While not happy precisely, Corsha strode the streets of Thyr lighter than she had felt in years. She hated leaving the Kyde household; after spending more than half her life working for them, they were practically family. The grudging praise of Lord Kyde, the prim and proper but caring oversight of Lady Kyde, the shy smiles and secret sweets gifted by the young lord Fyron… Even Dafyd had once been, if not kind, at least quiet and calm, not temperamental and openly cruel. 

She sighed, hurrying her pace. Her guilt at leaving the family would only hold her back now, she had done what she could for them. The streets were quiet this early, morning’s light only just brightening the horizon. Corsha counted her blessings that Lady Kyde was an early riser and Dafyd was not. In fact, it wouldn’t surprise her if Dafyd were still out even at this hour of the morning.

The grand temple loomed into sight, its bell tower a beacon of hope for the faithful, even those who did not attend services or offer prayers at the altar. The smaller temples dedicated to the kingdom’s secondary faiths paled in comparison, not only to the sheer size of the grand temple, but also the grandeur of it. The stone of the grand temple had been whitewashed and covered in intricate murals depicting scenes from history and the ever present, connecting threads of destiny. Color was something the Weaver’s faithful enjoyed to the fullest, a sharp contrast to the bland white and gray favored by the other faiths. 

Corsha appreciated the color, it lent the Weaver an approachability the other deities lacked. Though she had only attended services at the grand temple a handful of times in her life, she could vividly recall the vibrant tapestries that adorned the walls, muffling sound and offering a warm, comforting, reverently quiet atmosphere. Artistic talent, particularly in a type of fiber art, something that had often been scoffed at by the nobility before, was now seen as a god given gift. Corsha’s own ability to tat lace had been highly lauded before…

 The sun peeked over the horizon, the reflection of its light off the white that dominated most of the district blinding. Corsha tucked her crooked hand out of sight and trotted the last few feet toward the doors of the temple. 

She rapped on the door nervously, suddenly unsure if she was doing the right thing.The remaining shadows of the square seemed to reach for her, the small sounds of people beginning their day magnified by her anxiety. Her whole body racked with shivers, she turned from the door, deciding to return when she had better control. But then, she froze as a familiar form stepped from the lingering shadows, a cocky swagger to his steps and a cruel smirk on his face.

“Why Corsha, whatever are you doing in these parts at this ungodly hour?” He strode closer, the smirk growing when he noticed her fear, “Surely you’re not running away?”

Corsha struggled to breathe, her fear of the unknown crushed by her absolute terror of the man before her, the man who had choked her into unconsciousness and left her to awake in torn, tattered clothes that barely covered her aching, bleeding body. Part of why she had been so determined to leave was the thought that if… if a child were to come from that… she could not in good conscience inflict that man upon them. 

Still frozen, unable to run, to fight, barely able to remain conscious as her heart hammered away almost painfully in her chest. He was only a few feet away now and still approaching, his mannerisms reminding her of a predator. Then his hand was around her throat again, his long slender fingers digging painfully into the already bruised flesh.

“You’re not going anywhere. Your family sold you to mine. I own you.”

Just as the darkness that had been threatening her vision began to close in, she vaguely heard a new voice, also male, but this… this was a warm, comforting voice, though it was reinforced with unyielding steel. She couldn’t make out the words any more than she could see his face through the darkness that had taken over, but she felt the grip at the throat relax and gentle hands caught her as her knees gave out.

Analie sat perfectly still beneath the canvas that hid her, barely resisting the urge to fidget. Her new clothes were itchy and too loose, and the dye they had darkened her hair with stunk in the enclosed space, her nose burning with every inhale. Her wagon to the market district had been delayed and that made her nervous. Actually, anything outside a comfortable routine or pre-established plan made her nervous. She closed her eyes, drew in a deep breath and held it, chanting lyrics from a nursery rhyme in her head until her lungs burned. Slowly letting the air out, she paused before drawing in another, hearing footsteps approaching. 

The canvas was carefully pulled aside and Father Mattias appeared, a trainee priest shuffling behind him nervously, carrying the unconscious form of a young woman. Analie could see the bruises marking the woman’s body even from her place in the far corner of the wagon bed. Just who had this woman crossed?

The trainee carefully laid the unconscious women in the wagon and Analie couldn’t help the squeak of shock that escaped her. Corsha!

Father Mattias nodded sadly, idly rubbing at a bruise on his own frail arm, “The delinquent son of a former employer accosted her on the temple steps, the fool. I suspect that was her fear all along, as well as her reason for coming here. I merely chased him off with vague threats of reprisal so I fear he may return and I’d like her far from here if or when he does. May I entrust her to your care?”

Analie nodded, nervously nibbling her bottom lip, “She’s my cousin, actually. She once protected me, that’s why her hand is crooked, so I will protect her this time.”

Father Mattias gave her a warm smile, “May you both find freedom, safety, and happiness.”

Analie ignored his farewell and scooted closer to Corsha before allowing the priest to pull the canvas over them both. She threaded her fingers through the gnarled, twisted digits of Corsha’s bad hand and whispered, more to herself than Corsha, “He’ll never touch you again. I’ll protect you.”

Mirren sipped at his ale, hardly noticing the bitterness he had turned his nose up at only a week ago. Today was his last day in Gyueson and he could not wait to return to Aarov, to his comfortable bed, the stiff fabric of his uniform, the laughter of the kids running through the street, the smell of fresh baked bread… 

He had spent the last week awaiting a mage from Thyr to arrive or send word. Normally he was an easy going, patient man but having to count down the days in case this turned into a trap? That turned him into a toe tapping, ale swilling, grouch. He missed his family. His wife was about six months pregnant with their second child and his rambunctious son Rin was excited to have a younger sibling. 

He heard the door to the inn open and turned, expecting to see one of the town’s menfolk muscling their way in, sweaty and exhausted after a full day’s work. Instead he saw two young women, clearly strangers to the town. Fading bruises, a barely visible green now, marked the face and neck of the older, while bandages peeked from beneath the skirt hem of the younger, wrapping her left leg. These two had clearly been through a lot, but unless one of them was the mage he was waiting for, it wasn’t any of his business.

The older took the lead, approaching the innkeeper with a confident stride. He strained his ears to hear what she said and was startled when the younger of the pair plopped down into the chair beside him and stared at him. Her eyes were such a dark brown they had seemed almost black until the light hit them. She pulled a letter from her pocket, the paper folded and worn, and passed it to him silently.

He picked it up and hesitantly unfolded it. His heart began to race as he recognized the code scrawled within. He met the girl’s gaze and nodded, rising from his seat as nonchalantly as he could. The older girl finished her conversation with the innkeeper and motioned for her companion to join her as she swept back outside. The girl flashed him a small smile and scampered out the door after her. 

Mirren stretched and meandered over to the innkeeper to settle the bill for his room and drinks. He would be home soon and if the mage he’d be escorting was as powerful as the rumors said, perhaps… No. He shook his head to clear the useless thoughts. First things first, get the girls safely to Aarov. Then and only then could he think of what the world Prince Micaiah would create might look like. 

He pulled out the embroidered handkerchief his wife had sent with him and pressed it to his lips, “I’ll be home soon, my love.”