I scanned through my status, and then came back to the one major change.

  

----------------------- Saintly Mandate -----------------------

  Mandate of Preservation: Your Saintly power is bound to the preservation of continuity, sanctuary, and enduring futures. Actions taken to preserve and stabilize what can endure meet less resistance, while actions that unnecessarily erase peoples, places, or possibilities strain this mandate and diminish the grace of your Saint abilities until restoration is achieved.

  I read the new line once, then again, slower. The weight of it might have been dread to someone else, but to me it stirred only curiosity.

  The meaning unfolded as sensation more than text, a sense of scale pressing outward rather than down. Boundaries, but not walls. Lines drawn far beyond the choices I weighed day to day, touching on things I had always taken for granted. Futures. Sanctuaries. Endings that should not be decided lightly, if at all.

  I sat with it for a moment and found no resistance in myself. Whatever the intent behind it had been, it fit. It spoke to the way I moved through the world. These were things that mattered, and lines I had never wanted to cross. Mandate or no, no one should.

  Valoria came to mind, unbidden. The rot there was exactly the sort of thing this was meant to answer. Another reason, then. As if I’d needed one.

  I forced myself to close the status before I could spiral into planning. The details could wait until morning.

  Eventually I managed to calm myself enough to sleep again.

  By morning, the clothes were finished, folded neatly and waiting for us at the tailor’s shop, and our horses were already restless when we reached the stable, eager to be moving again.

  I found myself drawn, once more, to the paladin’s charger.

  He watched me as I approached, ears forward, body angled subtly between me and the rest of the stable. When I laid a hand against his neck, he leaned into it with a low huff, steady and calm in a way that felt deliberate. I recognized the instinct immediately. Protection. Loyalty transferred without hesitation.

  “You’ve made an impression,” Nadine observed.

  “He’s sensible,” I replied.

  The horse snorted, as if in agreement.

  I mounted him without trouble, settling into the saddle with an ease that surprised me. He adjusted beneath me at once, stance shifting to accommodate the wings, patient and unbothered. When we set out, he kept a careful pace, glancing back at me whenever the road narrowed or the branches dipped low.

  I decided to name him Altivo.

  The name came to me fully formed, carrying weight and warmth both. It felt right. Brave. Proud. I didn’t remember where I’d first heard it, only that it belonged to a horse who did not falter.

  Altivo accepted it without protest.

  Once we were clear of the town, the road opened into familiar quiet. We fell into our usual rhythm without discussion. I took the first watch when we made camp that evening, longer than necessary, while Nadine slept deeply and without interruption. When it was her turn, I did not argue.

  Morning came quietly. I woke with the sun already warm against my back, wings spread lazily across the grass where I’d shifted in my sleep. The feathers caught the light, heat soaking into them in a way that felt unnecessary, and therefore welcome. I remained where I was, half-awake, listening to birds and the soft sounds of Nadine moving about the camp. I discovered, to my surprise, that I enjoyed this.

  The rest after vigilance. The warmth after cold. The simple knowledge that someone competent was nearby, handling the world while I let myself drift.

  When Nadine realized I was awake, she pretended not to notice the position I’d chosen. I appreciated that. She handed me food, already planning the day’s route, and we were on the road again shortly after.

  Altivo walked at my pace, unhurried and alert.

  The road felt… settled beneath us. Not quiet in the way of emptiness, but in the way of things falling into place. I let myself enjoy it while it lasted.

  ***

  The road lengthened. Days folded into one another in a way that made keeping count feel unnecessary. We settled into a rhythm that required no discussion. I took the first watch at night, longer than was strictly required, and Nadine slept deeply beside the fire. By morning, the roles reversed. I learned to like the quiet hours after sunrise, when the world warmed slowly and nothing asked anything of me.

  I slept then, most days. Not deeply, just enough to let the weight of vigilance loosen. I stretched out where the light could reach me, wings spread comfortably across grass or stone, letting the sun soak into the feathers until warmth replaced tension. I found it pleasant in a way I hadn’t anticipated, indulgent without consequence. Nadine never commented on it, though she always made sure I ate when she returned.

