“It’s a simple choice, Corvin. Your life, or hers.” Inquisitor Maella Viana’s voice was a silken blade, slicing through the damp air of the interrogation chamber. Her pale, elegant fingers tapped a rhythmic tattoo on the polished obsidian table, each click a tiny hammer blow against the captured fruit vendor’s frayed nerves.
Corvin, a man whose face usually sagged with benign exhaustion, now looked like a sun-dried prune. He trembled, eyes darting from the ornate Imperial seal on the wall to the two hulking Praetorian Guards flanking Maella. Sweat beaded on his brow, catching the glint of the single luminous orb floating above their heads, casting stark shadows across his terrified features.
“I… I don’t know anything, Your Grace,” he stammered, his voice a reedy whisper. “The girl, Nicasia? She just… she sold me a few bundles of linden leaves, nothing more. A grifter, yes, but harmless. She never spoke of… of rebels.”
Maella’s smile was a cruel curve of her lips, devoid of warmth. “Harmless grifters do not inspire divine light. Harmless grifters do not disappear into the city’s underbelly with the leader of the Crimson Dawn. Tell me,” she leaned forward, her scent of spiced jasmine and old parchment filling the space, “who were her usual associates? Who did she trust? Where would a creature like her seek refuge when fleeing Imperial justice?”
She slid a parchment across the table. It was a pardon, embossed with the Emperor’s personal sigil, stark white against the dark wood. “Sign this, and your innocence is restored. Fail to cooperate, and your next stop is the Pyre of Contrition, where you can reflect on your loyalty to heretics, limb by limb.”
Corvin’s eyes locked onto the pardon, then flickered to Maella’s cold, unblinking gaze. The air in the chamber turned brittle. He licked his chapped lips, a desperate gurgle escaping his throat. “There was… there was old Manios. Runs the spice stall near the docks. He often bought her ‘holy’ anointing oils. And she used to talk about the old smuggler’s trails out of the city, through the Valenwood Pass, towards the vineyards of the south. Always said she’d retire there, with a lifetime supply of… cheese.”
Maella’s smile widened, a predatory flash. “Cheese, you say? How quaint. Send word to the garrisons along the Valenwood Pass. Alert Inquisitor Veridian. Our Saintess of Second-Hand Grace desires a change of scenery. Let’s ensure she gets it.” She pushed the pardon closer to Corvin. “Sign.”
***
Nicasia, her head wrapped in a coarse linen shawl, adjusted the ill-fitting homespun tunic. The scratchy fabric chafed her skin, a constant reminder of her new, utterly insufferable reality. Beside her, Damario de Valoria, now sporting a thick, untamed beard and a battered wooden staff, looked every inch the devout wanderer. He even smelled like one – a faint, earthy aroma of sweat and sun-baked wool. It was almost convincing, if you ignored the lean, coiled tension in his shoulders that screamed ‘trained killer’ rather than ‘pious seeker of enlightenment.’
They stood at the edge of the bustling caravan yard, a chaotic symphony of creaking wheels, bellowing merchants, and the incessant clatter of hooves. A stout, red-faced man, his belly straining against his tunic, was haggling with a wagoner over a shipment of dried fish. This was Borin, their ticket out of Porto Caelus – or so Damario claimed.
“Please, good Borin,” Damario intoned, his voice rich with an almost theatrical reverence. “My sister, blessed be her delicate constitution, suffers from the miasma of the city. We seek the purifying air of the southern vineyards, to partake in the ancient pilgrimage to the Shrine of the Verdant Harvest.”
Nicasia suppressed a groan. The Shrine of the Verdant Harvest was a dusty pile of stones dedicated to a forgotten agricultural deity, mostly frequented by desperate farmers hoping for a good crop. It was hardly a spiritual beacon.
Borin eyed them skeptically, his gaze lingering on Nicasia’s pale face. “Devotees, eh? You don’t look like you’ve walked further than the city gates. And what’s with the get-up? More like beggars seeking a free ride.”
“Austerity, good sir,” Nicasia chimed in, forcing a simpering smile. “A vital component of spiritual cleansing. We’ve forsaken all worldly comforts for the journey.” She nudged Damario’s ribs with her elbow. “Even food, in our devotion.”
Damario caught her meaning, though his grimace suggested he found her performance less than saintly. “Indeed. A small space amongst your wares, Master Borin, is all we ask. We offer our blessings, and whatever meager coin we possess.” He produced a handful of tarnished copper coins, dropping them into Borin’s outstretched palm.
Borin weighed the coins, his eyes narrowing. “Blessings don’t pay for broken axles. But fine. You can ride in the last wagon, with the empty barrels. Keep your ‘blessings’ to yourselves. We leave at dawn.” He turned, shouting orders at a passing stable hand, dismissing them.
“Empty barrels,” Nicasia muttered, once they were out of earshot. “Charming. Next, I suppose we’ll be sleeping with the swine.”
“It is a sacrifice for the greater good,” Damario said, his eyes scanning the horizon. “The longer we remain in the capital, the closer Maella comes. We must reach the Serrania de Ferro mountains. Brother Silvanus has contacts there.”
