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Chapter 3 - The Day of Grace

The evening light filtered through the window, spilling golden lines across the stone floor. Soon, night would cover the village.

Erian, seated on a small bench by the window, carefully braided Nalia's hair. His fingers, skillful despite his blindness, moved with precision as his sister sat still, swinging her feet in the air.

"Hold still, you'll look like a scarecrow if you keep moving," Erian said gently.

"I'm practicing how to look like a princess!" Nalia replied with a laugh.

"You already are."

Their mother, sitting in a corner of the room, watched in silence. Her face, once full of energy, had faded over the years. She wore an old shawl over her shoulders and her hair was tied back without care.

"You should come with us," Erian said without raising his voice. "Just for a little while. Nalia would feel safer with you there."

"It's not my place," the woman replied, without looking at her son. "Those people… they scare me."

"Nalia deserves more than your fears."

The woman did not answer. She only looked down, clutching the shawl to her chest. Erian sighed.

"Then at least help her put on the dress.

Her mother rose without a word and walked to the other room, where the only new dress Nalia had owned in years was hanging.

It was white and simple, with a skirt that fell to the knees and long sleeves decorated with small golden stitches. They had gotten it thanks to a neighbor who sewed for the temple and owed them a favor.

On the table, in a basket, rested a handmade crown of seasonal flowers: withered dahlias, orange chrysanthemums, and rowan branches with small red berries, flowers of autumn.

The mother returned with the dress in her hands, spreading it out carefully. For an instant, her expression softened.

"Come, Nalia. Let's put it on you."

Nalia's eyes shone.

The house they lived in was not the one from their childhood. That one, larger and with a small courtyard, had been sold after their father's death.

With the money, they had survived for a time, until the only option left was to rent this place: two poorly lit rooms, with cracked walls and low ceilings.

One room served as kitchen, dining room, and living area. The other, shared by Nalia and her mother, had a bed and a chest holding their few possessions.

Erian slept on a cot near the hearth, on a rug that barely shielded him from the cold stone.

But that afternoon, despite the poverty and the stigma weighing on their family, there was something like excitement in the air. Because that night, Nalia would perform for the first time at the festival.

Although the village despised Erian and his mother, it was different with Nalia. Her sweetness and spontaneity broke through even the hardest hearts.

At school, her classmates liked her, and many families couldn't help but smile at her when she passed.

One of her friends had invited her to join the church choir, and thanks to that, Nalia had been included to perform alongside the other girls in the festival.

It was a small miracle, because being part of the festival was a way to be seen, accepted, and remembered. It was an opportunity. If the village came to accept her completely, perhaps one day she could marry, start her own family, and have a different fate.

Erian knew this well. But he also knew that for that to happen, Nalia would need a dowry. And dowries weren't bought with good intentions or flowers in the hair.

From the other room, Erian could hear the soft voices of his mother and sister. He imagined Nalia standing, impatient and smiling, while their mother smoothed the white dress with trembling hands.

As he adjusted the cushions on the cot where he slept each night, Erian thought about what more he could do for his sister. He had to find a way to get money, even at the cost of his own life.

***

The sun was sinking behind the hills when Erian, Nalia, and Malric arrived at the square.

The entire village had poured into the streets, now bathed in a golden light that seemed to make every garland and ribbon glow as if touched by the grace of the gods.

Hawthorn branches hung from doorways as shields against misfortune, and dried flowers were woven into crowns adorning the heads of young women and elderly alike.

In the square, musicians played brief fragments as they tested strings and flutes, dancers rehearsed at the edges of the market, and stalls were overflowing with candied fruit, anise sweets, warm wine with cinnamon, and poultry marinated in honey.

The houses, decorated with care, had left their windows open, and from some drifted the echo of ritual chants. People laughed, ate, danced… Everything seemed to invite joy, but beneath it all, everyone knew what was coming.

"Come on, choose whatever you want," Malric said with a broad smile, opening the pocket of his cloak where he kept a few coins. "My treat."

