CHAPTER 7: The Winds of Difference

Markos had spent a few days in the village of Scolatii doing simples tasks just as hunting, skinning and helping patrolling the village as a watchman, his senses both piqued and disturbed by the ways of these people. As he walked among them, their customs seemed to unveil themselves like a tightly wound scroll, slowly unfurling one tradition at a time. Every corner of this strange land was steeped in practices and beliefs he had never encountered before, and though he understood the villagers' language enough to communicate, the subtle differences in their worldview weighed heavily on him.

It was one of those early mornings that Markos decided to venture further into the village. He had grown accustomed to the local rhythms, but each day brought more questions. He had learned the villagers' names, their occupations, even the layout of the marketplace where various goods were traded. But there were customs and rituals they followed that unsettled him, and the more he witnessed, the more aware he became of his alienness among them.

The villagers, though kind, regarded him with a polite distance. They were interested in his origins, but their questions were not always gentle. Their gaze often lingered too long on his armor, his sword, the way he carried himself. He could tell that, though they respected his strength, they were unsure of what to make of him.

Markos had heard of their belief in Veltrana, an old goddess of Astonicum, and he had already witnessed the evening sacrifice in the village temple—a ritual where animals were offered, and prayers were chanted in their strange dialect. He had reluctantly participated in their feasts, raising his cup to their gods, but each time, the unease in his chest grew. These people worshipped not just a god, but the land itself. They didn't bow to emperors or men of high birth; instead, they saw themselves as protectors of the earth, bound by sacred oaths to the land they lived on.

One evening, as Markos sat with the reeve Herran, they spoke of the harvest, of wars fought in distant lands, and of the coming winter. Markos, still wearing the strange armor of his people, leaned forward, trying to make sense of it all. The reeve spoke in broken Latin, but with the strange undertones that Markos had come to recognize as part of the villagers' dialect.

"The harvest will be good this year," Herran said, his voice low. "Veltrana is pleased. But the winter will test us. Always does. She demands tribute."

Markos frowned slightly, trying to grasp the deeper meaning of his words. He had heard talk of spirits before, but it wasn't the sort of thing he had heard in the Empire. In Constantinople, the emperor's will was the law, and the divine authority was entrusted to the patriarch and the emperor. Here, there was no divine right in the same sense. They had no emperor or pope to answer to.

"So, you give her your offerings," Markos said, still trying to piece the words together, "so that the seasons are kind?"

"Yes," Herran replied with a solemn nod. "Veltrana watches over us. She is the protector of our lands, our crops and will not summon the gates. The land and the sky are hers to command. But you must respect her will. Those who do not… suffer." He said this with a deliberate pause.

Markos caught the undertone of the statement. "Do you follow her will alone? Not any other gods?"

Herran's eyes darkened, but he didn't look away. "We honor the old god, Veltrana. But the spirits of this world and sky guide us. The others are distant, legends lost to time. We believe in this land, in the strength of the harvest and the land we've been given. The emperor's gods... they are not ours."

Markos hesitated. His mind flashed to Constantinople, to the city he had once called home, to the emperor's rule, to Christ—who was the true god, the savior of mankind. He had been raised with these beliefs. They were not just customs but the foundation of his life.

"My god does not require such tributes." Markos said quietly, his voice barely above a whisper. "And He who rules over all."

The tension between them was palpable. Herran's lips pressed into a thin line as if weighing how to respond.

"The god of your people, yes," Herran finally said, his tone measured but firm. "But here, we worship the realm, the land, and the spirits. They are not to be dismissed. We have our own ways."

Markos could feel the weight of Herran's words, the firm belief in them, and it stirred something inside him—both resistance and doubt. Was he to abandon all that he had known? Was he to accept a world where gods were tied to the seasons and the earth itself? It felt alien to him, yet there was a strange power in their beliefs—a power that Markos could not deny.

The conversation lingered in the air between them as the fire crackled. The villagers, having finished their meal, returned to their homes, but Markos remained in his thoughts, staring into the flame. The language barrier between their beliefs was growing wider with each passing moment. For them, their faith was embodied by the land they worked, by the strength of the harvest and the bonds of kinship they shared. For Markos, the divine was something greater, something eternal that stood outside the world.

Later that evening, as Markos walked toward his tent, his mind still spinning with confusion, he was stopped by the sight of a group of villagers gathered by the fire outside the inn. They were singing a chant in the old dialect, their voices low and rhythmic. Markos approached cautiously, standing at the edge of their circle. Their eyes turned toward him as they sang, offering him a kind of welcome, but it was a welcome he didn't fully understand.

