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How do I properly express the need to have my feelings ripped out of my chest. Like I need to feel just excruciating emotional heartbreak right now.

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Of Prayers and Ash

Chapter 3

I’m jolted awake by someone shaking my shoulder hard. 

I sit up groggily, limbs aching. A man stands over me, slightly scruffy, wearing the viridian green of the foot soldiers. 

“Healer,” he says, gripping my arm. “You’re needed in the main tent.” 

There’s urgency in his voice. No time for questions. I force myself up, joints protesting, but adrenaline drives me forward. My heart kicks in my chest—not fear, not yet. Maybe... relief. Finally. A reason I was brought here. 

As we hurry through the sleeping camp, I whisper a prayer under my breath, brief and instinctive. 

The sun hasn’t risen, but the sky in the east is softening, gray edged with the palest lavender. An hour or so before I would’ve woken on my own. 

The main tent looms ahead. A simple structure—central post for the tarp, four corner stakes nailing it to the ground. I’d seen them put it up in minutes. Efficient. 

What greets me inside stops me cold. 

A soldier lies on a table, soaked in blood. 

I rush to his side. His chest rises shallowly. Gurgling fills the air—wet, awful. Panic claws at my throat, but I shove it down. 

The wound is deep. Slashing. Animal, probably. A bear? A lynx? Doesn’t matter. He’s bleeding out fast. 

“I need a bucket of water, a towel, and a sewing kit,” I snap. “Now.” 

They hesitate. 

“Move!” 

Soldiers scatter, boots pounding the ground. I glance to the corner—and there he is. Garrik. 

Arms crossed. Watching. 

“I need him on his side,” I say, my tone softer. “He’s choking on his own blood.” 

Garrik doesn’t speak. He just moves—steady, careful—rolling the man gently. 

“What’s his name?” 

“Jason,” he answers quietly. His voice is lower than usual. Less bark, more... concern. 

The others return, dropping the supplies beside the table. 

I don’t look up. “Out.” 

They hesitate again. Eyes flick to Garrik. 

“Did you not hear her?” he growls. “Out.” 

They leave without another word. 

I turn to Garrik. “You need to keep what you’re about to see to yourself.” 

He frowns. “What does that mean?” 

I don’t explain. Just reach for Jason. Lay one hand across his throat, fingers slick with blood. Close my eyes. 

Magic surges through me, fast and hot. My skin prickles, fingertips humming. Sweat beads along my hairline. 

The wound pulses beneath my hand, and I push deeper—not with touch, but with will. Blood slows. Muscle begins to stitch. Skin knits itself together in shivers and tremors. 

Jason gasps. 

Once. 

Twice. 

Then again. Shaky, but breathing. 

I sag slightly, catching myself on the edge of the table. He’s stable. Not well. But alive. 

I lift my hand. My palm is slick, my breath shallow. Garrik hasn’t moved. Still holding Jason in place. Still watching me. 

Not angry. Not confused. 

Just quiet. 

“Will he make it?” he questions, voice soft. 

“For now.” 

I wipe my hands on the towel, swaying a little. Garrik eases Jason onto his back, movements uncharacteristically gentle. 

Then his eyes meet mine—no orders, no coldness. Just... something I can’t name. 

“You should rest,” I say softly. “You’ve got a full day ahead.” 

“So do you.” 

We’re both silent. 

Then, almost reluctantly, he murmurs, “Thank you.” 

The words surprise me more than the injury. I nod once. Can’t bring myself to say anything more. He turns to leave but pauses at the tent flap. Doesn’t face me when he speaks. 

“No one will hear it from me.” 

Then he’s gone. 

I stare at the canvas for a long time after. Then down at my bloodstained hands. 

Outside, the sky is lightening again. 

I bow my head and whisper the prayer. But this time, I stop halfway. 

Let no one see me— 

But someone had. 

And for once... I didn’t hate it. 

I turn back to Jason, working by hand now that the worst of it has passed. The magic stopped the bleeding, barely, but magic can only do so much. The rest has to be done the old-fashioned way. 

Thread. Needle. Steady fingers. 

He likely won’t be speaking for a while, not with a gash like this across his neck. But now... now it’s just a wound. Not a death sentence. 

I sew slowly, carefully, closing the torn skin stitch by stitch. The room is quiet but for his ragged breathing and the occasional shift of canvas in the breeze. 

As I work, I study the pattern of the wound. It arcs from the side of his jaw, jagged and deep, all the way down beneath the collarbone. 

Too wide for a blade. 

Too low for a soldier. 

Whatever did this... was massive. 

And close. 

I swallow hard, eyes flicking toward the dark edges of the tent. The night feels suddenly heavier. 

Something is out there. 

And it wasn’t hunting just anything. 

It was hunting us. 

I keep watch over him. He doesn’t wake, just breathes—slow and steady. Chest rising, falling. The rhythm is enough to keep me anchored. 

Maybe an hour passes. Then the canvas stirs. 

Garrik steps inside, mouth set in a hard line. He doesn’t look at me. Just moves to stand beside the cot, arms crossed. 

His presence radiates heat. Too close. Too solid. Too... distracting. 

“How is he?” he asks quietly. 

“Stable,” I reply, not looking up. “But he won’t be fit to fight. Not by the time we reach the front. He should be sent home.” 

A pause. One heartbeat, then another. 

He doesn’t argue. Doesn’t scoff or question my judgment. Just nods once, jaw clenched tight. 

“I’ll see to it,” he says. 

I finally glance up. There’s something different in his expression. Not softened, exactly, but focused. Like he's thinking thoughts too heavy for words. 

“You know him?” I ask, keeping my voice low. 

Garrik’s gaze stays fixed on Jason. “Since he was fifteen. First time I saw him, he was trying to lie his way into the ranks with a fake badge and a broken sword.” 

That surprises a laugh out of me—quiet, tired. 

“He stuck around,” Garrik continues, tone even. “Always volunteered for the worst assignments. Got better. Reliable. Loyal.” 

He exhales through his nose, short and sharp. “Should’ve pulled him from the patrol rotation yesterday.” 

“You couldn’t have known,” I say, before I can stop myself. 

He doesn't answer. Just studies Jason’s unconscious form a moment longer. Then he says, “He’s lucky you were here.” 

I glance back at the bandaged wound, now clean and closed. The worst of it stopped before it could kill him. 

“He’s lucky someone let me do my job,” I quip. My voice comes out flatter than I mean it to, but I don’t take it back. 

Garrik’s eyes flick to mine. That unreadable look again. Not quite anger. Not approval, either. Something messier. 

After a beat, he says, “You did good work.” 

I blink. 

That’s… new. 

He turns like he’s about to leave, then pauses at the edge of the canvas. 

“I’ve stationed two soldiers outside the tent,” he adds without facing me. “They answer to me. If anyone questions you, come directly to me.” 

And then he’s gone. 

Just like that. 

I sit in the quiet for a long time, listening to the steady breath of the soldier I saved, heart still too fast. Not from fear. 

Something else. 

I’m grateful for Garrik’s discretion, Whether he understands what it means or not. Whether he suspects or not. He didn’t press, didn’t question, didn’t flinch. That, more than anything, earns a sliver of my trust. 

Jason is moved out the next morning, as soon as I give the all-clear for him to travel. He never wakes while he’s with us. Just breathes softly beneath the canvas, as if even unconscious, he knows how to be quiet. 

I give the two soldiers escorting him strict instructions—how often to clean the wound, how to keep pressure off his shoulder, which herbs to use for pain. They listen like they’ve been trained to obey, but I still watch their eyes. Make sure they understand this isn’t just protocol. 

This is his life. 

“Find a proper healer in the city,” I tell them. “And don’t wait too long.” 

They nod, salute, and ride out with him before dawn breaks fully. 

And just like that, he’s gone. 

One more life veering off the path we’re still forced to walk. 

The morning after Jason leaves, the camp moves with a sluggish rhythm, as if his absence has taken something vital with it. No one says it aloud, but there’s a quiet pall over breakfast. Less chatter. Less clatter. Just the sound of boots in grass and the occasional snort from the horses. 

The weather shifts over the next few days. A cold front creeps down from the north, turning the mornings sharp and brittle. We’re not quite at the point of needing cloaks, but the air stings the lungs when you breathe too deep. The kind of cold that settles in your fingers and won’t leave, no matter how tightly you wrap them around a mug of watered-down tea. 

Still, we march. 

No one complains, not really. Soldiers like Garrik set the tone, quiet endurance, no room for softness. But I notice the way they huddle closer at night, the extra shirts layered beneath their armor, the stiffness in their joints when we break camp at dawn. 

The forest changes too. Trees grow sparser, branches thinner, less green and more gray. As though the land itself is holding its breath. 

I do my rounds as always—checking bandages, mixing salves for aching joints, muttering prayers I’m careful no one hears. Not even Garrik, who’s taken to walking just behind me on the trail, as if he’s decided I’m worth keeping an eye on. 

