Chapter six: 1528
Kiara
Customary for my station. A modest robe of coarse linen, the color of ash—without crest, without thread of gold. No colors, no sigil. Only a plain veil drawn low and a leather-bound book of psalms pressed to my chest. That was all I carried. It was enough to pass unnoticed through the morning crowd.
The streets had changed since I last walked them. Or perhaps it was I who had.
Children no longer ran freely. Vendors spoke in murmurs. At the edge of the market, a soldier struck a boy for stealing dates. No one intervened. Not even the
I did not.
I watched.
By midday, I made my way to the square. I told myself it was out of duty—to bear witness, to record, to understand. But the truth nestled deeper, murkier.
I wanted to see if justice had a face.
The scaffold had been rebuilt. Crude, functional. No drapery, no speech. Only rope and wood and silence.
A low hum of voices stirred around me. Some held prayer scrolls. Others held stones in their hands. I stood at the edge of it all, hood low, a ghost among the living.
And then they brought him out.
Tashi.
The man who once governed the southern provinces. Who once gave grain to starving pilgrims. Who now walked like a sack of bones, chained at wrist and throat, his dignity trailing behind him like a shadow long discarded.
No words were spoken.
Only the trumpet call.
I waited for the crowd's cheer.
But it never came.
Instead: hush. The silence of witnessing something irreversible.
A woman nearby crossed herself, muttering blessings not to Tashi, but to the sky. Another man whispered, "He was a father, too."
I turned away before the rope tightened.
Later that evening, the church summoned me. Not formally. Just a whispered message left beneath my chamber door.
They met me beneath the chapel, in the stone sanctum that smelled of damp scrolls and ash oil. Three elders sat beside a table of untouched bread.
"You were seen at the square," one said.
I bowed. "I was observing."
"Good," said another. "It is important we remain present. Justice must be weighed by more than the sword."
The third elder—one I once revered—spoke last. "Balance must be preserved, Sister Kiara. One death to anchor the tide of many. These things are necessary. The gods do not interfere for good reason."
"And if they remain silent?" I asked. The question escaped before I could rein it back.
The elder smiled as if I were still a novice.
"Silence is not absence. It is trust."
But I no longer believed that.
Not fully.
I returned to my quarters long after dark. The window had been left ajar. Cold air pressed in, curling the edges of my sacred texts.
I sat at my desk, lit a single taper, and opened the Book of Balance.
I read one passage aloud, then another. Then stopped.
My hand moved before my mind gave consent.
A single page torn.
Folded.
Burned.
It curled in the flame like a leaf too long dead.
I did not cry. I did not kneel.
I merely watched the ash drift upward, weightless and gray—like all the prayers I had once believed would be answered.
That night, another letter came—not to question, but to instruct.
The Church's words: Strengthen their faith. Keep the flock in order. Remind them of the Divine One's will.
But that is not my mission for this life.
----
By dawn, my resolve was forged.
I joined the caravan bound for the southern border—the road to the Jhaljie lands, where the snow fell not as grace but as warning.
The head knight, Giovanni, led the escort to the south bridge. When I approached the camp, the soldiers paused. They did not know what to make of me—nun, witness, anomaly.
They hesitated.
I did not.
"I require no protection," I said. "If revolt comes, let it find me standing."
They gave me a horse—tall, pale as a bloom choked by frost.
It did not protest when I mounted.
Neither did I when the cold bit through the wool.
Winter had settled like rot.
The snow deepened by the day, obscuring roads, swallowing the shape of things once known.
Some soldiers refused the march entirely—calling the route cursed, the season ill-omened.
There would be no straight path to the south.
We moved in fragments, from ruined camp to burned-out chapel, each shelter colder than the last.
Yule season had begun.
The sun, when it showed, gave no warmth.
Our breath frosted in the air like spirits left behind.
One afternoon, as we queued for rations—a slurry of root broth and stale rye—a soldier behind me leaned too close.
"I wonder," he said, voice thick with gall and steam, "do nuns like you ever marry?"
"If you're asking if I'm free," I answered, eyes forward, "I'm not. And you're not to my liking."
A bark of laughter from a few. Others said nothing. Their silence was not noble.
I felt their eyes long after the fire had died.
Not all of them. Just enough to know what they thought I was.
That night, at the roadside inn—a hovel with warped shutters and damp walls—I took the upper room. No lock. No bolts.
But I had other means.
I drew a wire of mana across the threshold—thin as thread, bright as iron in my sight.
A detection spell.
Silent. Precise.
Should any hand reach the latch, the ward would sing through my spine before the door creaked.
I did not trust them.
Nor did I fear them.
I simply prepared.
As I always have.
The border came not with banners, but with stillness.
A narrow bridge, ribbed with frost and centuries-old iron, connected Mahilaya to the conquered south. The river below slept beneath ice. No wind, no birds. Only breath, and hooves.
At the halfway point, a watchman emerged—hooded, wrapped in the gray linens of surrender. He did not raise a horn, nor a blade.
He bowed.
Low.
As if the war had ended long before today.
We passed without contest.
The Jhaljie had learned. Or perhaps they remembered.
