The morning sun painted the square in soft gold, but the villagers felt no warmth. They stood in a wary cluster, eyes darting between Ethan and the towering nun seated beside him on her living throne.
Ethan looked utterly drained. His shoulders sagged, dark circles marked his eyes, and his voice when it came was hoarse, but steady.
Rosaria, by contrast, radiated calm authority. Blood still dripped faintly from her veil, feeding the flowers at her feet, but her voice was serene when she glanced at Ethan and spoke one soft word:
"My beloved."
Ethan's tired eyes met hers. For a moment, the world seemed to pause in that exchange, her towering presence, his weary steadiness. Then he turned back to the villagers.
"People of this village," he said, bowing his head respectfully, "we ask to speak with your chief, your mayor, or whoever leads you."
There was murmuring in the crowd until a broad-shouldered man in his forties stepped forward. His face was lined from years of work and worry, his clothes simple, his stance cautious.
"I am Halden," the man said. "Chosen chief of this village."
Ethan inclined his head again. "Chief Halden. Thank you. Sister Rosaria and I wish to propose an agreement. Nothing will be hidden when we speak plainly."
Rosaria folded her pale hands over her lap, smiling softly behind her veil. She did not interrupt.
Ethan continued, his tone measured, respectful.
"Here is our offer: Sister Rosaria can protect your village. She can raise walls higher than stone, reinforce your homes, even rebuild what is broken. Her thorns can keep out raiders, beasts, even armies. In return, all we ask is a daily payment of thirty silvers, given by the chief. If you agree, we stay and guard this village as our own. If you disagree, we will leave, and you will fend as you always have."
The square erupted in whispers. Some villagers glanced at Rosaria's towering frame and shuddered. Others murmured about safety, protection, the Black Crows who would surely have bled them dry had she not come.
Chief Halden shifted uneasily. "Thirty silvers… every day?"
"Yes," Ethan said gently. "From you alone, Chief. Not from your people. We will not demand more."
Halden frowned, sweat shining on his brow. His eyes searched the faces in the crowd, uncertain.
Rosaria tilted her head, her voice flowing like a lullaby: "Do not fear, Chief Halden. We do not bleed families. We cradle them. But my beloved is right, you must choose."
Halden swallowed, his hand tightening at his side. "I cannot decide alone."
"Then let all decide," Ethan said, straightening despite his exhaustion. "We will hold a vote."
He gestured, and Rosaria's thorns stirred. Vines shaped themselves into two tall boxes in the square's center, one etched with roses, the other plain.
"One box is for agreement," Ethan said. "The other for refusal. Each of you will write your choice on paper and drop it where you will. No pressure. No judgment. Let the will of the village be known."
---
By midmorning, word spread. Villagers huddled in alleys and kitchens, debating in low voices.
"Thirty silvers from the chief alone… it spares us."
"She saved us from the Crows. Did you not see what she did?"
"But that woman, she's not human. Her smile… it freezes me."
"Would you rather the Crows return? Or worse, soldiers?"
"They say Elarion and Virehall are at war now. If armies march, who will guard us?"
"Yes, but do we want her as our guardian?"
Fear warred with reason. Safety with dread. Some leaned toward refusal. Rosaria's bleeding veil haunted their dreams. Others argued that no lord's garrison could give such protection, not without taxes, not without conscription.
Halden listened, silent, his jaw tight. He knew thirty silvers a day was nothing compared to what safety was worth. And yet… he felt the unease too.
By noon, villagers lined up, one by one, to drop slips into the boxes. The square buzzed with whispers and footsteps. Children clung to mothers, elders leaned on canes, farmers still smelling of fields cast furtive glances at Rosaria's throne.
She watched them all with that same serene, unsettling calm. Flowers bloomed where her blood fell, roses opening silently across the square.
Ethan stood nearby, arms folded, watching.
---
Hours passed.
By the time the sun hung high, one box, the one marked with roses was heavy with papers. The other stood nearly empty.
Ethan sighed, running a hand through his hair. His fatigue weighed on him, but relief flickered across his face.
"It seems," he murmured to Rosaria, "that most are choosing to trust us."
Rosaria inclined her head. "Faith blooms, even in trembling hands."
He gave her a tired look. "I'll… go buy something to eat. Some bread, maybe some fruit."
Her veiled face tilted. "Shall I accompany you, my beloved?"
He shook his head gently. "No need. Stay here."
She was silent a moment, then her voice was warm, almost affectionate. "It is fine. My thorns spread beneath every street, every stone. I will watch you from below. If trouble finds you, I will arrive before your breath falters."
Despite himself, Ethan smiled faintly. "That's… reassuring."
She added softly, "If you see any books for sale or for loan could you kindly please bring them to me. Something to read. A mind must be nourished as well as a body."
Ethan inclined his head. "Of course, Sister. I'll see what I can find."
---
The village was tense as Ethan walked its streets, but life stirred again. Smoke rose from chimneys. The smith's hammer rang. Farmers brought carts of vegetables back from fields.
He stopped at the bakery, buying loaves still warm from the oven. Then, at a small library tucked beside the chapel, he rented several worn books. One in particular caught his eye, it's a history of the continent, its wars, its kingdoms.
If there truly existed a book of all of Veyra, he thought, it would be endless. For now, he would settle for understanding this land.
When he returned, Rosaria greeted him with a smile beneath her veil. At her gesture, a smooth table of living vines rose between them, its surface flat as polished oak.
Ethan set down the bread and books. Rosaria's pale fingers lingered on the tomes, caressing them almost reverently.
"How thoughtful, my beloved," she murmured. "The stories of this soil will help me know how best to guard it."
Together, they ate in quiet. Ethan tore bread, Rosaria read aloud softly, her melodic voice weaving history into strange poetry.
Villagers passed by the square, some pretending not to look, others staring despite themselves. None came close. The canopy of red flowers above them seemed too holy or too cursed to approach.
---
By afternoon, the vote was nearly complete. Life resumed in hesitant steps. Yet unease remained. Children played, but their laughter was hushed. Men worked, but their eyes flicked often to the square. Women carried water, but quickened their pace near the throne.
Ethan tried to read, but his thoughts wandered. He could not ignore the weight of what they had done. He could not ignore Rosaria's calm, her strange love for him, or the fact that she frightened everyone else.
Still, for the first time in months, the village was safe.
---
Far away, beyond the forest and the fields, boots marched.
A thousand soldiers under the banner of Virehall moved in disciplined formation, their armor flashing like a river of steel. Ten gold-ranked warriors rode among them, their commander at the fore, his gaze sharp as a hawk's.
They did not march blindly.
They marched toward the border.
Toward Elarion.
Toward the village that, for now, was Rosaria's garden.