.
Without another thought, she laid herself down once more, closed her eyes, and let the silence of the cathedral wrap around her like a shroud.
On the far side of the cathedral, Alric and his company rested well, their hunger sated and spirits steady. As the first light of dawn crept through the narrow windows, an elderly woman approached them.
Her face was kindly, framed by silver hair, and she smiled gently as she greeted them, placing a worn hand over her chest in quiet respect.
"Mother Reverend summons you," she said softly, standing patiently by their side.
Alric rose, joining his father and the others. The woman led them through the shadowed corridors of the cathedral. Faint rays of the red morning sun filtered through slatted vents set in the thick stone walls, casting streaks of warm light that marked the birth of a new day.
At last, they arrived at a small, solemn chamber. The old woman stepped ahead and pushed open the heavy wooden door. Alric followed his father into the hall, its stone walls bathed in the soft glow of dawn filtering through narrow slits high in the masonry.
The priest who had greeted them the day before stood off to the side, his hands folded. But Alric's eyes were drawn to the figure seated upon a raised platform at the center of the hall.
She was aged, yes—but in a way that only enhanced her presence. There was grace in her stillness, and a beauty that seemed untouched by time. When her gaze met his, Alric felt heat rise unbidden in his chest. He lowered his head quickly, grateful for the dark skin that hid the blush creeping up his neck.
"Greetings, Mother Reverend," his father said, bowing with practiced respect.
Alric followed suit, awkward in his movements. He was more at ease wading through mud and the stench of rotting corpses than standing in the presence of such civility and reverence.
"May the Mother's abundance fill your life," she said, her voice soft and warm—soothing enough to make him forget, if only for a moment, the weight he carried.
"I pray we have not mistreated the Goddess's guests," she continued, smiling upon them.
"Father Juandrez has cared for us better than we could have hoped," Alric's father replied promptly. "We are eternally grateful."
"I have done only as the Goddess teaches," the priest beside the platform said with a humble nod.
"Good, good," the Mother Reverend murmured approvingly.
"You may rest here as long as you wish," she added after a moment's pause.
"We will, of course, pay for our lodgings," Alric's father said quickly, as though afraid of imposing. But she only smiled, gently shaking her head.
"The Goddess's grace is not bound by worldly coin. You need not burden yourselves."
Then, as if reading their thoughts, she continued, "Your belongings have been brought safely into the cathedral. They are secured in a private chamber. You will be guided there shortly."
"We would like to sell some of the wares we brought from beyond the Blood Plain," his father said.
"Of course," she replied. "You will be issued identity slates, so you may trade and live freely within the capital."
Alric glanced up and found her gaze once again turning toward him. It was as though she were reading him—his thoughts, his doubts, his very being.
"You are merchants, I have heard," she said, turning her gaze to his father.
He replied promptly, his voice steady but respectful. Yet even he—who had dealt with cunning merchants and hardened generals alike in his long years—now seemed like a bashful child in her presence. She did not appear any older than him, and yet something about her made even seasoned men like him falter.
Alric could sense his father's unease, which so closely mirrored his own. There was nothing unkind in the Mother Reverend's bearing, and yet her presence demanded a reverence that neither of them could quite put into words.
Then she raised her hand and beckoned, and Alric froze for a breath.
"Come here, child," she said, her voice soft as falling snow and he promptly stepped forward, his awkwardness momentarily forgotten.
It wasn't until he stood before the platform and felt her hand gently rest upon his unruly hair—warmth spreading through him like sunlight through cold stone—that he realized what was happening.
He dared not raise his head. He was only grateful that he had washed his hair the night before, lest he soil her radiant touch with travel's dust. Though now he felt like he could have spend more time at it last night and done a better job.
"You, child, are blessed by the Goddess," she declared, her voice clear and ringing through the chamber.
"It is your fortune to have him with you," she continued, turning her gaze upon his father and their companions. "Only by his fate did you survive the Blood Plains and reach into the embrace of the Goddess."
Alric didn't need to look to know they were shocked. He could feel their silence. Only his father remained composed, standing tall, his expression touched with pride—almost as if he had always known.
"This child was not born to be a merchant," she said.
Alric couldn't have agreed more. He had always been dreadful at the mannered, delicate dealings of trade.
"We have holy knights of the cathedral. He would do well to be nurtured among them," she said.
"It would be his honour," his father replied at last, the words quiet but resolute, as though he had only just emerged from a moment of stunned silence.
Alric said nothing. His thoughts were a flurry, the warmth of her hand still resting gently on his head, her words echoing within him. He was too busy wrestling with it all—the strange comfort in her touch, the weight of her pronouncement, and worst of all, the blush creeping up his neck that not even his dark skin could fully conceal.