At that moment, the caravan came to an abrupt halt, and shouts could be heard outside. Rodrigo couldn’t understand the language—it was unfamiliar to him, the local tongue of the region.

  When he looked through the window, he saw them—bandits. A group of eight men on horseback, dragging a small cart behind them filled with bound women, likely their captives.

  “Oh, unlucky travelers—you’ve crossed into the Ga?on brothers’ territory,” said the man leading the group in Occitan.

  Tania, jolted awake by the commotion, glared at them and shouted back in fluent Occitan, “We have nothing you’d want! Leave us alone!”

  The men laughed.

  “What a beauty! Looks like this will be a fine hunt for new slaves!” one of them called out, leering.

  “My lady, may I take care of these bandits?” asked Anpiel, turning to Tania with a formal bow.

  “Yes. Go ahead,” Tania replied calmly.

  The malak stepped down from the caravan, gripping a wooden staff in his hands.

  “And what’s a pathetic priest like you going to do against all of us?” sneered the bandit leader.

  “Look, he’s threatening us with a stick! Terrifying!” another mocked, and the group burst into laughter.

  Before they could react, Anpiel moved like lightning—he leapt forward and struck the leader squarely in the chest, knocking him clean off his horse. The man hit the ground, unconscious.

  The laughter stopped instantly. The others drew knives, spears, and swords, but the angel slipped between them with effortless agility, dodging and striking in swift, graceful motions. One by one, the bandits fell to the ground, unconscious or dazed.

  Rodrigo realized, astonished, that the angel hadn’t used a single trace of divine power—his skill alone was more than enough.

  The few who remained conscious turned tail and fled, abandoning the cart full of women.

  “We have to free them,” Rodrigo said, jumping down.

  Epona, holding a knife, strode to the cart and began cutting the women’s bindings.

  “You’re safe now,” she said gently in Occitan, smiling at them.

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  “Thank you—thank you so much! Those men kidnap women and sell them as slaves!” one of the captives cried in Occitan, tears running down her face.

  “We’re headed to Toulouse right now. Would you like us to take you there?” Epona asked.

  “Yes, please—if it’s not too much trouble,” replied one of the women.

  “No trouble at all,” said the horse goddess, smiling as she stepped down from the cart.

  Tania leaned out from the wagon door and gestured to them. “Get in. We’ll take you to safety,” she said in Occitan.

  Ana stirred at the noise and opened her eyes groggily.

  “Eh? Are we in Toulouse already?” she mumbled, half-asleep.

  “You sleep like a rock,” Epona said indignantly.

  The rescued women, climbing into the wagon, looked confused at the strange language they heard among their rescuers.

  “You’re not from around here, are you?” one of them asked.

  Ana didn’t speak Occitan, but Epona quickly answered for her, “We’re from Ireland—that’s why our speech sounds strange. Don’t worry.”

  It was a tight fit, but everyone managed to squeeze inside, and they continued their journey toward Toulouse.

  Ana glanced at one of the girls from the corner of her eye—tall, light-brown hair, and deep blue eyes.

  “She looks so familiar… no, impossible,” she thought.

  The girl turned, caught Ana’s gaze, and smiled. Ana’s breath caught in her throat.

  After several hours on the road, they finally reached Toulouse. Tania explained to the guards what had happened on the way, and they allowed the caravan to enter without question.

  The women disembarked, expressing tearful thanks. One even offered them a place to rest for the night, but the gods politely declined.

  “We already have a place to stay, but thank you for the offer,” Tania said in Occitan with a kind smile.

  The women waved and disappeared into the city streets. The group watched them go, content that they had helped them escape a terrible fate.

  “Helping others always brings a certain satisfaction, doesn’t it?” said a woman’s voice behind them—in the divine language.

  All of them froze and turned sharply.

  One of the rescued women—the same one Ana had noticed—stood there still.

  Her hands rested on her hips. She was tall, her skin a warm olive tone like those from southern Spain. Her hair was light brown, wavy, tied back in a loose ponytail held by a headband. She wore a blue-and-white tunic—not Frankish fashion at all, but distinctly Byzantine—and leather sandals.

  Ana began to tremble.

  “What’s wrong, Ana? You weren’t planning to ignore me, were you? Have I changed that much?” said the young woman with a confident, lively smile.

  (Image created with Gemini AI for illustrative purposes only.)

  “M–My… my teacher… Athena!” Ana gasped, her eyes wide in shock.

  Everyone else stood frozen in disbelief—everyone except Rodrigo, who had no idea what was happening.