  My wings were not ornamental, and I treated them accordingly. I tested them whenever the terrain allowed, short ascents at first, then longer ones, careful to stop well before strain became pain. Flight came easily enough—Sustaining it was another matter. The wings themselves held without effort. The magic did not. Mana bled away at a steady pace while I was aloft, a quiet but persistent draw that made it clear this was not something to be done casually, or often, without planning for what came after.

  I could carry Nadine, if I had to. Doing so sharply increased the drain, enough that the cost was immediately obvious. Between that and the essence already spent to call the wings into being, it made sense to be conservative. I chose not to make a habit of it.

  When we stopped early, I practiced with the sword. I needed the work with a weapon I hadn’t carried in some time, but just as much, I needed to understand how the wings changed the fight.

  The weight of the bastard sword was familiar in a way that surprised me, the movements slower than I remembered but still there, waiting to be sharpened again. The wings proved less of an obstacle than I’d expected. They shifted when they needed to, staying clear of the blade and my footing without conscious direction, more aware of my balance than my hands were.

  The sword was less accommodating, but the motions came back to me quickly. A bastard sword rewards commitment, and I had let mine dull. That, at least, was easily corrected.

  Nadine watched at first, then asked questions, and eventually asked for help. I started her with the staff. It was practical, something she would already have close at hand, and it taught distance and balance without asking her to meet force with force. She learned quickly, serious in a way I hadn’t seen from her before, and I adjusted the drills to match.

  She was the one who moved among people for the most part. Everyone recognized me as the saint the moment their eyes landed on me, and it complicated every interaction. Nadine taking the lead was our only solution.

  Sometimes that meant stopping at a stable for water, or trading coin for bread. Sometimes it meant nothing more than exchanging a few words in passing. She returned each time with small fragments of the world tucked away behind her eyes.

  “They said there was a red-winged angel on the road,” she told me once, handing over a cup.

  I considered that. “I don’t think I look much like an angel.”

  “You'd be surprised,” she teased.

  Another day, later, she mentioned a different phrasing. “A blessing,” this time. No source attached. Just something said quietly, as if repeating it too loudly might make it untrue.

  I hummed, noncommittal.

  The rumors drifted in like that. Incomplete. Slightly wrong. Close enough to the truth that correcting them felt pointless. They didn’t bother me. They felt like weather, something happening around us rather than to us.

  Nadine did not share my ease. She never argued, never tried to steer me away from what I was doing. She only listened more closely as the days went on, her attention narrowing whenever the same words appeared twice in different places.

  While she listened, I fixed things. It was never anything dramatic or that required stopping for long. A fever eased with a touch and a little patience. A twisted ankle set properly instead of being left to heal crooked. A child’s cough quieted before it could settle into something worse. I didn’t think of these moments as kindness. They were simply… wrong things made right.

  This story has been taken without authorization. Report any sightings.

  I didn’t always realize they mattered until afterward. Nadine noticed more than I did. She watched the way people stared when I moved on, the way gratitude tangled uncomfortably with fear. She didn’t stop me. She only sighed once, softly, and said, “You know they’re going to talk about this.”

  “They already are,” I replied, earning myself an exasperated look.

  The stories that followed us were not hostile. They didn’t accuse or demand. They misnamed, misunderstood, softened edges until they fit something people already knew how to hold. Signs. Blessings. Omens. Symbols, looking for somewhere to land.

  I continued to nap in the mornings when I could, wings warm in the sun, listening to Nadine move through camp with quiet competence. The road carried us forward, closer to home and a chance to save our family.

  We knew we were approaching another city long before we saw it. The road thickened with traffic, wagons slowing as they fell into loose order, riders bunching together in cautious clusters. Someone had taken the time to maintain the roads here.

  Nadine exhaled slowly as the gates came into view.

  “Big enough to matter,” she said. “And that means talk. The rumors are going to get far worse.”

  “I know,” I said. “We can’t stop that. We’ll do our best not to make a spectacle.”

