Neri’Va’s day was a blur of sacred duties and mounting dread. She rose before dawn, mind already spinning, hands busy as she polished golden candleholders until her arms ached. Each glimmer of brass was supposed to reflect the Light, but in the mirrored surface she only saw her own troubled eyes.
She folded linens with trembling fingers, laying out the white garments that tomorrow she would wear for her initiation. Every crease had to be perfect; every task, performed with reverence. She worked in silence, the rhythm of her chores all that kept her from thinking too much, too deeply, about the woman she loved and the shadows drawing close.
The temple was alive with purpose—voices called for Neri’Va every few minutes:
“Novice, fetch more oil for the altar.” “Check the supplies in the sacristy.” “Have you set the candles for the purification ritual?”
She answered them all, moving quickly, head bowed, eyes downcast—desperate for the tasks to end. Even as she worked, snatches of conversation drifted by, all about the great honour awaiting her at midday.
“She’ll be the youngest priestess in a generation.” “What an honour for the village! Quintra’s favour shines here.”
Neri’Va felt none of the joy that was supposed to fill her heart. She smiled when expected, but inside was only that gnawing ache—the hollow left by Rayven’s absence. She caught herself, more than once, staring out a high window toward the forest, searching for a glimpse of movement she knew would not be there. The world felt heavy, and the burden of the coming night pressed on her chest.
She tried to steady herself, moving through her duties like a spirit—half-present, half lost in memory. In the refectory, the other acolytes whispered excitedly, some offering shy congratulations, others speculating about the sacred rites and what it would mean for Neri’Va to become the temple’s youngest full priestess. She forced a smile, thanked them, and quietly escaped to her next task.
By late afternoon, the ceremonial fires were burning, incense curling in golden spirals in the temple’s great hall. The scents of myrrh and sweetgrass made the air thick, almost stifling. Neri’Va helped light candles for the ritual cleansing, feeling the heat against her fingers, the wax softening like her own resolve.
As acolytes lined up for the cleansing, she hesitated. She watched the golden light flicker across the faces of her peers, the anticipation and devotion written there. In that moment, her heart thundered with guilt and longing. She was supposed to feel chosen, radiant, but she felt like an imposter—her mind already slipping away from Quintra’s Light, running to the woods, to Rayven.
With trembling hands, she excused herself, claiming a forgotten chore, a missing vial of oil. Her heart beat wildly as she crept past the kitchens, darted down a narrow corridor, and ducked through the side door into the cool blue shadow of evening.
Outside, the square was quiet, the last market stalls already folded away for night. Neri’Va kept to the shadows, slipping through a gap in the old wall, the boundary between the safety of the town and the wild unknown of the woods. Her feet found the path by instinct, weaving between gnarled roots and mossy stones. The hush of the forest was a balm—here, at least, she was not a symbol, not a vessel of Quintra’s Light, but only a young woman running toward the one who made her feel alive.
The old well stood in a glade just beyond the first stand of ancient oaks, the stones thick with moss and moonflowers. Rayven was already there, pacing like a caged animal. The Night dweller’s presence always filled the space, but now, her unease was palpable. She looked up as Neri’Va burst from the trees, her eyes luminous in the afternoon sky.
For a heartbeat, time stopped. Rayven closed the distance between them in two long strides and caught Neri’Va in a desperate, hungry embrace. Their lips met in a kiss that was both relief and sorrow, tasting of longing and unshed tears. The Night dweller clung to her as if she might vanish, fingers digging into the novice’s shoulders.
When they parted, Rayven’s voice trembled between anger and fear.
“Where have you been?” she demanded, voice low and taut. “It’s been days, Neri. I thought—” Her voice broke, frustration and longing tangled in every word.
Neri’Va lifted her hands to Rayven’s cheeks, breathless. “I’m sorry. The temple—so much to do, so many eyes watching me. This was the first chance I had to slip away.”
