#NO. I WILL CHOOSE LOVE. I WILL CHOOSE FAITH. | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

theonlyqualitytrash · 3 days ago

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Creatura innocentiae - Fyodor x Reader

PART I PART II

Synopsys: In a secluded village ruled by devotion, where sacrifice is a form of love and faith demands blood, you are forced to choose between Scylla and Charybdis.

Warnings: No ability au, cult themes, religion, manipulation, murder, death, graphic violence and depiction of blood, dehumanization, power imbalance in relationships, emotional and physical abuse, self-harm, gaslighting, brainwashing, philosophical musings on love, faith, and autonomy.

These themes will be present throughout all parts of this fic. Please read with caution and take care of your mental well-being. If any of these themes are distressing to you, proceed carefully or consider skipping this fic.

A/N: Welcome to the second part of this little story! I've already written a rough draft of the third part, thanks to winter break, which has given me plenty of time to write until my fingers ache and my mind turns to mush. As a fun fact: before Creatura innocentiae, the title of this fic was Nitimur in vetitum, which translates to "We strive for the forbidden."

Word count: 10,000

The next week crept by like molasses, each day heavier than the last.

Being engaged should have felt like a blessing. You had been told that often enough. But no matter how hard you tried, the feeling eluded you. Abel, on the other hand, wore the engagement like a new skin, radiant with a purpose that seemed to brighten his every step.

Every morning, he waited for you, his patient smile unwavering as he offered to walk you to the clearing where you prayed. He had taken over bandaging your wounds after ceremonies, his hands clumsy but careful, his brow furrowing with the kind of earnestness that made your chest tighten. He also brought you gifts—wildflowers, a wooden carving of a dove, even a piece of honeycomb—they piled up like the tokens of devotion they were meant to be.

He was everything they said a husband should be. Gentle. Devoted. Perfect.

And yet, you almost hated him for it. Or perhaps, you hated yourself.

The dirt path stretched ahead, quiet but for the crunch of your footsteps. The sky above hung heavy and gray, dulling the world into muted shades of itself. Abel walked beside you, his easy gait a sharp contrast to the hollow weight dragging at your steps. His hands swung loosely at his sides, as though they belonged to a man without a care.

You didn’t want to be here—not with him.

“Quite gloomy today, isn’t it?” Abel’s voice broke the quiet, gentle and familiar. He glanced at you, his smile as practiced as the line itself. Then, softer, he added, “Though somehow, you always seem to brighten days like this.”

You nodded, your gaze fixed on the ground. The words you wanted to say coiled tight in your throat, sharp and unspoken.

He was trying. That was the worst part.

Would Abel understand me?

The question gnawed at you, growing louder with every step. It was his voice that answered—not Abel’s, but Fyodor’s. His voice. His damning words clung to you, weaving through your thoughts: a predator circling its prey.

“Abel...” you said softly, the sound of his name almost foreign on your lips.

He perked up immediately, his head turning toward you with that ever-present smile. “Yes?”

Your heart began to race, a faint tremor coursing through your hands as you struggled to voice what had been gnawing at you. “What do you... like about me?”

The question felt absurd as soon as it left your lips, yet it hung in the air between you like a weight. You didn’t dare look at him.

Abel stopped walking.

You hesitated, realizing he had turned to face you, his expression softened by surprise. “What do I like about you?” he repeated, his tone gentle, as though you had asked him to describe something sacred.

“Yes,” you said, barely above a whisper.

His brow furrowed slightly, his smile fading into something quieter, more thoughtful. He shifted his weight, his hands clasping in front of him as he considered your question.

“Well...” He exhaled softly, and when he spoke again, his voice carried the same warmth he always offered. “I like how kind you are. How selfless. You carry so much for all of us, yet you never complain. You give everything, even when it hurts you.”

Your hands clenched into fists at your sides. His words landed like stones in your chest, each one heavier than the last.

“You’re...” He hesitated, a faint blush rising to his cheeks. “You’re radiant. Like the sun breaking through clouds. You remind us of what it means to be good, to have faith.”

His gaze flicked to yours, shy but earnest. “I admire you,” he added softly, his voice almost trembling. “You make the rest of us want to be better.”

A bitter laugh rose in your throat, but you swallowed it down, unable to let it escape.

“Is that it?” you asked instead, your voice trembling with something you couldn’t name.

Abel’s brow knit in confusion. “What do you mean?”

You looked at him then, truly looked at him, and the sight of his gentle confusion only sharpened the ache inside you. “You admire me because I bleed for all of you. Because I make it easy to take.”