The song was familiar in its melody, but the words were foreign. They spoke of the seasons, of battle, of blood spilled in defense of the land. They spoke of Veltrana and her wrath. The faces around him, illuminated by the fire, were solemn, reverent.

A young woman from the group stood, eyes locked onto Markos. She gestured for him to join them, offering him a seat by the fire. "Come, warrior," she said, her accent thick, but not unkind. "Sing with us. Honor the god who has given us life."

Markos hesitated, his heart heavy with indecision. He wasn't sure if he was ready to accept this world, their gods, their way of life. For the first time since arriving in Yaegrafane, he felt like an outsider, caught between two worlds. He couldn't deny the warmth of the fire or the pull of their invitation, but his loyalty to the God of his people—the God he had been raised to honor—was stronger than the stranger gods of this land.

"I... appreciate your kindness," Markos said, his voice steady but firm, "but I must decline. I do not know this god as you do. I have my own duties to fulfill."

The young woman's face softened, and she nodded in understanding. There was no judgment in her eyes, only respect. The villagers continued their song without him, their voices rising in harmony, filling the air with a sense of belonging that Markos could not quite share.

Markos stood and moved away from the circle. He could not bring himself to join them, not yet, not in a way that felt true to his own beliefs. With a quiet nod, he excused himself and walked toward the outskirts of the village.

As the villagers continued their chant, Markos made his way to a quiet spot near the edge of the settlement, where he could oversee the village from a distance. He sat on a high stone ledge, his back against a crumbling wall, the spathion at his side. The firelight flickered in the distance, casting long shadows across the village, but Markos' mind remained focused on the task ahead.

The crows, as they always did, appeared again. A group of them circled overhead, casting their dark shadows over the landscape. They watched him as he took his position as a watchman for the night. It was not an official duty, but it was something he could do, something that allowed him to keep his mind occupied.

Markos found solace in the silence of the night, even as the crows continued to observe. Their presence was unsettling, but not unfamiliar. He had come to feel their watchful gaze as a constant companion. Some part of him wondered if they were merely creatures of the land, or something more—if they were connected to the woman in red, to the demoness, or to forces beyond his understanding.

The firelight from the village flickered in the distance as he sat in stillness, watching the night unfold. The tension between his beliefs and those of the villagers lingered in the back of his mind, but for now, he had made his choice. He would stand watch. He would be a protector of this land, but on his own terms.

And as the night deepened, Markos, though still an outsider in this strange world, felt a quiet resolve settle in his chest. He was here to survive, to protect, and, perhaps, to understand. But he would never abandon the man he had been.

The crows watched, and Markos waited, the weight of his decisions pressing heavier than the dark sky above and he prayed. "Lord of mercy, grant me wisdom to navigate this foreign land, strength to bear my burdens, and Your guiding light to lead me through the shadows and doubt, that I may walk in Your will and find the truth ahead. Amen."

Markos finished his prayer, the words hanging in the air like an echo of his soul's plea. His hands, worn and rough from his travels, trembled slightly as he clasped them together, as though seeking to hold on to something solid in this peculiar world. The wind whispered softly through the trees, carrying with it a chill that seemed to bite deeper than the cold of the night itself.

He rose, his muscles stiff from sitting too long, and turned to begin his rounds. The village was quiet now, the last flickers of light from the firepits and their torches gradually dimming as the villagers retreated to their homes. But just as he took his first step, a shadow—slight but unmistakable—moved from the corner of his eye.

He froze, instincts honed from years of battle kicking in, his gaze darting towards the sound.

There, standing at the edge of the forest, was the woman in red. Her figure was sharp against the backdrop of the dark trees, the flame of her presence burning brighter than any of the firelight in the village. A smirk curled on her lips, one that Markos had come to recognize all too well—arrogant, knowing, as though she held a secret only she could understand.

For a moment, she met his eyes, her gaze as piercing as the cold wind. Then, with a fluid motion that was almost ethereal, she turned, fading into the darkness, her silhouette vanishing into the night like a specter.

Markos stood still, his heart racing as though her sudden appearance had startled him more than it should have. His hand tightened around the hilt of his spathion, instinctively ready to draw it, but she was already gone, slipped away like a shadow swallowed by the dark.

He blinked, disbelief flashing in his eyes. Was she truly there, or was it just his mind playing tricks on him?

He cursed under his breath, shaking his head, trying to steady himself. No. It was real. She was real. She is watching me.

With a final glance towards the spot where she had been, Markos turned and continued his rounds. The crows, ever watchful, cawed softly in the distance, as though they too were waiting for something, their presence both unsettling and familiar.

The weight of her gaze lingered on him even as he walked away, and though he told himself to ignore it, Markos couldn't help but wonder. What does she want?