  She gave me a flat look. "Really? You're going to actually make an effort to avoid attention?"

  “Don’t I always?”

  She said nothing.

  She handled the stable arrangements while I waited nearby, watching the way the stablemaster’s eyes slid past my face and then snapped back despite his efforts. He bowed too deeply. Charged fairly. Promised careful handling of the horses as if that were something that needed to be said aloud.

  Altivo remained close, shoulder brushing mine as I stepped away. I rested a hand against his neck before leaving him behind. He huffed softly, unimpressed by the city.

  Nadine joined me moments later, expression already troubled.

  “There are a lot of stories,” she said as we set off together. “More than I expected, even in just that short walk. The red winged Saint on the road. A healer who doesn’t ask questions. The rumors have crystallized. I think they knew exactly when you'd arrive.”

  I considered that. The city smelled like stone, sweat, and old water. It felt like a place where stories stuck.

  “We should avoid staying long,” Nadine continued. “Take side roads. Keep quiet. If the heretics are listening—”

  “We need to stop,” I said.

  She looked at me sharply. “Mirela—”

  “I’m hungry.”

  That stopped her.

  “It feels like I haven’t eaten in nearly two weeks,” I added mildly, as if commenting on the weather, mindful of the people around us. “And neither of us wants me imposing on farmers.”

  Nadine’s jaw tightened. “We can find another way.”

  “We could,” I agreed. “But this one is efficient.”

  She slowed her pace. “You’re talking about letting them come to you.”

  “I’m talking about letting the right people come to me,” I said. “Predators self-select. Farmers don’t.”

  “That’s not—”

  “Starving monsters are worse than visible ones,” I finished.

  She hated that. I could see it in the way her shoulders tensed, the way she searched for a counter that wasn’t there. What she hated more was that I had already moved past the argument, three steps ahead, mapping outcomes instead of debating principles.

  We passed a narrow side street where a woman sat slumped against the wall, a child half-curled against her chest. The child’s eyes were open, too bright with fever. The woman’s were dull with exhaustion and something closer to resignation.

  I stopped.

  Nadine sighed through her nose. “Mirela…”

  “It won’t take long.”

  The woman noticed us then. Her breath caught. Hope flickered across her face with painful intensity, the kind that comes from praying without expectation and being answered anyway.

  “You’re—” she began.

  I knelt before she could finish.

  The child whimpered softly when I touched her, then stilled as warmth spread beneath my palm. I worked carefully, easing the fever first, then turning my attention to the woman. Infection, untreated. A body pushed too far for too long.

  She gasped when the pain eased, eyes filling with tears she hadn’t had the energy to shed before.

  “Please,” she whispered. “I heard—”

  “I know,” I said gently.

  It didn’t take much. A little magic. A little blood, where no one was watching closely enough to understand what they were seeing. When I finished, the child was breathing evenly, the woman upright and blinking in disbelief.

  People had gathered. Townsfolk at first, and then others with more intent. Mercenaries, by the look of them. A pair of priests hovering at the edge of the crowd, curiosity finally bringing them within reach of a problem already solved.

  Nadine leaned closer to me, voice low. “You’re drawing a crowd.”

  “Yes,” I answered, seeing the potential danger.

  Her mouth thinned. “There are a lot of innocent people here.”

  "I know, and that keeps everything calm and in balance. This is fine."

  She closed her eyes briefly.

  The woman clutched my hand as I rose. “Thank you,” she said fervently. “I prayed.”

  “I don’t recommend it,” I replied.

  The child looked up at me, wide-eyed and unafraid, and her face lit up with a smile. She tilted her head, studying me with open curiosity, as if I were something she might have seen once in a picture book and never quite believed was real.

  “Your halo is very pretty,” she said.

  The world skipped a beat. Just enough that I noticed the absence of motion before the sound returned.

  “My what?” I asked.

  The child lifted her hands and traced a small circle above her own head, careful and precise. “Your halo,” she repeated, patient with me in the way children are patient with adults who miss obvious things. “Mama told me about it. The saint with the red wings has one. It means she’s real.”