That evening, we took shelter in a local inn, its beams warped with smoke and time. The hearth smoked more than it warmed. Giovanni summoned me to the common room, away from the soldiers' firelight.
"They don't resist," he said. "They recognize my face. Know I'm not dead."
He sat across from me, not with pride—but with something wearier.
"The clan that stayed behind—Ona, they call themselves—they were bought. Paid by the old king before his breath failed him. A quiet trade. Inheritance of silence. Now they open the gates. Now they bow."
"You've tamed them," I said.
He shook his head.
"No. Just leashed them. The chain is long. And brittle."
He looked toward the fire, where the youngest recruits whispered of ghosts in the snow.
"They think we control Jhaljie now. But we don't. We've just… cowed it. On the princess's orders."
I didn't respond. There was nothing righteous in conquest. Only delay.
Giovanni
I didn't trust her. The Kalihi.
She walked like she saw what others refused to name. And she never prayed aloud.
But who could I trust now?
The court sent me south with a sealed letter and a silent threat. Their words were always cloaked in scripture now—"cleansing," "containment," "order."
They told me to take the children of Tashi—the Jhaljie leader who died with a noose around his neck. His son, Lioran. His daughter, Lilian.
I was to bring them north. Deliver them. Bind them. I was told it would prevent future rebellion.
But I've seen rebellions.
They don't die with children.
They're born from them.
And I…
I couldn't do it.
Not yet.
Not ever, maybe.
I've ridden through too many villages where the fires still burn low and the weeping never ends.
I've looked into the eyes of sons carrying their fathers' swords.
If I take these children, the war doesn't end.
It begins again.
And this time, it wears my name.
Later that night, I found her near the stables, arms folded tight beneath her cloak. The frost hadn't touched her. Or if it had, she didn't show it.
"I need to ask," I said, my voice low, meant only for her and the horses.
"If I don't take the children north… If I choose to hide them—do you know a place?"
She turned, not startled. She was never startled.
"The Midnight Forest," she said, without hesitation. "Beyond the border ridge. East of the old ruins."
I frowned. "That forest's not on any proper map."
"It isn't meant to be."
"I've heard the stories. Travelers vanish. Caravans turn to ghosts."
She didn't deny it. That was what unnerved me. She didn't even flinch.
"It's not safe," I said. "Not for me. Not for them."
"Nowhere is," she answered. "But the forest keeps its own laws. It doesn't serve kings. Or crowns."
I hesitated. That place—every scout I've known who entered never sent word back. Some say the trees themselves move. That the roots bleed. That the air sings in a language not meant for men.
Still…
"I'll take them there," I said, quieter now. "I'll lead them into a place no one maps, no one survives. Because it's the only place the court won't follow."
She nodded once. As if she'd expected it.
"I can give you passage through the outer rim," she said. "Just enough to pass unnoticed. The rest… is faith."
I scoffed at that. "You still believe in that?"
She looked past me, into the snow-covered hills. "Not in the gods. But in silence. In what grows in it."
I didn't know what that meant. I didn't ask. I had my answer.
And maybe, in that moment, so did she.
Midnight – The Edge of the Inn Grounds
The fires had spread beyond the garrison wall.
The revolt was no longer rumor. It was everywhere—rising in screams, in blades drawn with bare hands, in the crimson flare of burning salt that lit the southern ridge.
Giovanni moved through it with blood on his gloves and resolve in his jaw.
He found her where the old shrine had collapsed, wind snapping her veil loose, her cloak stained with smoke.
"Kiara," he called, not loudly—just enough for her to hear above the din. "It's time."
She turned. Her face held no surprise.
"You'll take them?" she asked.
He nodded once. "The children are waiting in the old wine cellar. The guards who were stationed there won't speak again."
"They'll hunt you."
"I know."
"And if they find them—Lioran and Lilian—they won't just hang them. They'll make it slow."
Giovanni didn't blink. "Then they won't be found."
She stepped closer, snow crunching under soot. "I could go with you."
"No."
He met her eyes—clear, flat, steel.
"You stay. Return with the caravan. Report what you must. Tell them I died here if you have to."
Her jaw clenched. "You trust me with that lie?"
"Do I have another choice?"
His voice didn't rise. There was no time left for anger.
Only decisions.
Silence passed between them.
Then Kiara pulled something from her belt—a fragment of carved bone, etched with sigils in fading red ink.
"Take this. It marks you in the old way. If the forest recognizes the children's blood, it may let you pass."
Giovanni took it without ceremony. He had no faith in relics, but faith wasn't needed now. Only passage.
"May balance be with you," she said.
He mounted without responding, guiding his horse toward the cellar's hidden path.
Behind him, the sky burned red.
Within the Forest – Near the First Hollow
Giovanni
They didn't act like prisoners. And they sure as hell didn't act like royalty.They walked like survivors—heads down, shoulders squared. Not to command, but to endure.
Lilian led the descent into the hollow. Her eyes flicked from tree to root to sky. I could see it in the way she moved—sharp, efficient, quiet. She'd been raised around secrets. Maybe even hunted by them.
