Rain.
Cold, steady, ceaseless rain poured down over the Matteo Estate, dripping off the eaves of the old chapel like the tears of heaven. It was the first time Elena had left her chambers in a full calendar month. Her steps were slow, careful, every movement laced with the pain of healing muscles and mending skin. But she made it—hood drawn, eyes locked on the chapel door ahead.
She said nothing as she entered, the heavy oak door clicking shut behind her with a thud that echoed through the stone walls.
She didn't flinch at the thunder that cracked overhead, rattling the old stained-glass windows.
"Let it rage," she thought. "Let the world rage. I'm still standing."
The air inside was damp and cold, heavy with time. Forgotten offerings lay wilted across the altar—flowers curling into themselves, wax drippings hardened into thick scars on the floor. The scent of old frankincense and damp stone lingered in the air.
In her hands, she clutched the talisman the Behike had given her. She had kept it close throughout her pregnancy.
Unborn child, she thought bitterly.
Her grip tightened.
The pain that bloomed across her chest had nothing to do with her physical wounds.
She moved slowly to the small altar, lit the incense left in a cracked dish, and watched the smoke rise. But she did not kneel.
Not anymore.
Instead, she faced the statue of Saintess Yidali, the bronze effigy looming over her with eternal serenity, the flame-shaped heart on its chest glowing faintly with magic. She kissed the talisman and left it by the Saintess' feet.
"My whole life," Elena said, her voice low and sharp, "I've dedicated myself to you. Hoping. Praying. That one day I might be allowed to feel the heavens you promise your people."
She didn't bother hiding the scorn in her voice.
Didn't look away from the statue's glowing heart.
Didn't suppress the fury behind her grief.
"I'm done begging. I'm done bleeding. Everything I have, what remains of me, is not because of you."
She turned away from the altar, gaze sweeping the empty pews. The room smelled of mildew and old death. The flowers were rotting. The offerings forgotten.
Much like her.
Three times.
That's how often Seamus had visited in two weeks.
Three short visits. All business. All brief.
Not even a kiss on the forehead.
She closed her eyes. The disappointment curdled her stomach, turning hurt into hard resolve. Then again, what did she think was going to happen? It all seemed too good to be true anyway.
She lifted her hood and turned toward the door, but as her hand met the handle, she saw a figure walking toward the chapel through the rain.
Hooded.
Tall.
Purposeful.
She ducked behind the column support just outside the door, curiosity warring with resentment. The figure climbed the steps—then removed the hood.