  I went still as the grave. Across from me, Nadine inhaled sharply. I raised a hand, slowly and carefully, and reached upward. There was nothing to touch. No weight. No warmth. No resistance at all. Just air, exactly as it had always been.

  “It’s there,” the child said helpfully. “It’s shining.”

  I lowered my hand and looked at Nadine.

  Her expression had changed. It wasn't surprise or even confusion. Something closer to dawning horror.

  “You didn’t know?” she asked in disbelief.

  “I knew the Oracle put something there,” I replied. “I did not know it was… that!”

  The woman stared between us, confusion creeping in as the moment stretched too long. I stood, stepping back from the circle of gathered people with care, as if sudden movement might make things worse.

  “How long,” I asked Nadine, keeping my voice even, “has it been like that?” I knew the answer, but I needed to hear it.

  She swallowed. “Since Valoria,” she said. “At the catalyst festival.”

  That explained rather a lot.

  I pinched the bridge of my nose and exhaled slowly. “That’s going to be a problem.”

  The child frowned. “Is it bad?”

  “No,” I said at once. “It’s… inconvenient.”

  When I failed to grab it once again, I tried to dispel it.

  Nothing happened. I didn't think it would. The oracle had placed it there… hadn't she?

  I frowned and tried again, pushing magic outward the way I would snuff a candle or unravel a lingering effect. The pressure slid off without catching, like water over glass.

  I reached up again, fingers passing through empty air with increasing irritation.

  Nadine watched for a moment, then cleared her throat. “You can’t just… Are you trying to take it off?”

  “Why not?” I demanded.

  “Because it’s the Saint’s Halo,” she said. “It's not just some adornment."

  I stared at her.

  “Fairies,” I said flatly.

  She winced. “Oh. Well, Possibly?”

  “No,” I corrected. “I read the tales when I was a girl. Definitely.”

  The stories rose unbidden and unwelcome. Saints followed by shining little witnesses, the halo a beacon marking them as chosen by the gods. Moral guidance delivered whether requested or not. Celestial accounting. Endless commentary. Every peaceful moment interrupted by one sparkling little figure or another calling out, “Hey, listen!”

  “I do not need supervision,” I muttered.

  Nadine bit her lip, holding back her initial response, but then brightened with a thought. "I wouldn't worry, Mirela. If it had attracted a fairy, it was likely in Valoria when the curse hit."

  I froze for an instant, but shook my head. "We're going to lift that curse. Its not worth the risk."

  I tried again, more creatively this time. I tugged at the edges of the magic. I attempted to redirect it, anchor it to something else, disguise it as a blessing I wasn’t using. Each attempt failed in a different way, slipping free with maddening ease.

  The halo remained, serene and entirely unbothered.

  The child watched all of this with rapt fascination.

  “You look like you’re thinking very hard,” she observed.

  “I am,” I said.

  Nadine slowly crossed her arms. “You really just forgot about it.”

  “…It's not like I can see it or interact with it at all! And I had more important things to think about,” I replied. “Like not dying.”

  “That’s fair,” she conceded.

  I lowered my hand and straightened, forcing myself to breathe. The halo did not vanish. I doubt it even dimmed. It continued to exist, bright and patient and entirely too visible to everyone but me. I did not like it.

  “We should leave,” I said.

  Nadine nodded immediately.

  As we turned away, the child waved at me, cheerful and unafraid.

  “Bye, Ms. Saint!” she called.

  The city did not let us pass through unnoticed.

  Coin left our purse quickly once we began resupplying. Bread, dried meat, lamp oil. Small things that added up faster than we would have liked. People watched while we counted, attention lingering in a way that made the transactions feel ceremonial. When I tried to pay for a bundle of travel bread, the vendor shook his head and pressed it into my hands anyway, bowing with awkward insistence until I took it.

  Nadine thanked him while I stood by and watched. That only made it worse.

  By the time we reached the inn, the pattern had established itself. Doors opened too quickly. Eyes tracked me openly now, no longer pretending at discretion. Someone had left a small bundle of flowers on a bench near where I'd healed the child earlier, their petals dulled and curling in the chill.