Lioran stayed a pace behind her, careful with every step. He didn't move unless she had. At every rustle, he flinched. Checked over his shoulder more than once.He carried a blade, both hands on the hilt like it might bite him if he loosened his grip. Couldn't tell if he meant to sheathe it or raise it.
We stopped near a ring of old stones. The ground was blackened with fire scars, ash thick in the cracks. Pine. I could still smell it beneath the frost.
"This isn't a safe place," Lilian said, crouching. "But it's watched. That's better than blind."
She unrolled a cloth bundle from her pack—dried berries, a flask of meltwater. Every movement was silent, clean, practiced.
Lioran hovered nearby. He kept his arms tucked in close, staring at the ground like he was afraid even looking at me too long might set something off. He didn't cling, but he didn't stray far from her. Like a child trying not to look like one.
He must've been close to the princess in age. Maybe a season apart. But where she'd been taught to carry a crown, Lioran had learned to carry silence.
I shifted back against a tree, letting the bark take my weight. That's when I heard him—soft, hesitant.
"Will they follow us?"
His voice cracked on the edge. Barely enough air to carry the words.
"They'll try," I said. "But the forest doesn't follow rules. If we keep moving before dawn, we'll stay ahead."
He nodded quick, like he regretted asking.
I sat across from him, watching his hands. They shook, just barely. Not from cold. From the weight of what he was holding in.
Lilian glanced over at him. Then at me.
"He doesn't speak much," she said. "He listens."
She didn't say it in defense. Just fact.
Lioran's voice barely reached me. "Things went quiet after they took my father."
He didn't say how. Didn't have to.
Lilian didn't offer comfort. Just reached into her satchel and handed him a strip of dried root—the kind that keeps nerves from snapping.
He took it.Didn't thank her.Didn't need to.
The fire guttered low. Frost crept back in.We hadn't spoken in hours. Not from peace, but because we were listening.
Something in the woods had shifted.
The trees had gone still. But not the good kind of stillness. Not rest.This was the kind that waits.
Lilian stood first.
She didn't speak. Just moved her fingers to the hilt of her blade, eyes narrowed toward the thickets east of us.
Even Lioran stirred, back straightening, breath catching.
Then I heard it.
Not footsteps. Something softer.A breath, heavy and wet.Dragging. Like bone over bark.
I rose, hand to my sword.
It came out of the dark like it was born from it—long-limbed, half-crawling, half-floating above the frost. Its skin was black and slick, face shifting like it hadn't decided on one. Too many mouths. Too many eyes.
Lilian whispered, "Molgrath."
Then it lunged.
Straight for Lioran.
He didn't scream. Didn't run.He froze.
I stepped in front of him, steel out. The blade struck its shoulder, sparks hissing against its skin. It reeled back—but not far.
It circled. Breathing. Or maybe laughing. Hard to tell.
Lilian was already moving—dagger in one hand, charm in the other. She shouted words I didn't recognize. A glyph on her wrist burst red. The air cracked.
It turned on her.
She met it head-on—blade slashing across its throat. Smoke bled out, and it screamed in voices that didn't match.
Still, Lioran didn't move.
He was pressed to the tree like bark, eyes wide. Not with fear.With memory.
"Lioran!" I shouted. "Move!"
Nothing. His knife dangled loose in his grip. Like he didn't know what it was for.
The thing shrieked again. I cut through its shoulder—flesh tearing, healing slower now.
Lilian slipped behind it, sliced the back of its leg.
It collapsed. Hit the ground like a corpse pulled from water.
Silence fell. But not peace.
Lioran still hadn't moved.
I crouched in front of him. My breath burned in my chest. My blade was still wet.
"You saw it coming," I said. "Why didn't you fight?"
His mouth opened. No words.
Lilian turned away, cleaning her blade with a cloth too used to blood. She didn't speak for him. Didn't scold him either.
"I didn't know how," he finally whispered.
His voice was air."I didn't know if I should."
I looked at him—knees drawn in, blade still in hand, too clean to have been used.No shame on his face. No pride.Just grief. And confusion.
And I couldn't blame him.
What was I supposed to say?That he should've fought?That he should've drawn blood like his sister? Like me?
He shouldn't have had to.
Not at this age.Not for a country that broke his name.Not for a crown that damned him before he even understood what it meant.
But none of us got to choose.
I stood. Wiped the blade on my cloak. The creature's body was already turning to ash. The forest wouldn't keep its corpse.
Beside me, Lilian sheathed her knife, face hard as stone.
She didn't reach for Lioran. Didn't scold or soothe.Just crouched near him. Hand hovering—not touching, but close. Close enough to feel.
That was their way, I realized.
She had fought like a wolf.He had not.
And still—they stood together.
I turned toward the path ahead. Trees waited, dense and still.
"We keep walking," I said."Next time, I won't be fast enough."
He nodded. Just once.
Didn't look at the remains. Didn't ask what it was.He already knew.
Even in silence, I heard it loud and clear:That wasn't the first thing that tried to kill him.
The forest stretched ahead—quiet now, but never safe.And behind us, the world that made them fragile grew colder with every step.