“Your ‘second-hand grace’ is anything but.” Silvanus’s words hung in the crisp night air, the folded parchment a stark white against the dark wood of the box. Nicasia stared at it, then at him, her fingers tingling in the mountain cold. “What… what do you mean?” Nicasia’s voice came out raspy, a fragile thing against the vast silence of the sleeping caravan. She snatched the parchment, the paper cool beneath her fingertips. Before she could demand more, Damario’s shadowed form emerged from the dark, his posture alert. Silvanus merely smiled with calm certainty. “All in good time, child. For now, we ride.” And ride they did. Through the pre-dawn gloom, along winding paths that seemed to cling precariously to the mountainside. The priory wasn't merely secluded; it was practically mythical, a rumor passed among wine merchants and superstitious farmers. Nicasia expected ruins, a crumbling stone edifice reclaimed by time and ivy. Instead, as dawn washed over the peaks in pale rose, a sturdy complex of sun-bleached stone emerged from a hidden valley, nestled among terraced plots that looked stubbornly green, despite the early hour. A bell tower, squat and unadorned, pierced the sky. “Hardly ‘silent’,” Nicasia muttered, rubbing at the grit in her eyes. The journey had been relentless, her every muscle protesting the unending jostle of the cart. Damario, ever the stoic, hopped down with an effortless grace that made her want to kick him. He held out a hand to assist her, his gaze sweeping the cloister with quiet satisfaction. “A place of peace, my lady. One of the few untouched by the Emperor’s grasping hand.” Nicasia ignored his hand, sliding down with a grunt. “Or just too remote for anyone to bother with. Looks like it’s seen better centuries.” They were greeted by a short, wiry man with a bald head and a face etched with a thousand worries. He wore the rough-spun robes of a monastic brother, but his hands, calloused and stained with earth, spoke more of toil than prayer. “Brother Pervin, at your service, Commander Valoria,” he rasped, bowing low to Damario, then deeper still to Nicasia, his gaze feverish with frantic reverence. “And to the Saintess, a thousand welcomes. May your holy light cleanse this blighted sanctuary.” Blighted sanctuary? Nicasia exchanged a quick, confused glance with Damario, who merely gave the monk a reassuring nod. “Lead the way, Brother. We are eager to assist.” The grounds, once a thriving estate, now felt like a wound in the earth. The air, despite the morning chill, carried a sickening sweetness, rot poorly masked by resinous incense. Inside, the halls were not empty. They echoed with low groans, the murmurs of caregivers, and the rhythmic drip of cistern runoff. Beds, simple cots really, lined every available space – the cloister, the refectory, even the small chapel. Rebels. Wounded, feverish, some with limbs crudely bandaged, others pale and still. This wasn’t an abandoned retreat; it was a field hospital, brimming with broken fighters. A knot tightened in Nicasia's gut. This went far beyond faking a cure for copper pieces. Dozens were dying, and they watched her with an aching hope that turned her bile sour. “What happened here?” she murmured to Silvanus, her voice barely audible above a hacking cough from a nearby cot. Silvanus sighed, his gaze somber. “A new kind of illness, Nicasia. The Imperial forces seem to have found a way to sicken not just the body, but the land itself. Our supplies, especially the grapes that yield our medicinal wine, have begun to wither. The vines, they simply… die.” Later, while Damario and Silvanus conferred with the monk, Nicasia retreated to a small, dusty cell smelling of dry sheepskin and distant misery. She pulled out the letter. The swirling script was no cipher. It was a language she almost knew, a forgotten melody lingering on the edge of memory—the first verse of an old lullaby: *“Little bloom, of verdant grace, sunlight kissed upon your face…”* Her kin had sung it over cradle straw. Nicasia traced the ink curves, her throat tight. Not an alchemical formula, but a fragment of home, an echo of lost hands. A rap at the oak panel startled her. The brother stood outside, gray-cheeked, knuckles white. “Saintess, please! We are losing them. The medicinal casks have soured overnight. The main arbor is dying faster than we can prune. Only you can save us. Only you can bring life back to this desolate place.” He tugged her sleeve with panicked urgency, hurrying her through the flagstone corridors past rows of sick rebels. Their hollow eyes tracked her every step. Breath rattled in ruined chests; dry lips moved over silent invocations. Stench thickened as they reached the central courtyard, where the last hillside slope met the stone wall. It was a pitiful sight. Rows upon rows of gnarled, ancient vines, their leaves yellowed and brittle, their branches skeletal. Many were already shriveled husks, clinging to their trellises like withered fingers. A few green shoots showed a defiant splash of color, but even they drooped, starved by an invisible blight. Damario stood among them, his face grim, his hand resting on a particularly gnarled stump of a vine, as if trying to impart strength. “Damario, what is this?” Nicasia demanded, her voice sharp with a panic she barely contained. “What could do this? It’s not just a sickness, it’s… malevolent.” Damario turned, his gaze meeting hers, full of infuriating conviction. “It is the Empire’s darkness, Saintess. A sickness of the spirit, poisoning the earth. But your light is stronger.” *My light? My light is a cheap parlor trick and a lucky lamp!* The sheer audacity, the blind, stubborn conviction in his eyes, ignited a spark of pure, unadulterated fury within her. He saw a saint; she saw a terrified girl about to be unmasked. His blind certainty hung over her like an executioner's rope. She stalked forward, snapped, and slammed her palm onto the dead wood right beside his fingers. “Oh, *my light*? You want light? You want a miracle, Damario? Fine! Here’s your damn miracle!” Her anger surged, a hot, tingling rush through her arm, fueled by a lifetime of faking it, of being hunted, of the impossible expectations now crushing her. She didn’t pray. She raged. She pushed all that raw, desperate frustration into the inert wood. A surge, not of lightning, but of pure, hot *vitality*, ripped outward through the wood. And then, a gasp rippled through the gathered rebels. From the gnarled, dead wood beneath her hand, a single, impossibly vibrant green shoot erupted, unfurling its leaves with startling speed. Tiny, perfect grape clusters, a deep, jewel-toned crimson, materialized on the new branch, plump and glistening with morning dew. The air itself seemed to hum, sweet and clean, washing away the stench of blight. The vine pulsed with an inner radiance, the deep red grapes almost glowing. Nicasia froze, palm flat against the thriving bark. No mirrors. No dyed powders. She had done it. *She* had. Behind her, murmurs rippled and broke into stillness. Nicasia turned slowly, pulse thudding in her ears. Every rebel, every monk, every wounded body capable of moving had dropped to their knees. Features carved by misery flushed with stunned reverence; tears cut paths through dirt on their cheeks. Pervin wept into the dust, forehead pressed to gravel. Damario, still kneeling, met her gaze. His eyes, usually so serious, were shining with an intensity that pierced her, a profound, almost terrifying adoration. “Your Holiness,” he whispered, his voice thick with reverence. “Truly, the Verdant Bloom has returned.” Then, from the squat bell tower above, a single, sharp clang cut through the hushed courtyard. Then another. And another. Urgent, frantic. The Imperial watchtower bell. It meant soldiers.

Whispers in a Forgotten Monastery