He doesn’t say much. But I can feel him there. A steady presence at my back. And for once, it doesn’t bother me. 

I think of Jason sometimes, riding home unconscious, wrapped in silence and blood. I hope he makes it. I hope someone else is able to help him better than I could.  

The other soldiers speak to me more often now. Hushed thanks. Requests for a bandage, a salve, a bit of advice.  I do what I can, though it never feels like enough. Still, after everything, they’ve started treating me as if I belong. As if I’m one of them. 

Tavi stays by my side constantly.  I’ve come to rely on him more than I expected, his easy presence, his humor, the way he never seems shaken. There’s comfort in his steadiness. A quiet loyalty that asks for nothing in return. 

Lately, he’s let slip more pieces of his life. 

He told me about a girl, once. Back home. A farmer’s daughter, he said—soft voice, soft hands, softer heart. 

“A sweet thing,” he murmured one night by the fire, staring into the flames. “Didn’t have much, but she looked at me like I could hang the stars if I tried.” 

He didn’t say her name. 

I didn’t ask. 

There was something in the way he spoke of her, a fragile thread in his voice, too easily broken. Maybe saying her name would make it real again. Maybe it would hurt. 

So, I let the silence hold it for him. 

We fell into a kind of rhythm, the two of us. Whenever Garrik was off with the scouts or barking orders elsewhere, Tavi was the one who walked beside me. Shared meals. Helped clean bandages. Watched for signs of fever when I was too tired to keep my eyes open. 

He joked a lot, but not in the way that grated. His humor was soft around the edges. Sometimes, he made me laugh so suddenly I forgot how heavy things felt. 

But lately, something had shifted in him. 

He didn’t laugh quite as often. His eyes lingered on the trees too long when we rode. His hand stayed closer to his blade than it used to. 

“Something’s out there,” he muttered a few nights later as we sat by the dwindling fire. “Too quiet lately. Like the whole forest’s holding its breath.” 

I followed his gaze into the trees. The shadows seemed deeper than they had a week ago. A steady silence blanketed the once noisy forest. 

“I don’t like it,” he said. “Whatever came for Jason… I don’t think it’s done.” 

The fire popped between us. Neither of us said anything more. 

I had a sinking feeling Garrik was thinking the same thing. The weight behind his orders grew heavier by the day—he doubled the patrols, sending more scouts to monitor the woods and the camp’s perimeter. He made it mandatory that no one moved without a companion, a second set of eyes and hands ready for trouble. 

Despite the growing unease, the unit pressed on with grim determination. Hunting parties were sent out regularly to gather what they could from the wilds. Most days yielded little more than a handful of rabbits, but once or twice, fortune smiled on us, a large buck felled in the dense brush, its meat carefully portioned out to stretch through the colder nights. 

Those rare moments of bounty brought a brief reprieve, a flicker of normalcy in a world growing darker. Around the campfires, soldiers whispered about home, about better days. Yet beneath those conversations, the shadow of what lurked beyond the tree line hung thick and unspoken. 

Even with food in their bellies, the men’s eyes stayed sharp, their hands closer to weapons, their shoulders tighter against the chill. 

And Garrik… he was beginning to show signs of wear. No matter the hour, I never saw him sleep. On the rare occasions I woke in the night, he was already up. Patrolling the perimeter, speaking in low tones with sentries, always moving. His eyes bore the weight of command, dark shadows hollowing the space beneath them. More than once, I caught him rolling his shoulder, fingers pressing into the muscle like he was trying to knead the tension out, but the knots never seemed to leave. 

Only once did I try to help. I approached him late at night, when most of the camp was asleep and the fire had burned low. 

“Hey,” I called softly, stepping up beside him. 

He didn’t answer. Just kept his eyes on the tree line, jaw tight, hand resting loosely on the hilt of his sword. 

I hesitated. The quiet between us stretched, not tense exactly, but not easy either. 

“I noticed your shoulder’s been bothering you,” I said gently. “You’re favoring the left.” 

That got a reaction. A flicker of movement—barely more than a breath—but his attention shifted. Not toward me, not yet. Just away from the woods. 

“I’m fine,” he said eventually, voice low and flat. 

“I didn’t say you weren’t,” I murmured. “Just... that I could help. If you wanted.” 

Another long pause. 

Then finally, he turned. His gaze met mine, unreadable as always. For a moment, I thought he might say yes. 

But instead, he just said, “You should get some sleep, healer.” 

My chest tightened. I nodded, trying not to show whatever had just cracked open in me. 

“Right,” I whispered. “Good night.” 

And I left him there. Still watching the woods, still holding the weight of everyone, like he didn’t know how to put it down. 

That night, I didn’t sleep easily. 

The cold bit deeper than usual, curling under the blankets, and every time the wind stirred the tent flaps, I imagined claws scraping canvas. I kept seeing Jason’s blood, the way his breath had rattled in his chest like a broken bellows. 

And Garrik’s face. The way he hadn’t looked away. The way he always seemed to carry more than anyone should. 

I thought about offering again. About insisting. But I didn’t. 

Maybe I was afraid of what it would mean if he said yes. 

Maybe I was afraid of what it would mean if he didn’t. 

When morning came, it was pale and cold. 

And Garrik was already gone. 

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Of Prayers and Ash

Chapter 2

We ride in silence out of the city. 

Not the peaceful kind I’ve grown to appreciate. This is a silence that simmers. Tense. Measured. The kind that wraps around your ribs and waits to snap.  

My mind screams at me, I don’t like this silence I want to break it. He doesn’t seem like the talkative type though. 

Garrik doesn’t glance back. Doesn’t attempt small talk. Just rides. 

His broad shoulders are squared, stiff. The deep royal blue of his tunic peeks from beneath his chainmail and polished chest plate. I try to recall what that color means. Officer rank, I’m sure. Blue is high. Royal blue... high enough to command an entire unit, clearly. 

There are maybe forty of us in total. No one speaks to me. Not even a glance. Making this trip feel more like a sentencing than an escort. 

Most ride horses, though a few march briskly alongside, disciplined and quiet. Foot soldiers, maybe, dressed in deep viridian green. There’s always someone stationed beside my horse, rotating positions like clockwork. Guarding me, I suppose. Or watching. 

But never speaking. 

We approach the outer gate, towering and rust-stained, the drawbridge creaking as we pass. I realize then—I’ve never left the city. Not really. Not beyond the river road, not beyond the walls. 

I hold my breath as we cross. The wind shifts. 

And then I see it. 

More trees than I’ve ever imagined, layered in endless shades of green. Tall grass ripples like water beneath the hooves, dotted with small, wildflowers in yellows and purples and whites. The trees stretch high, canopies tangled together, blotting out the worst of the summer sun. 

Birdsong rises around us like a chorus. 

I must be staring, mouth slightly open, because a dry voice cuts through the quiet. 

“You’re going to catch flies.” 

I snap my jaw shut and glare at him. 

Garrik. 

His expression is the same, flat. Cold. No humor, no warmth—just that dead-eyed, unshakable disdain. I look away first. I hate that I look away first. 

I don’t answer. I won’t give him the satisfaction. 

“Don’t take it to heart, sweetie,” says someone to my right, easy and smooth. I turn to look at the speaker, a young man, maybe in his early 20s, on an auburn-colored horse, his smile easy and wide. 

He wears a lighter shade of blue than Garrik. Still military, but something less… suffocating. 

“He’s always been grumpy like that,” the man adds. 

I return the smile, cautiously. “Seems like it. I’m Liora.” 

“Tavi,” he grins. “But most around here call me Lucky.” 

“Nice to meet you,” I say, nodding politely. 

He’s handsome, in a classic, approachable sort of way. Chestnut hair falls a little too long over his brow, matching his soft brown eyes. Freckles spatter his cheeks, giving him a boyish charm, though the sword at his side says he’s no stranger to danger. Compared to Garrik’s harsh edges, Tavi looks like laughter incarnate. 

My eyes flick to Garrik. His back is turned to me again, unmoved, unreadable. I grimace. 

Why me? 

There had to be hundreds of healers in the kingdom. Better ones. Smarter ones. More qualified ones. I wasn’t even near the top of any list. Not officially anyway. 

I bow my head and whisper a prayer. 

Not for success. Not even for peace. Just survival. 

Twelve words, and then some. Words I don’t even realize I’ve memorized. 

 I finish with a soft, “Thank you,” and lift my head again, the ache in my chest settling—only slightly. 

By the time the sun hangs low, bleeding orange behind the tree line, I’ve lost all sense of distance.  

No idea how far we’ve ridden. 

Feels like forever. Too far. My legs are jelly, my spine’s on fire, and somehow everything hurts even though I’ve only sat still all day. 

When we finally slow, I nearly collapse trying to dismount. My knees buckle. I catch myself. Just barely. 

Thank the gods. 

“Stay close to the group.” 

I yelp. An actual yelp. Loud and humiliating. My face flushes hot with embarrassment. 