***
The sun beat down mercilessly as the caravan rumbled along the dusty road. Hours later, the familiar spires of Porto Caelus were but a hazy smudge on the horizon. Nicasia, jostled and gritty, clutched the rim of the wagon, her stomach churning from the motion and the pervasive smell of stale wine from the casks.
Suddenly, the caravan lurched to a halt. The air crackled with a new tension. Shouts echoed from the front. “Regimental checkpoint!”
Nicasia’s breath caught. She peered through a gap in the canvas, her heart thudding against her ribs. Ahead, a line of uniformed soldiers stood, their polished breastplates gleaming. A captain, his face shadowed by a plumed helmet, held a scroll, comparing faces in the passing wagons against descriptions.
Damario’s hand gripped her arm, a silent command for stillness. “Stay calm. Do not meet their eyes.”
Too late. As the captain’s gaze swept towards their wagon, Nicasia saw it – a flicker of recognition in his narrowed eyes. He was about to point, to call them out. Panic clawed at her throat, sharp and cold.
Without thinking, Nicasia let out a gasping cry, a sound so theatrical it bordered on absurd. Her eyes rolled back in her head, and she collapsed in a heap amongst the casks, a dramatic, convulsive shudder running through her. Her body went limp, a perfect mimicry of a true swoon. She even let a little spittle escape the corner of her mouth, for added effect.
“My sister! The miasma! It has returned!” Damario shouted, his voice laced with feigned alarm, perfectly matching her performance. He knelt beside her, fussing over her prone form, obscuring her face from the officer’s view. “She is prone to these afflictions, sir! A fragile vessel, but her faith is unwavering!”
The captain, momentarily distracted by the sudden commotion and the spectacle of a seemingly pious wanderer succumbing to a ‘divine illness,’ waved them on, clearly eager to avoid a messy incident. “Move along, move along! Don’t block the road!”
As the caravan lurched forward again, Nicasia slowly opened one eye. The captain was already scanning the next wagon. She sat up, brushing dust from her tunic, a triumphant smirk playing on her lips. “Fragile vessel? Really? I think I deserve an award for that performance.”
Damario merely shook his head, a ghost of a smile touching his mouth. “Your devotion to theatricality is truly boundless, Nicasia.”
***
Night fell, painting the vast, open sky in bruised purples and inky blues. The caravan had halted in a sheltered clearing, a makeshift camp springing up around the flickering cookfires. Nicasia, unable to stomach another bite of Borin’s perpetually dry bread, wandered to the edge of the camp, seeking a moment of quiet solitude beneath the unfamiliar stars.
She found herself near a cluster of gnarled olive trees, their ancient branches twisting against the moonlight. A low murmur reached her ears, carried on the gentle breeze. It was Damario’s voice, hushed and solemn. She paused, concealed by the shadows, curiosity piqued.
He was kneeling, head bowed, his profile illuminated by a sliver of moonlight. He wasn’t speaking to anyone, but to something higher. “Verdant Mother, watchful patroness of the faithful,” he began, his tone raw with an earnestness she hadn’t heard before. “Grant your protection to Nicasia. Guide her steps, shield her from the venomous designs of the Inquisitors. She carries a burden, a sacred duty she does not yet comprehend, nor desires. But her light… her light is true. Keep her safe, even from herself, until her destiny is unveiled.”
A pang, sharp and unexpected, pierced Nicasia’s chest. Guilt, unfamiliar and unwelcome, twisted in her gut. He truly believed it. He genuinely believed she was some kind of divinely appointed savior, and he was praying for *her*. His unwavering faith, so utterly misguided, suddenly felt suffocating. He was risking everything for a lie, for *her* lie.
She couldn’t do it. She couldn't keep up this charade, not with his earnest prayers echoing in her ears. A quiet coastal town, good cheese, mediocre wine. That was her destiny. Not leading a rebellion. Not being a false saintess.
Turning on her heel, Nicasia began to walk, then picked up speed, her worn boots silent on the soft earth. She would slip away, now, under the cover of darkness. She’d find her own path. She’d leave Damario and his maddening principles to their doomed rebellion. She owed him nothing.
But as she cleared the last olive tree, a figure detached itself from the deeper shadows, blocking her path. Brother Silvanus. His eyes, ancient and knowing, seemed to pierce the twilight, finding her with unnerving ease.
“Going somewhere, child?” His voice was gentle, but firm. He held out a small, intricately carved wooden box. “Your mother left this for you. She knew you’d need it when the time came. She also knew you’d try to run.”
Nicasia froze. “My mother? You… you knew her?”
Silvanus nodded, his gaze softening. “Knew her well. And your father. They were good people, Nicasia. But they carried a secret far heavier, far more dangerous, than simple heresy. A truth that the Empire would kill to keep buried.” He opened the box, revealing a single, folded piece of parchment, covered in a strange, swirling script.
“This is a coded letter. From her. It will explain everything. And it will show you that your ‘second-hand grace’ is anything but.”