Chapter 20

Faerson Manor, the Kingdom of Wuthia, 1126

Solomon Laenas (Jared Faerson)

Morning light filtered through the high windows like pale gold, touching the stones of the manor as though nothing had changed. Yet everything had.

The child had come in the depths of night—swiftly, as Emerick foretold, and with a force that seemed more storm than birth. Bridget’s moans had shaken the rafters, but she endured, strong as oak in a gale. And when it was over, what lay in her arms was no monster, no abomination as the old church texts would paint it, but a small, breathing life—half-furry, yet with an uncanny shimmer in its eyes, as if the forests themselves had lent it a soul.

I had feared revulsion. Instead, my heart broke open in ways I did not know it could. Bridget clutched the little one to her breast, whispering to it as though it had always been hers. Against every decree of heaven and earth, I loved it. Fiercely.

Eudora had seen much in her years, but even she stood stricken with wonder at the sight of the child. And when the Phasionite women had finished their work, they bent low, murmuring words of reverence. Not one voice raised in scorn, not one eye cast in fear. They, too, seemed bound to it already, sworn in silence and in awe.

Now, as the sun climbed, Emerick returned for our next lesson. He greeted me in the library with his usual steady manner, though his sharp eyes missed nothing. I wondered, as I led him in, if he sensed what had transpired under my roof while the night cloaked us.

We settled at the great table; the tome spread before us once again. Yet in my chest, the book felt like a shadow compared to the warmth of the chamber above, where Bridget now lay with the child sleeping against her breast.

Emerick began to speak of the Elder Days, of races and wars long forgotten, but my mind kept circling back to the life that had come into being under this roof. At last, I asked him, careful and measured, “Enerick ... would you say there are some histories that live again, not in words, but in flesh?”

He looked at me, long and hard. For a moment, I thought he would pry, would press. Instead, he simply nodded. “Aye, Jared. Some histories never die. They only sleep, waiting to be born again. That is why the Church fears them so.”

I said nothing, only let the words sink into me like seeds. For I knew—Bridget and I knew—that one such history now slept in our care, nestled against her breast, and the manor itself seemed to hold its breath in devotion.

I listened to Priest Emerick’s voice as he traced the old tales, but my thoughts drifted again and again upstairs. To Bridget. To the child. To the sound of its small breaths, which I swear I could feel even from here, like a tether between us.

The priest’s words rolled on about the shifting kingdoms of the Elder Days, of how mighty rulers rose and fell as easily as crops in season. His eyes lit with that particular fire he held whenever recounting forgotten knowledge, a fire I usually shared. But today, it was harder to keep my mask in place.

I could not allow even the briefest flicker of truth to cross my face. If Emerick saw—if he guessed—what had come to pass in this house, it might undo everything. For all his talk of openness, he was still of the cloth, and the Church’s reach was long.

So, I smiled where I ought, nodded when he paused, and even asked a question here and there to keep the air smooth. “And what became of the southern tribes who worshiped the Mansse?” I asked, steady, as though the topic was idle curiosity.

“They were driven out, scattered,” he answered, stroking his beard. “The Church called it cleansing. But to those who survived, it was loss—loss of their gods, their roots, their mysteries. Some whisper their blood still runs in hidden places, though the world would deny it.”

His words pierced me more than he knew. I felt them stirring against the hidden truth of the manor, like a hammer against glass. But I kept my face calm, my posture relaxed, though inside I was taught as a bowstring.

When at last the lesson ended, I rose and closed the book. “Your visits are ever a gift, Father. Your words keep history alive, even in places it is meant to be forgotten.”

He regarded me with a slight narrowing of the eyes, as though weighing the meaning beneath my words, but at last he smiled faintly. “That is all we can do, Solomon. Keep it alive. For silence is the death of truth.”

I walked him to the door, keeping the mask in place, my heartbeat steady until I watched him ride down the lane. Only then did I exhale.

The moment he was gone, I turned back toward the manor, the warmth within its walls calling me. Our secret remained intact. The child was ours alone, the truth hidden from the Church’s eye.

I had not long returned from seeing Priest Emerick down the lane when Eudora found me in the library. She slipped in with her usual quietness, though the set of her mouth told me she had come with purpose.

“My lord,” she began, folding her hands before her, “I would speak with you plainly—about the priest.”

I gestured for her to sit, but she remained standing, her gaze firm.

