Grunhilda crossed her arms, her lips pressed into a thin line as she stared Caelum down. Her expression was stony, her golden eyes hard and unreadable beneath the heavy shadow of her brow. The firelight flickered against her armor, the tal catching and twisting the light like molten gold, but her stance remained firm—unyielding.
“I don’t like it,” she said, her voice low and gruff, like distant thunder rolling over the hills. “It puts us at needless risk.”
She glanced toward the east, where the land dipped into darkness beyond the reach of their small campfire. The night stretched out before them, vast and unknowable, but she could feel the tension in the air. The weight of blood still clung to the wind, even from miles away.
“There was a battle to the east,” she continued. “That’s where we were planning to cross. But the longer we wait, the worse it gets. We linger, and we risk running headfirst into an army on the move.”
She exhaled sharply, shaking her head. “It’s a bad plan, Caelum.”
Caelum stood rigid, shoulders squared despite the clear hesitation in his eyes. He had always carried himself with that quiet, stubborn sort of pride, but now it looked fragile—cracking at the edges, barely holding together beneath the weight of his own guilt.
“I’m sorry, Hilda,” he said, his voice softer now, pleading. “I just…” He sucked in a sharp breath, his hands clenching at his sides. “I can’t abandon my ma and pa to… whatever fate the church has planned for them.”
Grunhilda remained silent, her sharp gaze never wavering.
“If they have my father,” he pressed on, his voice thick with desperation, “I have to try and save him.”
Grunhilda’s jaw tightened as she exhaled through her nose, her fingers drumming once against the hilt of her sword before stilling. The firelight cast sharp shadows across her face, making her look even more severe than usual.
"And we can't take that risk," she said, her voice like stone grinding against stone. "We need to leave by the day after tomorrow—maybe one day after that, at most. You need to choose. Do we risk everything to try and save soone who might already be gone, or do we escape before anyone notices?"
Her golden eyes bore into him, unrelenting. There was no anger in them, not truly, but there was an expectation. A demand for reason.
Caelum fidgeted in his seat, staring down at his hands. He knew it was foolish. He knew what the smart choice was. But knowing didn't make it easier.
He wanted to help Briswen and Lorne get over the border. He wanted to help Grunhilda get away from that louse of a husband. But dammit, how could he just abandon his parents to whatever fate the church had planned for them?
If he hadn’t spoken to his mother the night before, he might have left without hesitation. There would have been no choice to make—just guilt. Guilt for abandoning everything to start over, for choosing freedom at the cost of never knowing.
But now?
There really was only one choice, wasn’t there?
He let out a breath, one that felt heavier than it should have, and straightened his spine. His fingers curled into fists before he forced them to relax. He t Grunhilda’s gaze, this ti with no hesitation.
"Go without ," he said, voice steady, firm. "Get Briswen and Lorne to Serkoth. I’ll try to et you three there."
A flicker of sothing crossed Grunhilda’s face. Annoyance? Frustration? Maybe even a sliver of respect. Whatever it was, it was gone in an instant, replaced by the sa hardened look she always wore when things didn’t go the way she wanted.
She sighed and ran a hand through her hair, then leveled him with a glare.
"You better et us there, Caelum."
Caelum offered a weak smile, trying to lighten the weight in his chest. "I will. One day. I’ll find you all, and you better have made a wonderful life with wonderful people to share it with, or I swear, I’ll be mad."
Grunhilda scoffed, a small smirk tugging at the corner of her lips. "Or what, rookie?"
He smirked back. "I’ll kick your ass, old lady."
Her brow twitched. "Hey, I’m not that old! I’ve still got plenty of ti left to put you in your place, young man."
Their chuckles mingled over the candlelight, a fleeting mont of warmth before reality set back in. The laughter faded, and sothing heavier settled between them. The mirth in Grunhilda’s eyes dimd, replaced with sothing raw, sothing tired.
"Be safe, okay?" Her voice was quieter now, lower, as if saying it any louder might make it less true. "I don’t want to lose another friend."
Caelum t her gaze, holding it for a beat longer than he intended. Then he nodded, tipped back the rest of the ale in his tankard, and set it down with a quiet thud. He stood, stretching his limbs as if shaking off the weight pressing down on him, and turned toward the door.
"I will see you again."
Grunhilda nodded once, slow and certain.
Caelum closed the door behind him, stepping out into the biting winter air. He pulled his cloak tighter around his shoulders, but it did little to ward off the cold that had settled deep in his bones.
The village was too quiet. It had been for weeks now. Once, even in the dead of winter, there would have been movent—blacksmiths at their forges, rchants hawking their wares, children playing in the streets. But now, even at midday, the roads felt hollow, lined with houses that should have been full of life but stood silent instead.