His eyes widened, his lips parting in shock. “That’s not—”

“Isn’t it?” you interrupted, your voice rising, sharp and brittle. The words came unbidden, spilling out. “You like me because I don’t fight. Because I smile and give and never ask for anything in return. That’s what you admire, isn’t it? That I make it easy for you to love me?”

The silence that followed was deafening. Abel’s hands trembled at his sides, his expression stricken.

“I...” He faltered, his voice cracking slightly. “I never meant... I just—”

“You don’t know me,” you said, your voice breaking. “You don’t know anything about me beyond what I give. Do you?”

He took a step toward you, his hands reaching out as though to steady the space between you. “That’s not fair,” he said quietly, his tone laced with desperation. “I care about you. I’ve always cared about you.”

You stepped back, shaking your head. “You care about the idea of me. The savior. The lamb. But what if I wasn’t any of that? Would you still—”

“Stop,” he interrupted, his voice firmer now. “I care about you because you’re strong. Because you carry so much and still find a way to be kind.”

His words hung in the air, but they felt hollow. Kindness. Strength. Radiance.

They were the same words you had heard all your life, spoken in reverence and admiration. But they weren’t about you. They were about the role you played, the mask you wore so perfectly.

Your breath hitched as you turned away, staring at the horizon where the clouds pressed low against the earth. “You don’t understand,” you whispered.

Abel didn’t press further. He stood there, silent and unsure, as you began walking again, your steps hurried and uneven. He followed at a distance, the tension between you stretching.

The ache in your chest deepened with every step, the memory of Fyodor’s voice echoing louder than ever: You bleed for them. But will they bleed for you?

For the first time, you began to think you already knew the answer.

---

The late afternoon sun slanted through the gaps in the wooden walls, casting long, wavering stripes of light across the floor. Dust particles swirled lazily in the warmth, their slow drift a reminder of the barn’s stillness. The soft sounds of the space were familiar, grounding.

You had watched Abel and Fyodor disappear inside the barn a little while ago, tasked by the elders to tend to the horses. A routine chore—unremarkable.

They were not made equally, you thought. Abel was very kind, too kind. It was the kind of kindness that made your insides burn, that felt like a performance rather than a truth. The interaction a few days ago had only solidified that suspicion. Abel got complacence, while Fyodor...

Fyodor got ambition. It was an unsettling kind of ambition, sharp-edged and systematic. You didn’t know what he intended to use it for, but the thought lingered, prickling at the edges of your mind like needles.

Not wanting to dwell on the two of them, you turned back to your duties, trying to shake the unease.

Inside, the barn was still and calm, save for the steady rhythm of Fyodor’s hands working, methodical as ever. He brushed down one of the horses, his motions slow, as if the action itself demanded careful precision. His brow remained unfurrowed, his focus unshifting, as though he were a part of the barn itself, fixed and immovable.

Across the barn, Abel’s voice filled the stillness with a casual stream of conversation, his words light and unguarded—too unguarded. He spoke of the harvest festival, of traditions and preparations, his tone tinged with forced enthusiasm.

“I think they’ll love it,” Abel said, glancing over his shoulder at Fyodor. “The festival, I mean. It’s their favorite time of year—dancing under the lights, celebrating our comunity’s hard work. I feel lucky, you know? To be the one by their side for it.”

Fyodor didn’t respond immediately. He didn’t need to. His silence filled the barn like smoke, creeping into all corners until Abel shifted uneasily.

“And what makes you so sure they love it?” Fyodor asked at last, his tone quiet, almost idle, as if the question were an afterthought.

Abel chuckled, though the sound carried a slight tremor. “Because it’s simple, I suppose,” he replied, turning his gaze to the window as though the answer might lie somewhere beyond it. “It makes them happy.”

The rhythm of Fyodor’s brushing didn’t falter, but the air seemed to grow colder, as if his presence had drawn out the warmth. His head tilted slightly, the faintest gesture of consideration, though his gaze remained fixed on the horse.

“Do they seem happy to you?”

Abel stilled. His hands paused in their work, his fingers curling reflexively around the armful of hay he was gathering. He turned his head toward Fyodor, confusion shadowing his features. “What?”

Fyodor straightened, setting the brush aside. He turned, his eyes meeting Abel’s. They were calm, but there was something unrelenting in the sharpness of his gaze. “I asked,” Fyodor said softly, “if they seem happy to you.”

Abel faltered, his brow furrowing. “I mean... they don’t complain,” he said, his voice carrying a faint defensiveness. “They devoted to their role. That’s what happiness is, isn’t it? Accepting your place?”