He’s right there. 

Garrik. 

Closer than he should be, standing beside me like a shadow, the sharp edge of his voice still ringing in my ears. 

We’re nearly chest-to-chest, and I don’t like it. I don’t like the way his presence fills the space between us like a threat. 

“I will do whatever I damn well please,” I snap, already glaring. “I am not one of your soldiers.” 

I shove past him without waiting for a response, tugging my horse along behind me. My hands shake with adrenaline—but I don’t let it show. 

Tavi is already setting up camp a little apart from the others. Not on the edge, but far enough from the core group that it feels less suffocating. I settle down beside him. 

He looks up and smirks. “You really pissed him off.” 

He speaks softly, amusement dancing behind every word. He nods toward where Garrik still stands—rigid and watching. 

I don’t look. I won’t give him the satisfaction. 

What did he expect from me? Obedience? Gratitude? Silence? 

“He can get over it,” I mutter. “I was forced to come. He doesn’t have jurisdiction over me just because of that.” 

Lucky shrugs, his easy demeanor dimming slightly. He leans closer, lowering his voice. 

“Just... stick close to anyone wearing blue. For your own safety,” he says. “We lost our last medic to cockiness.” 

My spine stiffens. I nod, sharply, more inclined to listen to him than Garrik. There’s no condescension in Lucky’s tone. Just quiet warning. Experience. 

That’s when I hear him. 

Measured steps. Precise. Heavy. 

Garrik. 

I don’t look up as he approaches. Don’t give him the courtesy. Not after today. 

He stops in front of me and drops something at my feet. A bedroll. A thin pillow. 

I blink, startled. Caught off guard. My expression betrays me. I know it does. I stare up at him, wide-eyed. 

He scowls, voice low and harsh. “People usually say thanks when they’re given things.” 

I press my lips together. I’m not ungrateful. But I’m not giving him the satisfaction. He’d take my thanks and sharpen it into a knife later. 

So I say nothing. 

He scoffs, loudly, and turns on his heel, stomping off in the opposite direction. Like he’s the one offended. 

Lucky lets out a wheezing laugh beside me. 

“What... did you do to him?” he asks, wiping at his eyes between bursts of laughter. “He’s acting like you ran over his dog and spat on his boots.” 

I finally smile. Just a little. “I told him no.” 

“Dangerous move,” Lucky says, still grinning. “He hates when people do that.” 

“Good,” I say, quietly. 

Later that night, when most of the camp has gone still, I reach into my bag and pull out the statue. 

I set it gently at the head of my bedroll, then kneel before it, pressing my forehead to the earth. 

“Let no one see me, and let the path be mine.” 

Quiet words. Familiar words. Spoken only to myself. 

I pray silently—for the people I travel with, that no harm may come to them. That we all might return home safely, though I know some of us won’t. 

After a minute of whispered prayers, I sit up, still kneeling. 

And find Garrik staring straight at me. 

I don’t look away. 

His eyes, always so cold and distant, now hold something else. Not softness, no. But not disdain either. 

Curiosity, maybe. Something quieter. Something unfamiliar. 

He leans against a tree across the clearing, posture loose but guarded. Arms crossed. Shoulders tense beneath his armor. 

Still watching. 

Deliberate. Focused. 

Without breaking eye contact, I slide the statue back into my bag. Zip it shut. My movements slow and steady. 

Only after I’m finished does he finally look away. 

But I don’t—not yet. 

I let myself watch him for a moment longer. His tousled hair catching the firelight. The hint of a shadow darkening his jaw. The way his arms fold across his chest, muscles coiled like tension waiting to snap. 

Then my gaze drops—low enough that I hate myself a little for it.  It should be illegal for a man to look like that. 

Heat flushes my cheeks. I drag my gaze away, ducking quickly into my bedroll. 

Sleep doesn’t come easily. 

Not with that on my mind. 

I wake to a hand on my shoulder, shaking softly 

Groggy, I sit up, rubbing the sleep from my eyes. The world is already gold-edged, sunlight creeping through the canopy above. I blink a few times before noticing Lucky crouched beside me. 

He looks tired, shadows under his eyes, but still gives me a small smile as he rolls up his bedroll and fastens it to his horse. 

I realize, with mild horror, that I must have slept later than usual. The sky is already paling with morning light. I missed my morning prayers. 

“Hurry up,” he says, slinging his saddlebag over one shoulder. “We leave in three minutes.” 

His voice cuts through the fragile quiet of morning like a blade. 

I sigh, dragging myself upright. My back protests. My knees crack. 

I groan. 

“Oh no,” Lucky says with a grin, not even looking at me. “Don’t tell me you’re complaining already.” 

My eyes snap to his, sharp and unamused. He meets them with mock innocence. I take a breath, force down my irritation. Getting worked up won't help. 

“Good morning to you too,” I grumble, kneeling to pack. He doesn’t respond only turns on his heel and broods away. 

Instead of letting it bother me, I focus on packing my things, slow and unfamiliar movements. Roll the blanket. Tighten the strap. Tuck the statue deep in my satchel, beneath a folded tunic. 

By the time I fasten the last buckle, most of the camp is already on the move. 

Lucky appears beside me again, holding out a hunk of bread. “For the road. I swiped an extra before Garrik could judge me for it.” 

I take it with a grateful nod, murmuring a quiet “thanks” as I mount my horse. 

The first hour of riding passes in near silence. The sun climbs higher, burning off the morning chill. The path narrows, threading between thick woods. Birds chatter overhead, unseen. I let my horse follow the pace, mind drifting back to the prayer I missed. I whisper it now, so softly no one can hear. Bowing my head, as I could not kneel.  

Let no one see me, and let the path be mine. 

Somewhere behind me, hooves shuffle on gravel. 

“Your posture’s awful,” Garrik says, suddenly at my side. “You’re going to throw your back out by midweek.” 

I glance at him, jaw tight, sitting up straight. “I wasn’t aware you were also a healer.” 

“I’m not,” he says flatly. “But I am someone who doesn’t want to carry a half-limping liability through the forest.” 

Heat rushes to my face. I grit my teeth. “Then don’t watch me so closely.” 

To my surprise, that gets a reaction. A flicker of something across his face—an almost-smile, like I caught him off guard. 

Then it’s gone, buried under stone again. 

We ride a little farther in silence. 

Lucky pulls up beside me on the other side. “What did I miss?” he asks, cheerfully oblivious, or pretending to be. 

“Apparently I’m a liability,” I mutter. 

Lucky gasps in mock horror. “You? Never. If anything, he’s the liability. Imagine being that emotionally constipated all the time.” 

A breath of laughter escapes me before I can stop it, and my hand flies to cover my smile. Garrik says nothing, but I see the twitch in his jaw. 

A win. 

By midday, I’m exhausted. What were once dull aches have bloomed into full-bodied pain—every muscle stiff, every joint protesting with each jolt of the horse’s gait. I briefly consider using a little magic on myself, just enough to dull the soreness. 

But I don’t. 

I decide to save it. In case something worse happens later. Something always does. 

As far as I know, healing magic is rare. I’ve done my best to keep it quiet—not out of selfishness, but... practicality. Most healers with magic immediately get sent off to war or prisoner camps. I suppose like they did with me. Though, I was careful, so maybe this really was just a stroke of bad luck. 

I didn’t train in temples or study in clean, marble halls. I learned in blood-slick corners of underground rings. On bruised fighters who wouldn’t dare report me, not when they were breaking just as many laws as I was. Most of them didn’t even ask my name. Just handed me coin and kept moving. 

It wasn’t noble. But it taught me things the temples never could. 

Pain doesn’t always look the same. 

And healing... doesn't always make you good. 

The sun hangs high in the sky, burning my shoulders through the thin fabric of my blouse, when we finally stop. I nearly cry from sheer relief, grateful to be off this gods-damned horse. 

No hate to the horse, of course. It’s just doing the only thing it knows. 

I swing my leg over the saddle, managing just a touch more grace than the first time, and slide to the ground. My boots hit solid earth and I could kiss it. Instead, I drop straight onto my backside in the grass, groaning. 

Somewhere to my right, I hear Lucky laugh. “Don’t worry, the pain goes away in a few days.” 

I groan louder. “Days…?” 

He walks over, still grinning, and hands me a chunk of bread and a canteen of water. I take both gratefully. 

“Yeah,” he says, settling beside me. “You don’t ride much, huh?” 

I shake my head, swallowing a bite of bread. “Never. Couldn’t afford a horse growing up. And even if we had, there was no reason to leave the city. Everything we needed was inside the walls.” 

He nods thoughtfully, chewing over my words more than the bread. 

“You miss it yet?” 

The question catches me off guard. 

I glance toward the horizon—trees stretching far beyond anything I’ve ever known, wild and beautiful and terrifying. 

“I don’t know,” I admit. “I don’t think so. Not yet, at least.” 

He hums thoughtfully beside me, gaze turned toward the swaying treetops. 