"Really?" Nalia's eyes lit up like the sunset. "Then I want honeyed meat! And cake. And sweet wine. Can I have wine, Erian?"

Before her brother could answer, she was already pulling him by the hand, weaving through the stalls. The white fabric of her dress fluttered as she moved, and the crown of autumn flowers seemed to burn on her head in the last rays of sunlight.

"Nalia," Erian murmured with amusement, "don't overdo it. Ask for something simple."

"Don't listen to your brother," Malric chimed in from behind them. "You can ask for anything you want."

They stopped in front of a steaming stall, where a woman was turning strips of poultry marinated with honey and spices over a hot stone.

While they waited their turn, Nalia turned to Malric, a mischievous smile curving her lips.

"It's nice that my brother has such a generous sweetheart."

Malric choked on air and flushed immediately, giving the girl a light nudge.

"Don't be ridiculous! I'm just his friend!"

Erian allowed a faint smile to cross his lips, without looking at either of them. His thoughts were far away, crossing the silence between the laughter and the music.

That night, the Bearers of Judgment would proclaim the name of the Flower of Dusk, the woman chosen to be given to the God of Ruin.

The ecclesiastical procession had arrived the afternoon before. They wore white robes embroidered in crimson thread, the color of sacrifice. Their presence forced a heavy calm, as if the entire village were holding its breath. Tall, solemn, they walked without looking at anyone, their faces hidden behind smooth masks of pale wood.

One carried the ritual censer, its fragrance still faintly lingering in the streets; another held the book of genealogies, containing the names of every girl and woman born in the village.

The third, always in the center, carried in his hands a golden scale, the instrument with which, it was said, they weighed the soul of each woman before naming the chosen one.

They would decide who to sacrifice.

And their decision would be considered sacred.

Erian swallowed hard. The air of the festival, full of sweetness and color, could not erase the underlying threat. He thought of the words he had heard that morning, of the whispers spreading like fire.

"They could choose a child."

Erian let himself be guided through the crowd, Nalia tugging gently at his hand while Malric walked beside him to keep him from stumbling.

The noise of the festival surrounded him like a river: laughter, footsteps, distant songs, the jingle of coins, and the crackle of hot oil in the food stalls.

He didn't notice the eyes fixed on his face, some filled with poorly hidden desire, others with almost offensive pity. There were women who covered their mouths upon seeing him, as if his presence profaned the joy of the festival. Men who muttered under their breath that such beauty was wasted on a man.

"A sacred flaw," some said, as if the gods had chosen to mock the world by carving beauty into someone doomed never to see it.

Erian tightened his grip on his sister's hand, breathing in the warm, sweet air of the festival as he stepped forward, pretending not to notice those malicious stares.

The wooden stage was already set up in the center of the square, draped with white cloths and garlands of hawthorn. Around it, people were beginning to gather.

Malric managed to make his way through the crowd and secured a spot near the front, right in the middle, where they could hear without being jostled by the more impatient. Erian silently thanked him, settling at his side.

Nalia, however, couldn't stay still. When she spotted her choir companions on the other side of the square, she let go of her brother's hand and turned to him.

"Promise me that after I sing, we'll go find a candied apple," she said, her smile lighting up her face.

He nodded, though his chest tightened.

"First we have to hear the name the Bearers proclaim."

Nalia frowned slightly, then smoothed it into a giggle.

"They'll probably choose the most beautiful woman in the village," she said before running off toward the group of girls dressed in white.

Erian wanted to call after her, to tell her it wasn't that simple, that beauty meant little when the scale weighed destinies.

"She's just a child," Malric murmured, as if reading his thoughts. "The Bearers won't notice her among so many. Their eyes are on the village's virgins, not on girls who still believe flower crowns bring luck."

Malric reached for Erian's hand. His fingers brushed his friend's with timid hesitation, but Erian did not hesitate to grasp them firmly.

The church bells began to ring.

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