“These lessons of yours,” she continued, “are not without value. Knowledge has its place, yes. But every time he crosses this threshold, you invite the Church into our walls. Secrets do not stay hidden forever, Solomon. If Priest Emerick learns more than he ought...” She trailed off, shaking her head.

Her words struck true, though I had turned them over in my mind a hundred times already. “You are not wrong,” I admitted, rubbing my temple. “I fear it as well. Yet if I send him away abruptly, will it not draw suspicion? He is too sharp not to wonder.”

“Perhaps,” she said, softer now. “But even sharp men can be steered. Better suspicion than discovery.”

I nodded, though no answer settled in my chest. She was right—she was always right—but the path forward was unclear.

Her eyes softened then, the steel giving way to something warmer. “The child,” she said, her voice gentler, “has given the house a new spirit. And the servants, the Phasionites especially—well, you know they have always held the strange and the wild close to their hearts. They do not see the child as unnatural, only blessed differently. Already, they love it. As do I.”

Her lips curved into the faintest of smiles. “I have set my hands to knitting the babe a blanket. Wool from our own flocks, dyed with the red roots it is prized for its strength. A token, and a promise, that it shall be cared for.”

For the first time that day, something warm stirred in me, easing the cold that had coiled since the priest’s visit. “Eudora,” I said, voice low, “what would this house be without you?”

She inclined her head, almost dismissively, but her eyes lingered on mine, steady and kind. “It would endure, as it must. But with me, it endures better. And now—with the child—it must endure for more than us.”

I looked toward the ceiling, toward the chamber above where Bridget lay with the little one pressed against her heart. A strange peace flickered in me, fragile as a candle flame.

“Yes,” I said at last. “For more than ourselves.”

When Eudora finally withdrew, her steps fading down the corridor, the library grew still again. Only the crackle of the hearth and the whisper of the turning pages kept me company.

Her words clung to me, though—about Emerick, about the child, about the manor itself. The place did feel different now, as if the very stones had absorbed the pulse of the newborn. The halls that once carried only duty and silence now seemed to breathe, warmed by unseen threads of devotion.

I sat alone, staring at the books but seeing little. My thoughts wandered east, past the forests and the rivers, to the jagged heights of the Golden Mountains. Mabel and Richard ... gods, how long had it been since they departed? Their quest was half-dreaded, and yet I prayed to hear the sound of their return before the season’s end.

It was Mabel I thought of most—Mabel, with her quick wit and her laughter that could pierce through even the darkest chamber. My sister, yes, but so much more than that. To call her my blood alone felt like a lie. She was my truest bond, my secret ache, the light that lingered even when shadows pressed tight about me. I missed her fiercely, painfully, in ways I dared not confess aloud.

Sometimes, late in the night, when the manor lay hushed and my own thoughts circled too near to madness, I whispered her name as one whispered a prayer. Mabel. Not only sister. Dare I admit it? My true love. The only one who ever filled the hollow I carried in my chest.

I pressed my palms against the old oak table, grounding myself against the weight of that truth. The world would brand it sin, but to me it was the only thing that felt unshakably real. And now, with her gone into peril, the distance cut like a knife.

I closed the book before me, its ancient words meaningless in the wake of longing. I could only hope—pray—that her feet were already turned homeward, that Richard guarded her well, and that soon ... soon, she would be beneath this roof again, where I could look upon her without fear of losing her to the mountains or the gods.

Until then, the house breathed with new life, with new secrets. But my heart remained with Mabel. Always Mabel.

Northern Roads, the Kingdom of Wuthia, 1126

Richard Laenas (Marak Faerson)

The wind whipped past my face as we rode out of the village, the lowlands stretching endlessly ahead of us. Fields of amber and green rolled under the morning sun, dotted with the occasional grove of trees or scattered farmstead. It felt almost unreal—so peaceful, so ordinary—after the mountains, after the trials, after the darkness that had clawed at us for so long.

I glanced at Mabel riding beside me. Her posture was straight, eyes forward, but I could see the faint glimmer of a smile tugging at her lips. For once, the weight between us felt lighter. The waters had done their work, and the shadows that had haunted our steps were reduced to whispers, nothing more.

The jug rested in the pack between us, safe and secure. I could almost feel its power humming quietly, a promise of relief for those waiting at the manor. My hand twitched slightly at the thought—how long it had been since we’d been able to provide anything for our siblings and our home, instead of relying on survival alone.