“My family thinks I’m dead,” he says after a moment. 

I blink. “Dead? You never stopped to see them?” 

“Never enough time for the trip.” 

His tone is quiet, final, not bitter, not sad, just...matter of fact. Like a door gently closing. 

I want to ask more. I want to fill the silence, dig into the reasons, the stories beneath his words—but something about the way he says it tells me not to. 

So, I don’t. 

Instead, I sit beside him, chewing slowly on the last bite of bread, letting the stillness speak for both of us. 

The moment stretches between us—me and Lucky, the only ones sitting. I glance around the camp. Everyone else moves like clockwork. Soldiers checking packs, cleaning weapons, exchanging short, clipped words. 

None of them look at me. 

I’ve never been this invisible before. I revel in the quiet of it all. The muted shuffle of feet, hushed conversations. 

Lucky stands with a groan, stretching. “Try to get back on the horse before Garrik yells again,” he teases, flicking my shoulder with two fingers. “He’s less of a nightmare if you beat him to things.” 

I snort softly, standing slower. “You say that like it’s possible.” 

He just grins, shrugging. “What can I say? I like a challenge.” 

I move to my horse, hands still aching from gripping the reins too tight, and prepare for the next stretch of road. Garrik's voice cuts through the air behind me before I can mount. 

“We move in two minutes. Saddle up.” He doesn’t look at me, but it feels like a pointed command. 

I climb into the saddle again with less struggle than before, my thighs scream in protest and we fall back into formation. 

Time blurs. The afternoon rides heavier than the morning, thick heat pressing down like a second skin. Even the breeze is hot, dragging sweat across my spine. My blouse sticks to my ribs. My hair clings to my neck. 

A wasp circles my ear and I nearly fall off the horse flinching. A soldier beside me stifles a laugh. 

The one time someone notices me. 

Up ahead, Garrik shifts his weight in the saddle. He rides alone, still and rigid, like he was carved from iron instead of flesh. 

He hasn’t said another word to me since this morning. 

I should be grateful. I should enjoy the quiet. 

But it’s worse now. Like waiting for thunder after the lightning. 

As we crest a small hill, I finally see the change in the terrain. The forest thins, opening to a shallow stream that cuts through a glade, wide and slow-moving. Garrik raises a hand and the group halts. 

Camp. Again. 

I slide off the horse before he can bark at me. My legs tremble but hold. 

Lucky passes behind me with a wink. “See? Already better.” 

I smile faintly, brushing hair from my face and reaching for my canteen. The stream ahead calls to me with its promise of cold water. I hesitate—then take a step toward it, satchel slung over one shoulder. 

“You’re not going alone.” 

I freeze. 

Garrik. 

He’s beside me now, though I didn’t hear him approach. His presence is like a blade pressed flat to my back; close, cold, dangerous. 

“I’m just getting water,” I say tightly, not looking at him. 

“And if something’s waiting in the trees?” 

“I’ll scream.” 

“I’d prefer not to have to dig out your body from a riverbed.” 

I spin on him, hands tight at my sides. “If you’re so concerned, then come with me.” 

His eyes narrow, but he nods once, jerking his chin toward the path. “Lead the way, then. Healer.” 

We walk without speaking. The silence again. Not the good kind. 

When we reach the edge of the stream, I kneel and dip my canteen in, letting the cold soak my wrist and forearm. The water is clear, glinting in the fading sunlight. I cup some in my hands splashing the days grime from my face  

He stays back, watching. 

“You always like being in control?” I ask suddenly, without looking up. 

There’s a pause. 

“Yes,” he says. 

Blunt. Honest. 

I glance over my shoulder at him. “Must be exhausting.” 

“It is,” he says. “But I don’t have the luxury of trusting people to do the right thing.” 

My mouth opens. Then shuts. 

What do you even say to that? 

I cork the canteen and stand. “Well,” I mutter, brushing off my knees. “I’ll try not to screw up in front of you, Commander.” 

He looks at me, really looks at me. “That’s not what I said.” 

Before I can ask what he meant, he’s already turned and started walking back toward camp. 

I sigh, shoulders heavy with a mix of relief and frustration. So much for making conversation. 

The camp has settled down, most of the soldiers already curled in their bedrolls, their quiet breathing blending with the ambient hum of insects. The fire burns low, casting long, flickering shadows that sway like ghosts among the trees. I sit down next to Lucky, who shoots me a curious glance but doesn’t press. He goes back to his rations, chewing methodically, eyes distant. 

I pull out the statue from my satchel with practiced care, trying to be discreet. I’m not sure why I bother anymore—half the camp likely saw me the night before. Still, something in me flinches at the idea of being watched while I pray. 

I kneel beside my bedroll, bow my head, and whisper the familiar words, worn down tonight, just a simple plea for safety. No flourishes. No poetry. Just survival. 

When I finish, I tuck the statue back into my bag, wrapping it in the spare tunic, and lie down. The sky is still tinged gold above the trees, but the exhaustion gnawing at me runs deeper than daylight. 

Later, long after even the embers have quieted, I wake. 

No dream. No jolt. Just… awake. 

The wind stirs through the pine needles overhead. Somewhere nearby, someone shifts in their sleep. 

And then I hear it. 

Boots. Steady. Deliberate. 

I turn my head slowly, squinting past the dim remains of the fire. Garrik. Just beyond the circle of light, walking the perimeter. His sword strapped to his back, his posture coiled and alert, even in the quiet of night. He moves like he’s made of angles—shoulders stiff, steps precise, every motion carved from discipline. 

He doesn’t look at me. 

But he knows I’m awake. I feel it in the way his head tilts, just slightly. Not enough to call attention, but enough to know. The same way he’d watched me earlier, by the stream. That quiet, unreadable focus. As if I were something dangerous. 

Or fragile. 

Or both. 

Maybe he doesn’t know which one I am yet. Maybe I don’t either. 

I lie back slowly, pulling the blanket up to my chin. The fire is little more than a breath now, barely warming the space it flickers in. 

Sleep drags at my limbs again. But my mind stays restless, drifting in the hush between breaths. 

Not fear. Not quite. Something else. 

Like standing on the edge of a steep cliff. And not knowing whether the ache in your chest is from the height... 

Or the urge to fall. 

[draftedpage]

Of Prayers and Ash

Apparently I have the attention span of a koala, so here's this. A slowburn romance, between a knight, and a healer who's forced to accompany him on his journey to the war torn countryside

I open my eyes. 

It’s still dark in the room, though the faint trails of lanternlight trickle in from the street below, flickering softly across the ceiling in shifting bands of amber. The air hums with the quiet sounds of a city that never truly sleeps—wheels creaking against cobblestone, the steady clop of horseshoes, a distant shout that fades before I can make out the words. 

The scent of cedar clings to the floorboards, warped from years of candle smoke and rain that sneaks in through the shutter gaps. Underneath it all, something earthy and faintly sour lingers, street rot, maybe, or the neighbor’s strange cooking again. 

I lie still for a while, listening. 

The gods do not speak in voices here. Not like they used to. They speak through the stories told by firelight, or in the prayers my grandmother whispered while kneading bread. In the city, the gods have been buried beneath stone, silver, and law. Forgotten. Until only statues remain, hollow-eyed and clean of memory. 

I sit up slowly, my sweat sticking to the back of my knees, soaking my spine in the summer heat. My little altar waits in the corner by the window, tucked behind a faded tapestry. Three worn tokens rest there: a smooth statue, a sprig of dried rosemary, and an old coin etched with a sigil no priest would recognize. 

I light a candle, not the ones blessed by the Temple, but the ones I make myself. Beeswax, cloves, a single strand of black thread wrapped around the base. The flame flickers, and for a breath, it feels like someone is watching. 

I lower my head. 

Twelve words. Always the same. Always enough. 

"Let no one see me, and let the path be mine."  

I lift my head to the small, gilded statue. A pantheon we didn’t have a name for anymore. Whether they were good or evil I couldn’t say. The rough edges of stone long worn smooth.  

I can’t remember when this fixation began. Maybe in childhood. Maybe it was carved into me in the womb. I wasn’t sure—yet, for as long as I could remember, I prayed.   

The distinct sounds of metal clink below me. My grandmother up as early as I was, maybe I had gotten my early bird tendencies from her.  

Reluctantly I rise. My knees a flushed red, softly indented from the worn wood floor. The morning aches already settling in my bones. Nevertheless, I stretch and prepare for the day, the work still needing done despite my disinclination for it. 

I catch a glimpse of my reflection in the window. The light is dim, but enough to see the shape of myself. Pale from too many hours indoors, freckles dance across the bridge of my nose. My hair’s come loose from its braid, dark, unruly, curled tight like it never learned to obey. 

I’ve always been too slim, too tall, not quite right for the city’s taste. My mouth too soft-spoken. My hands too calloused from work the daughters of tradesmen aren’t supposed to do. I’ve been told I look tired even when I’m rested, serious even when I smile. Maybe that’s true.  

