They waited at the edge of a little town. Fifteen riders in black armor and winter cloaks, their horses stamping steam into the brittle morning. Darius drew his mount alongside Garran’s. “What are we doing here?”

  Garran did not answer at first. He studied the street ahead, the bright stones, the homes that looked brand new. Brother Caldus sat a horse’s length behind them, prayer beads loose in his gloved hand. Marek folded his cloak tighter and grinned. Old Bren scratched at his beard and spat into the snow.

  “Reports,” Garran said, still watching. “A girl in this town with strong magic.”

  Darius glanced sideways. “Are we here to test if she’s a Saintess candidate? Shouldn’t the Sanctum send someone more qualified?”

  Garran’s mouth tilted. Marek chuckled. Old Bren gave a rusty laugh.

  “Normally, yes,” Garran said. “But there were also reports she has already killed over a dozen men.”

  Darius felt the world tighten. “Killed—why?”

  He didn’t get to ask the rest. Faces were appearing at doorways and behind windows. The town was small enough that fifteen Inquisitors nearly filled its square by their presence alone. The sweeping stopped, and the men working the irons stopped. Children were snatched by their mothers.

  Garran let his voice carry. “All who can stand—come to the square.”

  The command echoed through the town, further powered by his Vaylora. Everyone who could come did. The Mayor approached last, hat pressed to his chest, doing everything in his might to maintain his smile.

  “What can we do for you, Inquisitors?” he asked. His voice wavered.

  Garran stared at him for a long moment. “You know exactly why we’re here.”

  The Mayor’s throat bobbed. “Forgive me, Commander, I—truly, I don’t.”

  Garran nodded once, then turned his head slightly. “Boy,” he said to Darius without looking away from the man. “You grew up in the slums. And in towns like this.”

  “Yes,” Darius said.

  “What looks wrong?”

  Darius let his eyes work. He saw the swept thresholds. The oiled hinges. The straight shoulders and lit faces. He smelled bread that had not burned once this week. He listened for the cough that always lives in winter towns. He heard only quiet.

  “Everything is too clean,” he said slowly. “Too perfect.”

  Murmurs shivered the crowd. The Mayor lifted his hands. “We’ve had good harvests, Commander. Skilled masons. You cannot make blessings a crime.”

  “Maybe,” Garran said. He inhaled, and the air seemed to change in his chest. “But I can feel Vaylora running through this place like it dwells here.”

  His eyes went to a house on the town’s edge—a simple, neat thing. The Vaylora, he felt, was the strongest there. He touched his reins and then motioned for several of the Inquisitors to go check the home. Three of the 15 men began to move. The Mayor lurched forward with three men to block the street.

  Garran’s gaze hardened by a degree. “Explain yourself.”

  The Mayor swallowed, then lifted his chin with desperate dignity. “I know who you are, Garran Veyle. You show no mercy in your duties. All you judge unclean are burned beneath you—age and station be damned.”

  Marek snorted. Old Bren grunted something like approval. Brother Caldus’s beads clicked once.

  The Mayor’s voice cracked. “Please. Avena is a child. A sweet child. Without her, this town will fail.”

  Old Bren spat again. “Sweet child? Reports say your sweet child killed a dozen men.”

  Silence rippled outward like a stone in still water. Then a high voice broke it.

  “They were bad men!” a boy shouted from behind his mother’s skirts.

  Marek’s head turned. “How bad?” His tone was sharper than his smile.

  The woman held the boy close. Her face trembled, but her words did not. “Bandits. They came to take our stores. Some… tried to take the women. Avena stopped them.” She lifted her chin. “Without her, we’d be gone.”

  Garran’s mouth flattened. “So this Avena uses her abilities to feed you, keep things clean and tidy, AND she guards your walls?” He studied the Mayor. “Bring her to me. I will judge her.”

  Darius glanced at him, confusion tightening behind his eyes. Brother Caldus leaned in just enough to murmur, “Trust him. He’s never steered us wrong.”

  The Mayor did not move. Neither did the three men set in their path. The horses blew steam from their noses and shifted.

  Garran’s patience ended with a softness that felt colder than anger. “You have thirty seconds,” he said. “Bring me the girl, or we will cut our way to her. We cannot allow a potential witch to roam unchecked.”

  A ripple of prayer moved through the square. Lovers and parents tangled fingers. Somewhere, a baby began to cry and could not be hushed. Garran counted down, unhurried,

  “Three, Two,” he said, and a young voice rose.

  “Stop!”

  The crowd parted without being told. A girl stepped through—freckled, light-brown hair braided to pigtails that brushed a patched cloak. She could not have seen twelve years. Bare hands in the cold, cheeks red. Her clothing was noticeably shabbier than that of the townspeople who surrounded her. She stood before Garran’s horse and did not look away.

  This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

  Garran lept from his horse and strode towards the girl. “Are you Avena?”

  The girl nodded.

  “Why did you kill those men?”

  She bit her lip. “They wanted to hurt people.”

  “How did you kill them?”

  Her eyes flicked to the crowd and back to him. Garran’s voice gentled a fraction. “It's ok. Show me,” he said, and pointed to a tree at the far edge of the square. “Over there.”

  Avena swallowed. She walked a few steps, stopped, and drew in a breath. The air thickened around her. Vaylora gathered, swift and clean. The girl’s feet left the ground by an inch. Threads of ice, fire, and lightning braided themselves into a crown above her small head and then unbraided—three lines of power lancing across the square to strike the tree. The trunk of the tree exploded into splinters on contact. There was barely anything left of the tree.

  The crowd let out a shocked cry that died as quickly as it came. Avena's face crumpled. “I’m sorry,” she whispered, and lowered herself to the earth. She placed her palm on the ground. The broken tree trembled. Sap woke. Wood knit. Leaves unfurled out of season with a soft, impossible sound. She had reformed the tree she had just destroyed.

