"Did you hear?" someone whispered, her voice bouncing off the cold stone walls as the nuns made their way down the long corridor. "The plainsman was selected as a Blood Knight trainee."
"Yeah," another said. "Passed all three tests just yesterday."
"I heard he didn't even need to take them. The Mother Reverend had already given him her blessing. He chose to face the trials anyway."
Their footsteps echoed softly in unison. Robes rustled. The scent of incense lingered faintly from evening prayers.
At the head of the procession walked Serena, her posture perfect, eyes ahead, untouched by the murmurs behind her.
"There was a duel, too," a voice added. "Against Castor."
A pause.
"No."
"Yes."
"Well—who won then?"
"You won't believe it," said Karina, her tone conspiratorial, drawing out the words like a bard mid-tale. She took a long, theatrical pause, letting the anticipation stretch. Several girls slowed their steps, glancing at her expectantly.
Karina's gaze flicked forward, to Serena's unbothered silhouette—ever poised, ever distant. She grinned.
"It was the plainsman." She said it louder than necessary.
No reaction.
Serena kept walking as though the air itself hadn't shifted.
Disappointed but undeterred, Karina picked up her pace and fell in step beside her.
"Have you seen him?" she asked, eyes gleaming.
Serena shook her head. "No."
She truly hadn't. Though she remembered the Mother Reverend speaking of him—Alric, that was the name. Spoken with quiet weight, like a prophecy. "Not just for the cathedral, child—but for you."
The meaning still escaped her.
Karina leaned in closer, lowering her voice to a teasing whisper.
"I heard his skin's dark—like the chocolate from Willow's store. His hair's wild and brown, like he's never seen a comb, probably because he's been on horseback since birth."
Serena gave no answer.
But Karina went on, undeterred.
"He's tall—like a fresh-cut log. Built like a stallion. Eyes like deep brown honey." She spoke now as if offering a marriage profile to a noble house.
Still, Serena said nothing.
But she understood what this was—Karina fishing for a reaction, as always. Not out of cruelty. That wasn't her way. She was playful, sharp-tongued, open-hearted—but not unkind.
Serena only nodded slightly, acknowledging the words without absorbing them.
Then, cool and clear, she said, "We're here."
Karina blinked, caught off guard, and glanced up.
They had reached the familiar door—polished wood with carved trim, worn by years of ritual.
Serena raised her hand and knocked once.
A moment later, the door creaked open, and an elderly woman stepped aside to let them in. One by one, the girls entered, robes brushing gently against the threshold, and lined up in solemn silence before the Mother Reverend.
They greeted her one by one, bowing with reverence and taking her blessing as she passed. The Mother Reverend smiled, a kind and familiar expression that softened every heart in the room.
When the last of them stepped back, she raised a hand. "You may go."
The girls bowed once more and slipped quietly out the door.
Only Serena remained.
The Reverend had asked her to stay, and she had, without question.
Serena moved beside the bed as the old woman lay down. These days, Serena could see a new wrinkle forming along the thin skin of her hand. She noticed it when the Reverend took her fingers—gently, lovingly.
It wasn't much, just a line—but for someone who had seen over two hundred years with barely a mark, it was a quiet omen.
Her time was nearing.
Serena had come to accept it, but that didn't make it easier to wrap her head around the thought.
The Reverend stroked her hair as they spoke softly. Just a moment, just enough.
The boy was mentioned—briefly. It had been three days since his final test. Just enough time for whispers to circulate. Not enough time to mean anything yet.
Soon, the Reverend began to drift, her voice growing softer with sleep. Serena stood, kissed her hand, and slipped out of the room.
She closed the door gently behind her and walked into the quiet hallways. The torches crackled softly in their sconces, casting warm orange light on pale stone. She walked in silence, half-lost in thought, her steps carrying her without intention.
The public had long been barred—the cathedral sealed after sundown.
Now it was only the sisters and the sanctity of night.
She passed through the grand hall and paused to bow before the Goddess's statue, her form half-shrouded in the torchlit dark, before continuing down the adjacent hallway.
She approached the familiar spiraling tower that led to her quarters—but paused just before entering.
For no reason she could explain, she turned to the right and walked along the edge of the building, past ivy-covered walls and the echo of her own steps.
And then—the garden.
It revealed itself like a memory, tucked away in quiet shadow. Small and half-wild, blooming under the pale light of the blue moon, its flowers stirred gently in the cool wind. The leaves rustled softly, like the low murmur of a secret.
This was her place.
Few knew of it. Fewer cared.
She stepped inside, walked along the narrow path that wound through the garden's heart, and came to her favorite spot—a patch of particularly soft grass in the far-left corner.
She lay down, hands tucked beneath her head, and gazed up at the open sky. The moon hung full and blue above, stars scattered like salt across velvet.
Her mind was quiet.
No prayers. No questions. No thoughts at all.
Until she heard it.
The subtle ruffle of grass nearby.
She turned her head calmly, instinct more than alarm—and saw him.
A young man stood there, still as stone.
He wore the ceremonial uniform of a knight—green tunic, silver accents—but it was the deep red cape over one shoulder that caught her eye.
The blood-red of the Third Cohort.
The Blood Knight trainee.
His eyes widened in surprise. "I—I'm sorry," he stammered, voice caught between breath and panic. "I didn't mean to—I didn't know anyone was—"
He averted his gaze abruptly, head turning so fast it tousled the wild brown hair that stuck up in unruly tufts. As he shifted, moonlight brushed across his skin—deep and warm, like the polished richness of dark mahogany.
Serena watched him without moving. She made no effort to rise, no attempt to adjust her posture. She simply lay there, still reclining on the grass, her head tilted slightly, arms folded beneath it.
She knew full well the position would be considered inappropriate. Unseemly.
But she couldn't bring herself to care.
She watched, amused, as the boy tried to fix his stance, eyes darting anywhere but at her. A deep blush had begun to rise along his neck, just visible above his collar—darkened slightly, but unmistakable.
And suddenly, Serena remembered Karina's words from earlier that day.
'Dark like the Willow's chocolate.'
She hadn't thought much of it at the time.
Now she understood exactly why Karina had chosen that comparison.
Serena had always liked Willow's dark chocolate. Obsessively so, many claimed.