I keep walking. Not because I hate what I see, but because that’s what my grandmother taught me. 

Never stare too long at your reflections, she’d say. That’s where your demons hide—wouldn’t want them escaping now, would you? 

I pull open the door, the dark mahogany creaking softly—showing its age. 

My father had carved it from a felled tree, back when this place was still a town and not yet the pulsing heart of an empire. He spent hours with a blade and chisel, coaxing delicate designs from the grain. Pretty things. Trees with outstretched branches. Flowers that never wilted. Swirling vines that looped and danced like they had secrets to tell. 

The kind of beauty no one had time for anymore. 

I run my fingers along the carvings, tracing a petal worn smooth from years of touch. The wood is cool beneath my skin. A small comfort.  

He never finished the bottom corner, had said he’d do it next spring. Then spring turned into war, and war turned into death. 

I let my hand fall away. 

The hinges groan as I open it wider, and the hall yawns before me, dim, cracked tile beneath my feet, old paint chipping at the edges. My grandmother’s kitchen clinks faintly with the sound's movement and metal. The scent of boiling roots and roasted barley creeps through the air, the sharp tang of yeast pricks my senses.  

“Good morning,” I murmur, stepping into the blistering heat of the kitchen. The summer air, thick and unmoving, mixes with the warmth of the oven to create something almost unbearable. Sweat beads along my hairline within seconds, prickling beneath my collar. 

My grandmother stands at the counter, already elbow-deep in dough. A sturdy woman well into her sixties, her greying hair is pulled back into a tight braid, gold bangles woven between the strands—remnants of a culture long washed away, but still clung to in the quiet corners of our home. 

Her deep brown eyes don’t lift as I approach, but I offer anyway, voice soft. “Let me take over the kneading.” 

She doesn’t offer a smile, only nods in quiet acceptance, then turns away to the other counter, where bowls and spices wait for her hands. The rhythm of morning work continues without fanfare. 

I dip my hands into the cool barrel of water beside the hearth, letting it rush over my fingers, washing away the fine dust and sleep still clinging beneath my nails. The contrast is sharp—cold water to blistering air. 

Once I’m satisfied, I press my knuckles into the soft mound of dough. It yields under my touch, still warm but beginning to cool, its surface dusted with flour and the faint scent of anise and barley. The motion is grounding. Familiar. This, at least, I know how to do. 

We work in tandem silence. The only sounds are the steady beat of her knife against the cutting board and the soft squelch of dough beneath my hands. 

Sunlight begins to bleed into the kitchen, slipping through the open shutters in golden streaks. Outside, the city begins to stir in earnest. 

The hum of morning swells—vendors calling out in rough voices, hooves clattering over brick, a tin bell clanging somewhere in the distance. Through it all, the laughter of children rises and falls as they chase each other down the sweltering road, already slick with heat. 

“Oh, Lili,” the childhood nickname falls from her lips. Familiar. Warm.  “A letter arrived for you today. Looks official.” 

I glance up from my work, the dough already shaped into small, biscuit-sized circles. I tip my head, brow furrowed.  “A letter? From who?” 

“Doesn’t say. But it’s on the table.” She nods toward the far corner, where—indeed—a letter waits. 

A crisp white envelope. No return mark. Just my name, Liora, scrawled across the front in uneven handwriting. The letters slant awkwardly, like someone trying too hard to write neatly. 

On the back, a deep red wax seal presses against the fold. The sigil is unfamiliar—something sharp and curling, like a thorn wrapped in flame. 

I slide a finger under the flap, snapping the seal clean in half. Inside: a single piece of parchment. 

“Dear Liora, 

You are being summoned to support the military in their battle in the north.

You will be compensated handsomely for your time and dedication to this task. 

Captain Garrik Fenlor will arrive at your residence shortly. 

Signed, 

Lord Fenlor” 

I stare at the letter. 

One second. 

Then two. 

I feel my grandmother press into my shoulder, reading over it with me. Her grip tightens—firm, trembling fingers digging in. Her silence says more than words ever could. 

Then, finally, she speaks. 

“You cannot go,” she whispers, voice frayed at the edges. 

“Gran,” I whisper back, trying to sound steady. “He’s a lord. I can’t refuse.” 

A knock sounds at the door. Sharp. Immediate. 

I nearly jump out of my skin. 

Whoever it is doesn’t bother waiting for a reply. The door swings open like he owns the place—like he’s paying rent and we’re just squatting. 

The audacity. 

My irritation fizzles the moment I see him. 

Hard to stay mad at someone so... startling. 

He’s tall—too tall for the frame of the door, which he barely ducks beneath. His eyes, a cold, piercing blue, find mine almost instantly. I tense. The letter in my hand trembles, and only then do I realize I’m shaking. 

His gaze flicks to the parchment. 

“I see you received notice from my family,” he says. 

His voice matches the rest of him—rough, low, and edged like a blade. His dark hair is neatly cut, slightly too long to be military, yet precise in its own way. His jaw is clenched, like the very act of breathing offends him. Scars mark his arms and neck, pale against sun-dark skin—worn like armor, or maybe trophies. 

Everything about him screams danger. 

And yet, I can’t look away. 

“Uh...” I manage, brilliance incarnate. 

“Does she speak,” he asks dryly, “or is she always this stupid?” 

He doesn’t even look at me now—just turns to my grandmother, as if I’m the accessory in this room. 

Heat floods my cheeks. 

“No,” I snap. “She speaks. Unfortunately, I cannot accept your family's generous offer.” 

“It wasn’t an offer.” 

“Well, I’m not going.” I cross my arms, incredulous. “I’m needed here. In town.” 

“Either you go,” he says, voice like stone, “or I condemn this... hovel, and you can live the rest of your days disgraced.” 

I stare at him. Shocked. Furious. Angrier than I’ve ever been in my life. 

“No,” I hiss. “Tell your pretentious family I’m not going. You’ll have to find a different healer.” 

He steps closer. 

My breath catches. Instinct screams at me to move—to run—but I don’t. I hold my ground. Barely. My knees threaten to tremble, but I lock them in place. 

He leans down, until his face is inches from mine. 

Those cold, glacier-blue eyes skim over my features with absolute disinterest. 

“Here’s the thing, princess,” he says, and the word lands like a slap—dripping with insult. 

“I don’t want you tagging along any more than you want to come. But we’re both bound by things that go beyond duty.” 

His voice is low. Unyielding. No trace of warmth. 

Not a threat. 

A truth. 

My grandmother’s hand clamps around my bicep, tight. Like she thinks she might lose me if she lets go. 

“Please,” she whispers, voice breaking. “The northern border is only war and monsters. She is not fit to go.” 

Her fear is real. Raw. It wraps around my ribs, constricting. 

But his gaze doesn’t waver. Doesn’t flick to her. Doesn’t soften. Not even a little. 

“She must,” he says. 

Then he straightens, cold and deliberate, steps back. 

His eyes pass over my grandmother, briefly, like a soldier noting a closed door—then he turns and walks out. 

No further argument. 

No apology. 

No explanation. 

Just the sound of boots fading into the hallway. 

I stand there for a beat too long, heat rising in my chest. Then I turn on my heel and storm up the stairs, boots heavy on the wood. 

Gran follows. I hear her trailing behind me, her footsteps hurried, her voice unraveling. 

“Please. LiLi, you cannot go.” She’s breathless. Shaking. “I lost your father to war. I will not lose you too.” 

I don’t turn around.  I can’t. 

“You heard him,” I say, my voice rough. “Either I go, or we lose everything.” 

My hands tremble as I reach for my travel bag, shoving in tunics and a cloak. I try not to think. Try not to feel. 

By the window, my shrine waits. I hesitate. Then I reach for the worn statue, its surface smooth from years of prayer, and tuck it carefully between two layers of cloth. 

The cabinet creaks as I open it—familiar bundles of herbs, tied in fading string. I grab what little I have. Healing roots. Bandages. Salve. Enough to keep someone alive. Maybe. 

Behind me, Gran falls silent. 

She knows she can’t stop this. 

Not when a noble has decreed it. 

She just stands there. 

Watching me leave.  

My eyes burn as I step past her. I don’t look. 

I can’t. If I do, I won’t go. 

I’ll choose ruin. I’ll choose the street. I’ll choose anything but this. 

So I keep my gaze straight, cold and forward, like he did. 

Like I’m not breaking. 

The bag’s strap digs into my shoulder. It’s heavier than I expected. Or maybe I’m just tired—already. And I haven’t even left yet. 

I step outside. 

The heat of the city wraps around me, heavy and still. Down the alley, a vendor argues with a cart driver. Somewhere, a child laughs. Somewhere else, someone weeps. 

And there he is. 

Garrik. 

Leaning against the wall. One boot braced against the wall, arms crossed, like he owns the whole godsdamned street. Like this is nothing more than an inconvenience to him. 