  Nadine noticed all of it, too.

  “This is going to become a problem,” she said quietly as the innkeeper ushered us inside.

  He refused payment without pause, insisting instead that we take a room on the top floor. More space. More quiet. A better view, not that there could have really been such a difference in such a busy place. I followed him up the stairs, wings brushing the walls despite the extra care he’d taken to clear the way. I didn't mind.

  The room was large enough. Bare, but clean. The windows opened wide, letting in air and light. I set my bag down and stood there for a moment, listening to the sounds of the city below. There were too many voices, and too much awareness.

  Nadine lingered by the door.

  “I can make some coin at the guild,” she said. “Enchanting work. Just a few small contracts. It shouldn’t take long.”

  "That isn't a bad idea." I replied. "I can help. I'm not as good as you, but I know more than the basics."

  She hesitated. “Best if you stay here and try to rest. You look like you can use a break from the attention, and they wouldn't let you do much without your journeyman's papers in any case."

  I nodded, knowing she was right.

  When she left, the room felt strangely exposed despite the height. I picked up a pillow, hugging it to my chest and tipped forward onto the bed. I let my gaze drift out the window and relaxed my wings enough that they spilled over the sides of the mattress. Sleep did not come. The city hummed restlessly beneath me, a patient buzz that made it feel alive, as though it were waiting for something to happen.

  Then, voices drifted up through the open window. A conversation between agitated people.

  “…a priest and a paladin,” someone murmured.

  “…said they were found outside Valoria, on the road…”

  "the wagon burned, aye, but not enough. The bodies were still there.”

  “…a vampire, I heard, and not the feral kind…”

  “They said a spellbreaker went missing too,” someone added. “Guild man. Same party, by the sound of it.”

  “Didn’t find him with the rest.”

  I closed my eyes.

  Later, someone in the hall mentioned a missing adventurer. A scout. Skilled. Vanished on the road north. The description was close enough that Nadine and I did not need to speak of it when she returned.

  “That was fast,” I said.

  Nadine set the pouch down and loosened the tie. Inside, the coins were clean and recently minted.

  “Too fast,” she agreed. “They didn’t ask many questions. Just wanted the work done.”

  “And paid well for it,” I noted.

  She nodded. “They’ve been short-handed. The problem with monsters on the roads is getting worse. It's leaving contracts going unanswered. And…” She hesitated, then sighed. “It didn’t hurt that people already think we’re part of something larger.”

  "You'd think our lack of escort would disillusion them."

  “People are scared. They want something to believe in. Stories are what they have,” she said. “They make people generous, and some of them are even true."

  I shrugged, then looked at the coin. “That’s a lot. Do you think it's going to draw attention?”

  “It already has,” Nadine said quietly. “We stayed just long enough.”

  We shared a simple meal in the room, eating in companionable silence while the city continued to talk about us without knowing it. When we were finished, Nadine leaned against the window and watched the street below.

  “They’re connecting things,” she said at last. “They must be. Not correctly from the sound of it, but I doubt that matters.”

  “Yes,” I agreed.

  “And if by some miracle the heretics haven’t heard yet—”

  “They will,” I finished.

  She turned to me. “We should leave.”

  I was already standing, thinking the same thing for entirely different reasons.

  We did not wait for dawn. The city gates were quieter in the half-light before morning fully claimed the streets, but the guards still straightened when they saw us approach. One of them bowed. Another crossed his arms and looked away.

  Altivo stamped impatiently as I mounted, muscles coiled as if he felt the tension too. When we passed through the gate, the road opened before us, familiar and unwelcoming in equal measure.

  The city receded behind us, already busy turning us into something larger than we were. And I ignored it, my focus somewhere else. My growing hunger could only wait so long.

  Soon, I promised myself.

  The road carried us forward, closer to home and a chance to save our family.

  And behind us, the stories began to run.

  Trials of the Jotunn plays in that darker fantasy space where the protagonist isn’t clean, and the world doesn’t pretend to be.