He wound his way through the near-empty streets, his boots crunching softly against the thin layer of snow. The weight in his chest only grew heavier as he rounded the last corner, arriving at Lorne and Briswen’s ho. He rapped his knuckles against the wooden door and took a step back, exhaling slowly.
The door swung open, revealing Lorne. Her expression brightened the mont she saw him. "Caelum! Co in, please."
He nodded, stepping inside as she closed the door behind him, shutting out the cold. The warmth of the house was imdiate, though it did little to ease his nerves.
"Caelum?" Briswen’s voice carried from the other room.
"Hello, Briswen," he called back, voice steady despite the turmoil inside him.
Lorne wasted no ti. "So, is everything going to happen?" she asked, folding her arms across her chest.
Caelum hesitated for just a mont before nodding. "Yes. Grunhilda is going to get you two across the border."
Lorne's hopeful expression faltered for just a heartbeat before she pressed, "And you as well, right?"
The way she looked at him—it caught him off guard. For so long, she had been cold to him. Not cruel, not unkind, but distant, like there had always been sothing between them that couldn’t understand until now. And now, here she was, looking at him with sothing dangerously close to concern.
It stung, he admitted to himself. It stung that only now, when he was preparing to leave, she seed to care.
"Eventually," he said, offering a small, apologetic smile. "I’m going to stay and try to find my Pa."
Lorne’s expression fell. "Oh." Her arms tightened around herself. "Okay."
Caelum let out a slow breath. "I can’t abandon him to whatever fate the church has planned for him. I know they’re up to sothing—I can feel it. I’ll et you all in Serkoth as soon as I can."
Lorne stared at him for a long mont before finally nodding, though her eyes betrayed the unease she tried to hide.
"Okay. Be safe, will you?"
Caelum laughed, but there was no humor in it. "I don’t think going against the church is exactly ‘safe.’" He leaned against the wall, folding his arms across his chest. "I’ll do my best, though."
Lorne pressed her lips together, as if holding back words she knew wouldn’t change his mind. Instead, she exhaled softly and asked, "Will you at least stay for lunch?"
Caelum smiled, genuine this ti. "I would love to."
The al was simple but filling, a warm reprieve from the bitter cold outside. The kind of food that stuck to your ribs and reminded you of ho—fresh bread, a thick stew with hearty chunks of at and root vegetables, and a bit of dried fruit for sweetness. They ate in relative silence, only speaking about small things, unimportant things. For a short while, it was easy to pretend that everything was normal, that they were just three people sharing a al without the weight of war, duty, or looming separation hanging over them.
But the al ended, as all things did.
Caelum wiped his hands on a cloth and stood, wrapping himself in his cloak once more. He bid his goodbyes, clasping Briswen’s shoulder and offering Lorne a reassuring smile before stepping out into the cold once more.
The mont the door shut behind him, the chill sank in again—not just in the air, but deep in his bones.
He pulled his hood up and set off through the village, each step taking him closer to what he knew was a dangerous path. His fingers twitched with the urge to reach for the short sword at his hip, a blade he had bought that morning with what little coin he had left. It was plain and unremarkable, but sharp. He hoped he wouldn’t have to use it.
The church stood exactly as he rembered it—one of the few stone buildings in the village, its weathered walls a stark contrast against the snow-covered rooftops surrounding it. It lacked the grandeur of the ones he had seen in the larger towns, and it was nothing compared to the one in Ostwynd where he had done most of his training. But it still carried an undeniable weight, an air of authority that pressed down on him as he approached.
He stepped inside.
Warmth greeted him imdiately, the heavy scent of burning wood filling his lungs. Fires roared in the hearths on either side of the room, their glow casting flickering shadows against the stone walls. A welco reprieve from the relentless northern cold.
There were few people in the church—just a handful of acolytes tending to their duties, dusting the stone pews and sweeping the floors, their quiet movents echoing softly in the cavernous space. A few villagers knelt in silent prayer, their lips moving in hushed whispers, eyes closed in solemn devotion.
Caelum hesitated near the entrance before stepping forward, his boots barely making a sound against the cold stone. He found an empty space near the altar and lowered himself onto one of the worn prayer pillows, the fabric rough beneath his fingers.
He supposed he should pray.
But to who?
Not Praxus. Never again Praxus.
He had once thought the God of Order was a guiding force, a beacon of stability and righteousness. But the more he learned about the church—their hypocrisy, their cruelty, their hunger for control—the more he realized he could never offer another prayer to Him in good faith.
So who else?
Worshiping another god was blasphemous. He had been told all his life that most of them were either wicked or lost.
Yenhr, perhaps? Or her twin, Heraline?