His eyes find me instantly. 

He doesn’t smile. 

“About time,” he says. 

I say nothing. I don’t trust my voice not to crack. 

He gestures sharply to a chestnut-colored horse to my right. “Mount up.” 

And that’s it. No farewell. No escort. No final word from Gran. Just me and the man who barged into my life like a blade. 

And now I’m expected to follow him into the North. 

Where war and monsters wait. 

[draftedpage]

Veil of the fallen

Chapter 2

Prologue Chapter 1

 The noise presses down like a weight, thick and choking. How can humans be so unbearably loud? Their laughter, their grief, their clattering tankards and shouted names. It all scrapes against the inside of my skull like rusted nails. Yet here he sits, broken and still, with a cup clenched in shaking hands. The tavern’s dimness swallows his face, leaving only a hollow silhouette. His breath is shallow, like a dying ember barely clinging to life.

 I watch from a place no one else can see. A presence pressed into the corners of the room, a shadow without weight, a whisper without voice. He doesn't look at me, but I wonder, does he know I’m here?

        Gods are not felt by everyone, you know, and he hides better it than most. He wraps his grief in armor and wears his guilt like a cloak. I wonder if he senses me at all, or if I’ve simply become the ghost that follows him...a punishment of his own design. Does he even realize what he's feeling is me?

        We left his hometown days ago. No farewells. No tears. Just a cold kiss on his mother’s forehead and a silent departure. I came too, of course. I always do. Drawn to his ruin like a moth to flame, but colder. Hungrier. I do not comfort. I do not console. I observe. I devour the ache behind his eyes and the silence beneath his tongue. He prays to me still, not out of love or devotion, but because stopping would mean breaking completely. He clings to the habits, the routine.

        He doesn't know that I was the one who set all this in motion.

        The tavern is the same as we left it last, but the air is thicker now, the shadows deeper somehow...like the walls remember the pain that happened so long ago. Or maybe I remember it, and the memory bleeds into everything around us.  He drinks, but not to drown. More like to keep the emptiness from collapsing in on itself. The cup in his hand is more ritual than relief. I’ve seen priests pray with less devotion.

        A heavy hand lands on his shoulder. He turns slowly, eyes empty and cold, barely a flicker of life left. The man looming behind him carries the weight of hatred, like a beast snarling at its prey.

  “You traveled with Elara,” the man spits, voice rough and accusing. Not a question. A statement.

         He wasn't asking for clarification, rather gauging his reaction. As if, he needed to be reminded of his transgressions. Ren’s face twitches, a flicker of a memory or pain, perhaps. I search my fading recollections for Elara, but all I feel is the chill of death.

  Ren stands with sudden violence, the room shrinking around him. The clatter of broken dishes rings like a death knell, knocked from the hands of barmaid in his haste. His hand darts to his sword. Instinct before reason, but the blade slides back into its sheath before fully drawn. The man’s hand tightens on his mace, and I feel a cruel thrill at the brewing storm. Violence tastes sweet here, even if it’s not done in my name. 

  Ren mutters an apology, weak and broken, much to my dismay. The man snarls like a predator, angry but in a...heartbroken sort of way. The kind of rage I wanted to see from Ren. 

  “You never should have come back.”

  Ren’s eyes darken, but he says nothing. Instead, he reaches into his pocket, pulls out a gold coin, and lays it on the counter like a farewell. The tavern falls silent, every gaze burning into his back as he walks away. The door slams with a sense of finality. Like he needed to see that he wasn't wanted here before he shut the door on this part of his life. 

        His breath comes out in smokey puffs, little white clouds expelling into the night air. He closes his eyes looking up. 

        “Verian...” he whispers my name like a prayer. It’s not anger in his voice, but a quiet reckoning, as if I were the one who stirred the rage in those people. Yes, I sow violence, but their fury was their own, born from their own pain. I couldn’t even recall who Elara was.

  He steps into the snow after a long moment, boots crunching in the silence. I watch him go, hesitating before following. There’s something heavier in his stride now. I wasn’t sure I wanted to know what caused such an emotion in him. 

  We walk an hour before he stops beneath an old Catalpa tree, its bare limbs shivering in the night air. A strange familiarity pulls at me, but I can’t place it. We had been here before. A long time ago. Snow falls in slow, deliberate silence, blanketing the path behind us, erasing every trace of where we’ve been. Nothing marks our passing but the crunch of his boots and the occasional rustle of dry branches overhead. I recognize it, though I cannot recall why. Perhaps it is the tree that remembers me. Perhaps it remembers everything.

        He does not speak. I no longer expect him to. Whatever thoughts occupy his mind are kept tightly sealed, as if even he has grown tired of hearing them. His movements are mechanical...measured...hollow. He walks like someone carrying out a task remembered from a life that no longer belongs to him.

        I follow. Out of habit, maybe. Or obligation. It’s difficult to tell the difference now. He doesn’t sense me. At least, I don’t believe he does. I am only a presence at his back, fading as surely as his faith. But still, I observe. 

        He does not pause to reflect. He simply stops, as though arriving was inevitable. The moment he sees it, his body stills.

        Then, without ceremony, he lowers himself to the ground.

  The cold stains his cheeks a blotchy red, though he doesn’t seem to notice. His hands move, briefly, in a half-hearted attempt to generate warmth, but the motion is without conviction. Around us, the air hangs heavy, the kind of stillness that arrives before a storm. He sinks to his knees, pressing into the frozen earth with no hesitation, no sign of discomfort. There is no reverence in the gesture, no appeal to the divine. This time, it’s not for a god. But rather, a woman.

  I speak softly, the prayer slipping from my lips, an old habit I cannot break:

  “Guide their soul through shadowed paths,   Let peace cradle their restless heart.   May they find rest beyond sorrow,   Forever held, never forgotten.”

  A prayer of mourning. After years devoted to a false god, it’s all I know. Something inside me shatters every time I pray to him, another part of me that no longer believes. I fear if I say the words too loudly, I might believe them again. 

        The catalpa tree stands like a silent sentinel in the moonlight, its gnarled limbs twisting skyward like the fingers of a grieving giant. Frost clings to the bark in jagged shards, sparkling cold and brittle against the darkness. Its broad leaves are long gone now, leaving only skeletal branches trembling in the biting wind. The tree’s rough, weathered trunk bears scars from seasons past, deep grooves and knots that tell stories of storms weathered and years endured. It feels both ancient and fragile. Much time had passed since I was last here. 

        The air around it is thick with the scent of damp earth and distant rot, like something buried just beneath the surface has begun to stir. The cold carries the sharp tang of wet stone and decaying leaves, mingling with a faint sweetness,  the lingering memory of blossoms long dead. It smells like endings, like grief that has soaked into the roots.

  “Ren!” Her voice calls out suddenly...trapping me in a moment of unbearable grief. A familiar but wrong voice.

  I fall into it, unable to resist, drowning in memories. I let her die. I had a chance to save her. To react. But I hesitated. A heartbeat too late. 

        We had left the road behind, the trees closing in tighter with every step. I thought cutting through the glade would save time. Elara warned me against it, had said no one traveled this path in winter—but stubborn as I was, I pushed on. She followed, trusting me, as she always did.

        The snow beneath my boots felt too soft, almost muffled. The air held a stillness that made my skin crawl. No birds sang. No wind stirred. Just a silence so thick it pressed against my chest. Elara slowed, her fingers brushing the small amulet in her pocket, the one with the octopus pressed into its face. I’d seen her clutch it before, but now she just seemed anxious.

        I stopped to look ahead, turning back to find her staring towards the ground.

        Then, from the shadowed underbrush, something moved.

        Not like any animal I’d seen before.

        A mass of limbs, too many to count, slithering with unnatural grace. Its skin was pale and slick, almost translucent, catching what little moonlight filtered through the branches and twisting it into grotesque shapes. Eyes, more than was natural, glowed faintly, scattered along its undulating body like cruel stars in a dark sky.

        It didn’t rush or charge. It watched. Patient. Calculating.

        I barely had time to react before it struck, not with speed, but with terrible inevitability. Then it ran. As if it was surprised it struck as it did. 

         She gasped, eyes wide, struggling to breathe. She staggered, reaching out to me but barely able to stay upright. Her side exploded with a deep crimson. Her body sagged, sliding slowly to the ground, blood blooming like dark ink on the snow.

        I fell to my knees beside her, hands shaking as I pressed my cloak to the wound, but it was useless. The cold was already creeping through her veins, stealing the fight from her.

        “Elara,” I whispered, panic clawing at my throat. “Stay with me.”

        She looked up, her gaze soft but distant, as if seeing something beyond me.

        “You shouldn’t have brought me here,” she breathed, voice fragile.

        Her hand found mine, fingers trembling as she gripped my wrist.

        “Promise me...” she whispered, struggling to hold on. “Promise you’ll find one...for me....”

        The amulet. Her lifeline. The last thing she gave me.