  Garran watched every moment, every twitch. When she finished, he spoke. “Not a single drop of corruption. Just a child doing her best.” He glanced at his men. They didn't need a Saint-stone. Avena was indeed a Saintess candidate and a powerful one.

  “Who taught you?” he asked.

  “No one,” the girl said. “I just… feel things.”

  Garran nodded slowly. “Avena,” he said, shaping the name like a small flame between his hands. “Would you come to the Sanctum to train? To become a Saintess?”

  The murmur this time was a mix of fear and awe. If she left, the town might well rot. If she stayed, the Sanctum would call her a witch, and everyone here would be complicit. Garran had razed larger towns to the ground for less.

  “No,” the girl said softly.

  The air drew tight. Garran knelt until his eyes were level with hers. “Why not?”

  “My mommy is sick,” Avena said, and the words shook. “She needs me.”

  Garran stood. The crowd flinched at nothing more than his height. Darius saw fear tighten throats all around them, a collective swallow.

  “It’s admirable,” Garran said, “to guard your own. But there are many villages. Many mothers. Millions who could use your hands. Do you not want to help them?”

  Avena stared at the snow. “I do,” she whispered. Then she met his eyes and did not blink. “But I only have one mommy. You can’t make me leave her.”

  Garran’s gaze cooled and clarified. “What if I send someone to heal her?” he asked. “A friend. A good one. If I do that, will you come?”

  “What about the village?” she asked, so small the question barely reached him.

  “I think,” Garran said, looking straight past her at the Mayor, “these adults will manage without you. Isn’t that right?”

  The Mayor nodded so fast his hat nearly fell.

  “See?” Garran said. The girl looked to the Mayor, to the crowd. Then she nodded, shy and brave all at once.

  “Very good,” Garran said. “They’ll be here within two weeks. I expect to hear good things.” His smile cut like a thin blade. “I would hate to have to come back, to clean the real rot of this town."

  They left the town. Once even the smoke from the homes were out of sight, Darius nudged his horse up alongside Garran’s. “What if she had refused?” he asked. “After all that?”

  Garran kept his eyes on the road a moment longer. “Tell me first,” he said, “What would you have done?”

  —

  The snow gently fell around Darius as he looked at Selene.

  “Well?” she said. “What did you tell him?”

  Darius smiled at her.

  “Answer me first,” he said. “If you were a Saintess and found a town like that, a girl like that. What would you have done?”

  Selene frowned, thinking it all the way through. When she spoke, it was without gentleness. “I’d raze the village to the ground,” she said. “Get the girl and her mother somewhere safe.”

  Darius’s smile brightened, unguarded. “That’s not the answer I gave,” he said. “But it’s the one Garran said was right.”

  Selene's eyes widened despite herself.

  "Do you know what made him say that?” Darius asked.

  “It’s a girl with tremendous power,” Selene said, the words sharpening as she followed the logic to its end. “She keeps that town prosperous by her mere presence. Because of her. They had more than enough money to spare. They could have sent for a healer for her mother; they didn’t. If the mother had been healthy, there's no doubt she would have taken her to be tested as soon as she found out about her power. I wouldn’t be surprised if someone in that town made her sick to keep the girl there.”

  “Exactly what Garran said.” Darius smiled. Selene continued.

  “But the Garran I knew wouldn’t have cared. He’d have burned both and called it purity. He followed the creed word for word.”

  “I wondered about that, too,” Darius went on, softer. “Old Bren laughed and told me Garran would’ve torched that place in his old days. I asked what changed him.”

  For the first time since the night began, Selene smiled without barbs. It was something so small, but it made her even more radiant.

  “What did he say?”

  “He said a rival gave him a different perspective,” Darius answered, smiling back because he couldn’t help it. “That we can’t cleanse everyone who disagrees with us. It only teaches the world to hate us.”

  Selene turned her face aside. The snow touched her lashes and did not melt. Darius wasn’t sure, but he thought he saw a wetness there that wasn’t from the weather.

  “I kept thinking about that ruin,” he said. “Over and over. Garran was always sensitive to Vaylora. After what you told me… there’s no way he didn’t know it was you.”

  Selene lowered her head. She didn’t speak. She had thought the same once or twice.

  “He probably knew he was going to die,” Darius said. “But he trusted you to do the right thing with whatever was on the other side.”

  “He told you to kill me if it was betrayal,” she said.

  “He knew I wouldn’t be able to. Not you.”

  “I could have killed you.”

  “He knew you wouldn’t.”

  Her eyes slid back to his. “And why wouldn’t I?”

  “Because,” Darius said, a crooked warmth threading his voice, “he’d already taught me too well. He taught me the parts of him; your encounters changed.”

  Selene let out a breath that was almost a laugh. Her voice was shaky, and she almost broke as she turned away. “I see. It seems I’ve made a grave error.” The words were barely a whimper, if Darius wasn’t already so close, they would have been lost in the gentle winter winds.

  He reached for her hand. She turned her head over her shoulder; her eyes were red with tears and she refused to surrender.

  “So,” Darius said softly. “Do you think we can start over? From the beginning?”

  Selene looked at his hand, then at him. She stood very still for a long breath. “Yes,” she said.

  Darius nodded once, suddenly awkward.

  “Hey,” he said. “I’m Darius Veyle.”

  “Selene LeFaye,” she said, the corner of her mouth lifting. “A pleasure, I’m sure.”

  He took her hand and kissed the back of it. It was the smallest courtly gesture, and yet the whole garden seemed to loosen around them. The tension between them still remained, but that tension was no longer bound by hate. It was instead held together by a fragile uncertainty.