Fyodor’s lips twitched—not quite a smile, but something faint and unsettling, a ghost of amusement. “Devotion isn’t the same as happiness. Compliance isn’t the same as understanding.”

Abel frowned, his confusion deepening as he turned fully to face Fyodor. “I don’t see the difference,” he said after a long moment, his voice quieter now.

Fyodor took a single step forward, closing the distance between them. “Of course you don’t,” he said, his tone low, almost kind. “You don’t have to.”

Abel blinked, his expression faltering further. The cheerfulness that had cloaked him earlier seemed to dissolve, replaced by a flicker of something more vulnerable—a faint crack in the armor of certainty he had always carried.

“They’re devoted,” Abel said again, though his voice wavered. “They’re strong. They’re... They’re everything we need them to be.”

“Everything you need them to be,” Fyodor corrected, the faintest edge creeping into his voice. He leaned back slightly, his posture relaxed but his presence unyielding. “But tell me, Abel—what do they need?”

The question hung in the air, heavy and suffocating. Abel opened his mouth to respond, but no words came. His hands tightened around the bundle of hay, his gaze dropping to the ground.

Fyodor let the silence stretch, his gaze unwavering as he stepped back toward the horse. “They carry the weight of your love,” he said quietly, his voice almost a murmur. “But love, without understanding, is just another burden, no?”

Abel’s head snapped up at that, his eyes narrowing. “I do understand them,” he said, though the words sounded hollow even to himself.

Fyodor tilted his head slightly, his expression softening—not with kindness, but with something closer to pity. “Do you?”

The question wasn’t sharp. It wasn’t even accusatory. And yet, it cut deeper than anything else Fyodor had said.

Abel turned back to his task, his movements slower, more hesitant now. The steady rhythm of his work had faltered, becoming uneven as though each action required conscious effort. He didn’t speak again. The air between them grew heavier, oppressive in its stillness—you could have heard a pin drop, but not the whisper of Fyodor’s steps as he moved across the barn.

Reaching one of the horses, Fyodor untied its reins with quiet precision, dragging the rope across the floor as though absentmindedly. He let it fall into the straw, its coils half-buried and unassuming, before reaching for the feed bucket to distract the horse with its meal.

His mind drifted again, to that familiar thought.

You construct intricate rituals to appease deities you came up with to avoid being your own judge.

He studied Abel’s back, hunched over as he worked, and the words solidified in his mind.

God can’t hear you beg for forgiveness, and She doesn’t care about the sacrifices you make to prove your repentance. You stand in front of a mirror, begging for someone else to try you for your crimes.

He stared at Abel, who was so eager to please, so content to remain blind to the walls around him. Abel wasn’t chosen for his understanding—no, he was chosen because he would never question the system. Because he wouldn’t ask the hard questions that would tear the gilded cage apart.

“Abel.”

Abel turned toward him, his brow furrowing in confusion, the ever-present warmth in his gaze replaced by something guarded. “Yes?”

“You truly believe you’re enough for them?” Fyodor asked, taking a step forward. His tone wasn’t mocking; it wasn’t even cruel. It was simply curious, a calm inquiry.

Abel blinked, clearly caught off guard. “I... I am enough for them!”

Fyodor tilted his head slightly, his gaze unwavering as though he were studying a puzzle. “Are you?” he murmured, the question barely louder than a breath.

Abel stiffened, his hands clenching at his sides. “Of course I am. I’ve done everything right—followed every rule, every tradition.” His voice grew firmer. “I care for them. I protect them. Isn’t that enough?”

Fyodor’s lips curved into the faintest of smiles. “Enough for you, perhaps. But is it enough for them?”

The barn seemed to close in on them, the air thickening with the weight of unspoken truths. Abel took a step forward, his expression darkening. “They’re happy,” he insisted, though his voice wavered at the edges.

“You don’t see it, do you? The way they looks at you—not with love, but with duty. The same way one might look at a burden they cannot put down.”

Abel’s breath hitched, his face tightening as the words hit their mark. His grip on the hay trembled, as though he were fighting the urge to throw it down. “Shut up,” he said quietly, his tone laced with warning.

Fyodor didn’t flinch, his expression calm, almost pitying. “Do you even know them, Abel? Beyond what they give you? Beyond the mask they wear for all of you?”

“I said shut up!” Abel’s voice cracked, his hands trembling as he took another step forward. The warmth in his gaze was gone now, replaced by something desperate and raw.