        Her breath hitched, a fragile flutter against the cold air. And then she was still.

        The weight of her death pressed down on me, heavier than the snow that blanketed the earth around us. The forest seemed to close in, shadows thickening like ink, I carried her death like a stone tied to my heart, dragging me deeper into a darkness I couldn’t escape.

        She was the first person I lost. And in the silence that followed, I wondered...was there something else there? Something I never saw? Or was I the only one to blame? 

        Killing got easier after that. As if I had nothing left to lose.

  I forgot the sound of her voice. Time erases all things.

  Only the one I hear now isn’t hers...only a distant, twisted echo. My heart aches for something I will never have again.

        A branch cracks in the dark. I do not move. If it’s death, let it take me.

        I close my eyes, pressing my forehead into the snow, fists clenched tight by my ears. If I cannot have her back, then this is all I can do. The only thing I know how to do anymore. Pray. To a god who won't listen. One who has abandoned me for other amusements.

        My cold hands press into my pocket, searching for the amulet. It isn’t grand or gilded, just a small, coin-shaped piece of metal, worn smooth from years of being handled. Pressed into its face is the shape of an octopus, curved arms, too many to count at a glance. A creature I wasn’t even sure existed. But Elara believed in them, her voice bright with that stubborn, child-like wonder she carried like armor. 

        I straighten my spine, forcing my frozen knees to shift. The ground is hard, the frost gripping tight to the earth like the grave itself refuses to let go. I dig anyway, stiff fingers scraping through the frozen soil, knuckles raw. A small hollow opens beneath my hands. I press the amulet into it, the metal burning cold in my palm. A memory. Put to rest. 

        She had been buried here.         No gravestone. No name etched in stone.         Only this tree, her tree...once full of flowers, now stripped bare by winter. A final devotion to someone I couldn’t save.

        I had carried her back from the glade. My arms screamed with the effort, my shoulders burning, but I refused to set her down. This was my weight to carry. My punishment. My failure. The others, if they had even known, might have told me to leave her. That there was nothing more I could do. But they didn’t understand.

        I didn’t have tools. Only grief and bone.

        So I dug. With bare hands. Until they bled. Until the dirt mixed with blood and frost. Until I couldn't feel my fingers. I don’t remember how long I was out there. Just the cold, the silence, and the way the earth refused to let her go.

        “For you,” I had whispered. My voice too small to carry in the wind. If I’d just listened. Just once. But I wanted to be the one who led. The one who saved. And now she’s nothing but silence under the snow

        I no longer feel the cold. It’s settled into my bones, worn into me like an old scar. There’s no edge to it now, just a numbness so complete it feels like part of who I am. Still, my hands move on their own, striking flint, coaxing a flame from twigs and wind-dried moss. The fire sputters to life, small and weak, barely more than a flicker in the dark. Too cold for anything more.

        I don’t bother warming my hands. I just press them against my abdomen, holding myself in quiet disregard. The fire crackles softly, unheard. My mind screams at me to pray, for what, I wasn't sure. Maybe just out of habit. But I don't. Instead I close my eyes. 

        If I froze to death here...would anyone care?

       And still—unfortunately—I awake.

      His silence hurt more than the noise ever could.

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Anyone else get that absolutely feral urge to write? Like I'm literally just trying to do my job and this stupid character sticks in my head till I get it on the page

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Veil of the Fallen

Chapter 1

Prologue Chapter 2

        Gods do not have homes. That is an important distinction between Man and Divine. Gods reside in domains, wherever their followers exist. Not in the clouds or heavens, as some would call it. But rather, everywhere.

        This fact never bothered me before.

        But now, as I watch the hero stand at the threshold of his village, his home, an odd emotion floods my being. He places a hand on one of the grey, cracked posts holding the long-forgotten town name. Time and weather have worn it down, the letters nearly illegible. The posts stand like tired sentries, guarding a village that no longer needs protecting.  

        Snow clings to the top of the sign, waiting for an unsuspecting soul to pass beneath and trigger its fall. Perhaps the hero, I muse.

        The road leading in is nothing more than time-packed dirt, half-frozen and slick with half-melted snow. He stands at the post longer than I deem necessary. Really, how much time does one need to stare at rotting wood? Annoyance sparks in me.

        The first time he stopped was at the ridge just before coming into town. The village lay below, but it didn’t look like home. He had imagined this moment for weeks, thought about it day and night. But now that it was real, it felt like trespassing into someone else’s fading dream.

        The village is smaller than I remember. Time has gnawed at it, hollowed it out. Empty windows stare like blind eyes. The roofs sag under years of snow and rot. Even the air feels quieter here. As if the land itself has grown weary of waiting for something that never came. I imagine the questions flooding his mind. Is he still worthy of this place? Does he deserve to walk its sacred paths? Can he even call it home anymore?

        He doesn’t move. He just stands there, letting the wind tear through him. Maybe hoping it’ll push him back the way he came. For a second, I think about the journey, just a month to return, after years on the road. And yet, it all feels too swift. A pitiful, anti-climactic ending to what had once amused me. I wanted something more drawn-out, more tragic.

     And what do I get? A sad hero moping on a cliff.     This is my reward? What is this...karma?   I was nice. I spared him.   Maybe I should’ve killed him after all. Or smite him now, just to make a point.          Why is he hesitating? Doesn’t he want to see his family?

        Finally, he steps forward, like slipping back into the skin of someone he used to be, before the quests. The village breathed quietly under the weight of winter, every shuttered window a small tomb. The wind whispered through empty streets, carrying with it the faint, distant echoes of laughter long past. The chill seeped through the cracks in worn wooden walls, settling deep into bones, just like the memories the hero tried to leave behind.

        A door creaks open down the road. A gaunt woman steps out. Her brown dress hangs off her like memory clinging to bone. She sees him and freezes. Her eyes widen. She whispers something... a name, maybe. A prayer. A question.

        "Ren." 

        That's his name. Ren.

        The sound stirs something in me. A memory, faint and flickering. I remember him kneeling at my shrine for the first time, his name a breath on his lips. A quiet offering. A promise made in ignorance, wrapped in hope. A vow he never knew would lead to this pain. 

        An oath he can no longer take back.

       I remember the first time he knelt. Barely more than a boy, full of certainty, just excited to pray for the first time. He offered a dead rat and some berries he had found in the woods. Trivial things really, I had never cared much for offerings. I was a god I could summon banquets with half a thought, why would I need a dead rat?

        He said the words to a prayer he didn't understand. Voice shaking, not with fear but barely contained anticipation. He wanted something to happen. To hear my command. Follow on some grand and 'godly' quest. To be a hero. He thought kneeling would bring him greatness. 

        I'm not sure why this poor boy from a crippling farmers town caught my attention. Nothing about him was special or distinct...there was just a purity to him, like fresh untouched snow, the kind that makes you want to leave tracks.

        I remember thinking;         How beautiful it will be to watch you break. 

        I remember other things, too. His first kill, when he looked to the sky and whispered thanks. The girl he left behind, pressing a charm into his hand, believing he’d return a hero. The way he once wept alone, thinking no one saw. I saw everything. I always do. I'm omnipotent like that. 

        Something akin to Fear flickers across the woman's face like she wasn't expecting to see him again, then fades. Her gaze softens as she sees the slump of his shoulders, the way he can’t quite lift his head. Shame. I know that emotion. He takes a step, then another. Hesitant. Fighting his instincts to run. Like he’s afraid of what comes next. The woman doesn’t wait. She runs. 

        She grabs his chest plate, tarnished, no longer gleaming, and pulls him into her frail arms. He doesn’t hug her back. She just repeats the same two words, again and again;

        “My baby... my baby...”

        Recognition flares. That’s his mother. She looks different from the last time I saw her. Skinnier. Paler. Older. Is that how humans age? She’s lost her softness. Her aliveness. She looks like she’s knocking on death’s door. She was so full of life and hope when I last saw her. She had hugged Ren, then turned away quickly like she couldn't bear to watch him leave. I had visited her only once while he went on his quest, a month after he left. I was curious what the loss of a hero, her son, would do to her. 

       I believed it to be a mercy if she died before his quest ended, for both Ren and her. But here she stood. Maybe waiting gave her purpose. A concept I did not understand.

        “You did it,” she whispers.         Happy.         Proud.

        Three words. That’s all it takes.         The hero collapses. Falls to his knees in the slush, sobbing. He remembers the child who died in his arms, the people he lost...sacrificed, the temple that burned, the creature that spoke his name in a voice that wasn’t its own. Did he do it?

        The woman holds him, and I wonder if her arms will snap under the weight. He clings to her now, like a drowning man to driftwood, weeping with such despair it shakes even me.

        And a sick, crawling satisfaction rolls over me.

        Let the other gods see what I made of you.         Let them watch you break.

        “I survived,” he says. A simple statement. But not a joyous one. A confession. A funeral dirge wrapped in three bitter syllables.