She saw the way Rayven’s jaw clenched, the way her arms tightened, holding on as if she could keep her from being swept away by duty.
“You’re here now,” Rayven said at last, voice softer but still charged, searching Neri’Va’s face as if to memorise it. “I wanted to show you something, but—” She stopped, her eyes glistening with emotion. “Promise me you’ll stay away from the temple tonight. Please. I need you to promise.”
Neri’Va’s heart twisted. “I can’t. Tonight is the ritual cleansing—if I don’t attend, they’ll know something’s wrong. I have to be there, Rayven. Everyone will be watching.”
Rayven shook her head, desperation rising. “Then stay in your room. Ask them to postpone. Say you’re not feeling well, that you are sick, say anything, just don’t go, Neri’Va. Just not tonight!”
Neri’Va pulled back, her voice cracking. “If I refuse, they’ll ask questions. I’ll lose everything I’ve worked for. I… I cannot… I have to be there… tonight.” Tears welled in her eyes, threatening to spill over.
Rayven’s grip tightened on Neri’Va’s wrist. Her voice, so often teasing, was raw now, pleading.
“Then come with me. Run away with me—right now. We could vanish. There are places I know, deep in the mountains, where even Quintra’s knights wouldn’t dare follow. We could start over. No more hiding, no more fear. You and me.” Her thumb traced circles on the back of Neri’Va’s hand, desperate to convince her.
Neri’Va flinched at the raw urgency in Rayven’s voice, at the pain in her touch. For a moment, the space seemed to shrink, the air closing around them.
“Rayven, you’re scaring me. What’s going on?” The novice priestess of Quintra hesitantly asked as she felt her stomach begin to turn.
Rayven shook her head fiercely, frustration and fear warring on her face. “What matters more to you? Your faith, or us?”
Neri’Va felt her tears slip free, streaking her cheeks. “I—I can’t turn my back on Quintra, Rayven. But I don’t want to lose you either.” Her hands trembled. “Please, Rayven. Just wait—after the ceremony, we can leave together. Just give me one more day. I love you. I love you, Rayven.” The words spilled out in a rush, the ache of them almost too much to bear.
Rayven’s eyes glistened, pain flickering through her dark blue gaze. For a moment, she looked as if she might say yes, might give in. But then she stepped back, her face hardening.
“You have to choose, Neri’Va. If you can’t choose me now, you never will.” The Night dweller’s voice was cold, brittle, and final.
Neri’Va fell to her knees by the old well, sobbing. The stones felt cold and rough beneath her palms, the moonflowers crushed under her trembling hands.
“Please,” she begged, voice broken. “Don’t do this. I love you. Please, Rayven, don’t leave me alone tonight.”
Rayven hesitated, her silhouette wavering in the half-light. Neri’Va could see the agony in her eyes, the way her whole body trembled with the effort not to go back. But at last, Rayven shook her head, swallowing her own tears.
“It’s over. You can’t have both.” The dark skinned elf turned and melted into the trees, her steps swift and silent.
Neri’Va was left kneeling in the moss and fallen leaves, sobbing into her hands as darkness closed in around her. Her whole body shook. She couldn’t remember ever feeling so utterly lost, so helpless. She did not know how long she sat there, only that when she finally lifted her head, the forest had grown dark and cold. The well, once a place of hope and secret meetings, felt like a monument to her failure.
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The forest was thick with the scent of storm and distant firelight as Rayven’s feet pounded the secret path back to her people. Her mind raced—a tangled storm of anger, heartbreak, and fear for Neri’Va. She replayed their conversation in her mind, every word a blade twisting in her chest.
By the time she reached the hollow, the mood was different. Warriors were sharpening blades, strapping on battered armour, passing whispered messages by firelight. There was a sense of excitement and dread, the air sharp with anticipation.
Rayven found the leaders gathered near a fallen log, huddled over crude maps and scraps of parchment. The old woman—Seris, broad-shouldered with a braid down her back—looked up, her eyes shrewd.
