The Thrall Queen
Copyright© 2026 by Megumi Kashuahara
Chapter 1
Monastery of St. Brigid, Ireland — Spring, 983 AD
Sixteen years later
Saoirse finished copying the last line of Latin text and sat back, flexing her cramped fingers. The afternoon light slanted through the scriptorium’s narrow window, illuminating the page she’d spent the morning transcribing. Confessions of St. Augustine. Brother Declan would be pleased with her work—the letters were clean, the spacing even, not a single blot marring the vellum.
She blew gently on the ink to help it dry, then carefully closed the manuscript. Sixteen years of practice had made her movements precise, economical. The monks had taught her that waste—of materials, of motion, of words—was a sin against God’s abundance.
“Still at it, are you?”
Saoirse looked up to find Sister Aoife in the doorway, a basket of herbs balanced on her hip. The older woman was technically from the women’s house adjacent to the monastery, but she’d been Saoirse’s closest companion since childhood. If Saoirse had a mother, it was Aoife.
“Brother Declan wants three more pages by Vespers,” Saoirse said, stretching her back. “I’m nearly finished.”
“You’ll ruin your eyes, working in this light.” Aoife set down her basket and moved to the window. “Come. Walk with me before you go blind for the glory of God.”
Saoirse smiled. Aoife had little patience for excessive piety, despite her vows. “The Abbot says—”
“The Abbot can say his prayers while you take air. You’re not a monk, child. You don’t need to mortify yourself like one.” Aoife’s expression softened. “Besides, I need your help identifying something. My Latin’s nowhere near yours.”
That was Aoife’s way—making requests that were really commands, disguised as flattery. Saoirse carefully stored her quills and closed the ink pot, then followed the older woman out into the courtyard.
The monastery sat on a gentle hill overlooking green fields that rolled toward the coast. Spring had painted everything in shades of emerald and gold, and the air smelled of growing things and the salt tang of the sea. Saoirse breathed deeply, feeling the tension in her shoulders ease.
“What did you need help with?” she asked.
Aoife waved a dismissive hand. “Nothing. I just wanted you out of that dusty room.” She glanced at Saoirse sidelong. “You’ve been working yourself to exhaustion lately. What’s driving you?”
Saoirse was quiet for a moment, watching a pair of crows circle overhead. “Brother Declan mentioned that the Bishop might visit soon. If my work is exceptional, he might recommend me to—”
“To take vows?” Aoife stopped walking. “Is that what you want?”
“I...” Saoirse hesitated. It was what she was supposed to want, wasn’t it? The monastery was the only home she’d ever known. The brothers had raised her, educated her, given her purpose. What else was there for an orphaned girl with no family, no prospects, no—
“You don’t have to decide today,” Aoife said gently. “You’re only sixteen.”
“The same age many girls marry.”
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