Serranos did not fit—Caelum was no warrior seeking glory in battle. Virdan was too distant, his dominion over untad wilderness making him irrelevant to a man who had spent his life in villages and towns.
Akhenna? No. Never.
She was the vilest of them all, or so he had always been taught. But she was also Praxus’s opposite, a force of disorder against his rigid control. Was chaos always evil? Could defying order ever be right?
He shook the thought away. He wasn’t ready to question that. Not yet.
His mind settled on Yenhr, the Lady of the Dawn, the one who brought light and warmth to the world. If any god would hear him, perhaps it would be her.
He closed his eyes and let out a slow breath, steadying himself.
Lady of the Dawn, giver of light and warmth… I don’t know if you can hear my prayer. I don’t know if I am worthy enough to be heard.
His fingers curled against his knees, his throat tightening with the weight of the words.
Please give the courage to face the church. Please give the insight to find my father. Please give the strength to wield my sword when it needs to be unsheathed. I know hard tis are ahead, but please… let endure them. Let save those I care about.
He exhaled, his shoulders sagging as the prayer left him. He hadn’t expected anything. He didn’t know if she was listening—if she even cared.
And then—
A force struck him, slamming into his chest like a hamr. His breath left him in a sharp gasp, his vision swimming. The scent of sun-ward earth after a sumr rain filled his lungs, heady and overwhelming.
His heart pounded, the very air around him thrumming with sothing alive.
And then, clear as day, he heard it.
You are worthy.
Caelum flinched as the sensation faded, his breath still caught in his throat. He tumbled backward onto the hard stone floor, the thud of his body echoing in the quiet church. A few heads turned—acolytes pausing in their sweeping, a villager glancing away from their murmured prayers—but no one spoke. The silence stretched, thick with unspoken questions, until a soft, asured voice broke it.
“My child, are you well?”
He looked up to see Priestess Polana, her lined face full of concern, hands folded neatly in front of her robes. She was one of the elder priestesses in the village, always carrying the kind but distant air of one who had long devoted herself to the church’s service.
“Priestess Polana,” he said, quickly pushing himself upright. “I’m sorry, I—” He hesitated, still reeling from the lingering warmth in his chest, the scent of rain-dampened earth that clung to his senses. You are worthy. The words still rang in his mind.
But he couldn’t say that. Not here. Not now.
He dusted himself off and forced a small, sheepish smile. “I’m fine. Just a bit tired.”
The priestess studied him for a mont, as if weighing his words, then nodded. “I understand. You should rest, my child.” She offered a gentle smile, the kind ant to soothe.
Caelum dipped his head in agreent, but an idea had already begun to take shape in his mind. He needed a way in—a reason to linger, to learn, to see beyond what the clergy showed the villagers.
“Actually,” he said, keeping his tone even, careful, “is there any work I could do here? I’d like to help the church.”
The priestess tilted her head slightly, her expression unreadable for a breath too long. Then, she nodded. “We could always use more hands.” Her gaze flickered down to the sword at his hip. “You are trained with the blade, yes?”
Caelum straightened, forcing himself not to tense at the shift in her tone. “I am,” he answered smoothly. “I’m more comfortable with a spear, but I’ve been trained in several different weapons.”
Her lips pressed into a small, approving line. “That is good. We only have two paladins in the village, and more arms to fight against the aetherbeasts would be a blessing. The creatures grow bolder near the roads these days.”
Caelum nodded. That much was true—the north had always been plagued by them. Typically, it was the militia’s duty to keep them at bay, but he knew well enough that the paladins sotis joined the hunts, especially if a greater beast reared its head. If he could ingratiate himself with them, even for a little while, it would give him access to the church’s warriors, their routines, their secrets.
He just needed an in.
Caelum placed a hand over his heart and dipped his head slightly, schooling his expression into one of solemn devotion. “I would be honored to train as a paladin for Praxus.”
The words tasted bitter, like ash on his tongue. A lie wrapped in reverence. He pushed through it, kept his face steady, his voice even. He had practiced deception before—but this was different. This was blasphemy by the church’s standards. Yet, standing here, in the house of a god he had turned his back on, he felt no guilt.
Polana’s lips curled into a pleased smile, her eyes gleaming with approval. “Then, would you return tomorrow? I will need to discuss this with Paladin Makiva.”
Makiva. That na was familiar. The lead paladin of the village, a devout warrior of the faith. A dangerous woman to fool.
Caelum inclined his head in a respectful bow, careful not to let hesitation seep into his movents. “Of course.”
He straightened, offering a final polite nod before turning to leave, his heart thudding against his ribs. His instincts told him that stepping further into the church’s circle was a risk.
But to find his father, he had to take it.
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