“Rayven. You’re late.”
Rayven didn’t waste words. “Postpone the siege,” she said, voice steely. “Wait one more night. There’s no reason it must be now. The village is alert, the temple full of outsiders. The omens can wait.”
A few heads turned; some warriors frowned, others exchanged nervous glances.
Seris shook her head. “If we wait, we lose our chance. The omens are clear. It must be tonight.”
Rayven pressed on, desperate. “Then lock them in, frighten them, but don’t harm anyone. They don’t need to bleed for our message to be heard.”
Another leader, a young man with a scar down his jaw, scoffed. “Frighten them? We’re not here to play games, Rayven. We need to remind them of our strength.”
Rayven’s patience snapped. “We are not the murderers they claim us to be. We strike fear, not death. Lock them in, frighten them—but don’t spill blood. Leave the novices alone. There’s no need for killing.”
A murmur passed among the leaders—some thoughtful, some dismissive. Seris regarded Rayven for a long moment.
“We’ll try, Rayven. But when the fighting starts, things happen.”
Rayven clenched her fists, fury and helplessness burning in her veins. “Remember who we are. We are not savages. If we become what they fear, there’s no going back.”
“Yeah, yeah,” the scarred man muttered. “We’ll do what we can. But get ready. We move at Denday’s rise.”
Rayven withdrew, her heart heavy. She watched as her people made final preparations—whispered last words to children, bound wounds old and new, checked the sharpness of their blades. The camp buzzed with nervous anticipation; no one spoke above a murmur.
She walked a small hidden trail a bit deeper into the woods, the ancient trees pressing close, their branches whispering in the rising wind. She stopped at an ancient tree, its roots twisted deep into the earth, and knelt down. As she pushed the fallen leaves aside, an old buried sack revealed itself, tied with a faded blue cord. She tugged it free, heart pounding with the weight of memory.
Inside was her old armour, the symbol of Denday proudly showing on the chest plate, damage from battles fought visible on it. Rayven’s fingers trembled as she traced the battered sigil, remembering victories and losses, old comrades lost to time. She shrugged the pieces on, one by one, the cold metal fitting her like a second skin. For a moment, she was not just Rayven—lover, outcast, would-be saviour—but the Paladin of Denday, the protector her people needed.
At the bottom of the sack was the horn—the one she had carried through the darkness, sounded on the night the god Denday was banished from Eonil. She turned it over in her hands, feeling its weight, its history. This horn had called the faithful to battle, to hope, to defiance.
As Quintra slowly disappeared below the horizon, the forest filled with the anxious energy of those who knew what was coming but could not stop it.
Rayven paced the edge of the hollow, breathing in the night, feeling the eyes of her people and the weight of every decision. Her fingers tightened around the horn.
Tonight, lines would be crossed—by faith, by love, by fear. She could only hope some part of her plea would be remembered, and that the night would not end in ruin.
Rayven took a shield with the painted symbol of Denday and carefully adjusted it to her arm. As the Night dweller slowly walked to the fire in the centre of the hollow, her people turned their heads to her. Fear and determination could be seen on their faces. Clearly the sight of Rayven in her full armour, their Paladin, their protector, was a source of inspiration to them all.
She lifted her hand, slowly bringing the horn to her lips. For a moment she hesitated, memories flashing—of battle, of hope, of loss, of Neri’Va. Then, drawing a steady breath, Rayven blew the horn. Its mournful sound echoed through the hollow, carrying across the woods, ancient and full of promise.
Cheer erupted in the hollow as they made their final preparations to leave. Rayven stood, watching the faces of her kin—brothers and sisters in arms, orphans and elders, all bound by history and fear. She wondered if Neri’Va could hear the sound in the far-off temple, if she would know what it meant.
Far away, the bell of the temple tolled, calling Neri’Va to her duty and sealing Rayven’s fate. The world seemed to hold its breath, waiting for the storm to break.