        More doors open. Drawn by the sound of grief. Faces emerged from the dimly lit doorways, weathered hands, eyes lined with worry and weariness. No accusations, no anger. Just tired acceptance. One by one, they reached out, grounding him in their shared pain. There was a heavy weight in the air, a quiet mourning at the cost of this failure. 

        They already know.

        The quiet is filled only with his sniffles and the shuffling of feet. Why aren’t they angry? Where are the torches? The cries of betrayal? Where is the cruelty I’ve come to expect? Instead, they help him stand. Armor clinks faintly as he walks forward. An old man touched his shoulder and simply said, “Welcome home, Ren.” As if that were enough. As if failure had no place here. The crowd parts.

        Yes, I think. Now comes the disdain. The silent condemnation. But no one stops him. No one spits. They only watch. I want to use a bit of magic, make his suffering worse. Make the townspeople angry. I stop myself though, residing only to observe for now. I would not interfere...yet. 

        His mother says nothing as he walks toward the small house. He doesn't look back. Doesn’t lift his head. Each step heavier than the last. His feet drag in the mud, leaving deep footprints. He passes familiar buildings now slowly crumbling, but he doesn't raise his head. 

         He enters, closing the door softly, respectfully, behind him. Inside, he sets down his sword and broken shield with unnatural care. Then begins to unbuckle his armor. A ritual he’s done a hundred times before. This time, it feels different. 

        Final. 

        The metal pieces clatter softly onto the floor. He winces at the sound, like it's too loud in a house gone quiet too long. His mother doesn't come in, maybe respecting his silence for now. Giving him a second to mourn what she knows he lost. 

  He doesn’t go to the hearth. Doesn’t light a candle. Doesn’t sit. Instead, he walks to the far wall where the shrine waits. My shrine. Crooked, dust-covered, built of uneven stones, small enough to overlook. He kneels in front of it, slowly. His body moves as though remembering the motions before his mind catches up. A habitual duty. 

  He lights a stub of wax with trembling hands. Smoke curls into the air. He doesn't offer anything, the small plate on the alter remaining empty. Then he clasps his hands. Bows his head. Not a whisper yet. Just stillness. A Breath.

  Then, quietly, half-practiced half-instinctive, he begins to pray:

  “Keeper of trials and triumph,         I returned from the far lands with your name on my lips.         I fought where others fled. I stood where others died.         I bore your mark with pride.         But my hands are not clean.         My heart is not whole.         If I was chosen—why does it feel like ruin?”

  His voice cracks on the last word.

  There is silence. Even the fire on the wick seems to still. He waits. He swallows. He speaks again, this time not in prayer, but as himself.

        “Verian,” he says. Soft. A whisper.

        Does he expect me to respond?

        I don’t.

        He looks around, almost like he can feel me. Foolish. I am not one to be summoned. Not by a mere man. Then, much to my surprise, he kneels. Presses his forehead to the floor.

        “Please.”

        It’s raw. A plea dragged from somewhere deeper than pain. I watch, curious. Why beg a god who betrayed him? I sigh. Maybe this was too much work. He's so...needy.

        “Yes?”

 He looks around in surprise, I guess he didn't expect me to answer.

  He doesn't speak right away. His lips part, but no words come. I can hear his heart thundering in his chest, a war drum with no battle to march to. His hands twitch on the floor before curling into fists.

  "I don’t know what to say," he breathes.

  I don’t answer. He doesn’t deserve comfort. But I don’t leave either.

  “I trusted you,” he says, quieter now. “I gave you everything. My strength. My prayers. My victories. My suffering.”

  He finally raises his head, eyes glassy, rimmed with red.

  “Why?”

      Just one word, but it carries years of faith in it. A plea from something once devout, now broken. I could answer. I could say I was bored. That I never cared. That he was just a story I wanted to write, then toss away.

  But for some reason, I hesitate.

  He waits, breathing uneven. I can feel it...he wants me to lie. To say it was a test, a trial, a path to glory he just hasn’t reached yet. But I don’t offer him that mercy. I was never known for my mercy. He didn't have faith or follow my guidance because I was a merciful god. 

  “You were interesting,” I say instead.

  The words hit him like a slap. His mouth opens slightly, closes again. His chin trembles, cheeks flush an angry red blotchy and uneven. 

        “That’s it?” He lets out a breath like he’s been punched. “You ruined my life for...for entertainment?”

  “You’re still alive.”

  “Am I?” His voice cracks, low and furious. “You made me a failure in the eyes of every man who ever prayed to you. You made me kill in your name. You made me believe.”

  He rises suddenly to his feet. He's shaking, but he stands. “You made me think I was chosen.”

  “You were,” I say, voice smooth as wind on still water. “You made things interesting. That was enough.”

  He laughs, without joy, just disbelief. A bitter exhale.

  “I should burn that shrine,” he says.

  I wonder if he will. But he doesn't move. He just stares at the small stone altar in the corner of the room, covered in dust and melted wax from half-forgotten prayers.

  “No one will worship you here anymore,” he says. “You’ll be forgotten.”

        "There will be others."

        "Then why bother with me?" 

  I don’t respond. Because I don’t know. Because maybe I wanted to see him again. Because something, just for a second, hurt when he knelt. Finally, I respond in the only way I know how, with cruelty.

        "You can't imagine how much joy there is in knowing you'll never forget me."

        He doesn't respond. He walks away. Not with the strength of a warrior or the purpose of a believer, but the weight of someone who has lived too long in a world that does not make sense anymore. I have watched many heroes come and go, their flames bright but brief. Ren... he lingered longer.

  And yet... I watch him go. I do not vanish. I do not rage.

  I don't feel the same satisfaction.

  And that, I realize, is new. 

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Veil of the Fallen

Prologue

Chapter 1 Chapter 2

        I do love the crushing weight of realizing you've royally fucked up. That moment when your heart sinks to your toes and the weight of all your stress finally crumbles your resolve. The brief illusion of peace, shattered by the reality of your transgressions. Every ounce of fight drains from you. You realize you can’t anymore—there’s nothing left to give. That split second of panic. Of resistance. Before you finally accept it. You don’t want to. How could you? You have come so far only to fall when it mattered most? You thought you'd return a hero. A glorified deity. A tale to be told to children.

        Instead...         You lost.

        Even now, the hero struggles to accept this. He sits on his knees before me not in reverence, but in submission. His eyes are dim, slightly glassy, as if on the verge of tears he doesn't fully understand. Perhaps he’s still reeling from the betrayal. Betrayed by his own god. The one he swore loyalty to. Something in his expression delights me. His lips, once used to sing my praise, now tremble. Cheeks once flushed with courage now drain of color. Blood stains the snow beneath him. Each breath forms a pale puff in the cold, reminding me he’s still, unfortunately, alive. His sword dangles from his hand, the tip buried in snow. His shield, emblazoned with my sigil, is split clean down the center. Symbolic. Poetic, even.

        A cruel smile creeps across my lips. Familiar to me, but not to him. I don’t speak. I let him soak in the moment. My perfect trick, practiced over eons. The cure for divine boredom. Any god can gather worshippers. But the moment a so-called hero realizes he was sent on a false quest for a false god—only to end up kneeling, not in praise but in defeat—that’s where the real joy lies.

        Finally, he speaks. Voice fragile. Deeper, rawer. Laced with a despair I never thought possible from him.

        “Will you kill me?”

A simple question. Yes or no. Life or death. It should be easy. Yes, I would kill him. I got what I wanted. Time to move on to the next. Another poor soul to break.

But, for the first time in my long life...I hesitate.

        He senses it, but says nothing. Just stares up with eyes heavy with betrayal and pain. Does he have regrets? Things left unsaid? Or is he just ready? Ready to be free of the weight he’s carried. And that, that is the thought that makes me pause.

        “No.”

        His eyes widen in shock. He wants to ask more. Why spare him? Why let him live? His lips move faster than I care to follow, voice ragged with disbelief, questions pouring out. I sigh, already regretting the decision. Why must he be so... tiresome?

        Eventually, he falls silent. And then, unexpectedly, that broken expression shifts, just slightly. Determination. His brows lower, lips press together, and a hint of color returns to his face. He rises, slowly, leaning on his sword like a crutch. Then he bows his head once, avoiding my gaze.

“Thank you for your mercy.”

Rage flares inside me. Mercy?

        He senses it instantly and recoils, stumbling back in the snow. I do not give mercy. I spared him out of curiosity, not pity. He’s nothing but a prized pet I haven’t yet grown bored of. 

        “Mercy is for priests and poets. I am neither.”

        Something dark passes over him. Fear, slow and creeping. From his hands to his chest, and finally to his mind. Maybe now he understands. This wasn’t a gift. This was the cruelest punishment I could offer. 

To live. To return a failure. To exist under the weight of what could’ve been.

        Something cold tugs in my chest, I never learned his name. It never mattered before. And yet, I couldn't help but wonder as his back turns to me and he steps out of my shattered temple... did I make a mistake?