Fyodor held his ground, his composure unshaken. “If they took off the mask,” he said, each word deliberate, “would you even recognize them?”

The question hung in the air like a guillotine, and Abel snapped. His fist shot out, catching Fyodor in the chest and driving him back against the stall. The horses stirred, their nervous movements filling the barn with sharp, chaotic sounds.

“You don’t know anything about them!” Abel shouted, his voice reverberating off the wooden walls. “You think you’re so clever, don’t you? But you don’t belong here—you’ll never belong here!”

Fyodor staggered but recovered quickly, brushing the dust from his robe with infuriating calm. He straightened, his violet eyes meeting Abel’s with a steady, unsettling intensity. “Neither do they,” he said quietly.

And when those words came down like a blade on his neck, Abel’s fury boiled over, spilling into every clumsy, uncoordinated movement. His hands found the pitchfork leaning against the stall, gripping it as though it might anchor him against the storm inside. His breath came in ragged, uneven bursts, the sound filling the barn.

The horses, restless from the noise and the charged atmosphere, shuffled in their stalls, their hooves striking against the wooden planks with growing urgency. One whinnied sharply, the sound slicing through the oppressive quiet.

Abel lifted the pitchfork, his knuckles whitening around the handle as if he intended to use it, but the weight of his rage made his movements slow and unsteady. His chest heaved, his eyes wild and unfocused as he turned toward Fyodor, the object of his unraveling anger.

The untied horse jerked sideways, its powerful body slamming into the stall with a hollow, reverberating thud. The motion sent a cascade of hay spilling onto the floor, and Abel flinched at the impact. His grip on the pitchfork wavered, the handle slipping in his sweaty palms.

“Stay back!” Abel shouted at the animal, though the command sounded more like a plea. His voice cracked, raw and uneven, as though it might splinter under the weight of his panic.

The sound of hurried footsteps approached, their rhythm halting just outside the barn’s threshold. Someone had heard the commotion—they paused at the doorway, their shadow stretching across the barn floor, trembling as it mingled with the fractured light. Their eyes darted between Abel’s hunched form and Fyodor’s measured stillness. The air felt too heavy to move through, suffocating in its intensity.

Fyodor’s violet gaze flicked toward the figure, so quick it was almost imperceptible, before snapping back to Abel. He didn’t acknowledge the witness further, his expression settling into something carefully controlled, slightly startled but otherwise unreadable.

“Is that how you’ll prove your worth?” Fyodor asked, his voice calm, but now carrying the faintest thread of something softer—fear, or perhaps pity. He took a half-step back, his hands raised slightly, palms outward, as though placating a dangerous animal. “By threatening me?”

Abel’s grip on the pitchfork tightened, his knuckles trembling. “You don’t understand! You don’t belong here!” he bellowed, his tone cracking under the strain of his rage.

The horses, restless and panicked, stamped and snorted in their stalls. Abel lifted the pitchfork slightly, as if to strike, but the motion only fed the chaos around him. One of the horses reared, its hooves crashing against the stall.

But Fyodor didn’t move. He stood as still as the barn walls themselves, his gaze steady, unyielding. The horses, by contrast, were all motion—rearing, kicking, their wild eyes flashing in the fractured light. The largest of them stomped violently, its movements frantic and unpredictable.

Abel staggered, his foot catching on a length of rope half-buried in the straw. He teetered for a moment, his arms flailing as he fought for balance. The pitchfork clattered to the ground with a dull, jarring sound.

The horse’s agitation grew, its hooves striking out as it reared again. Abel’s flailing carried him backward, the momentum of his stumble drawing him directly into the horse’s path.

For a moment, time seemed to slow. The animal thrashed above him, its front hooves coming down hard, directly onto Abel's head with a sickening crack. Then, silence—the kind that could make a man go insane the way it seeped into your bones, raw and unrelenting. The horse pawed at the straw with uneasy, jittery movements, its breath loud and uneven. Each scuffle of its hooves felt like an echo of the chaos that took place, a ghost of the violence that now lay lifeless on the barn floor.

The oppressive tension lingered, heavy and unshakable, as Fyodor’s gaze shifted to the lifeless form. Abel was now crumpled on the ground, his body folding like a discarded marionette. The pitchfork lay a few feet away, untouched and irrelevant now.

A scream tore through the barn as the witness finally found their voice. It was raw, piercing, and shattered the suffocating silence like glass.

Fyodor flinched, a reaction born of necessity. There was no pleasure, no satisfaction in the moment—only an emptiness, as if he had simply carried out a necessary task. The rope had been placed just so, half-buried in the straw, waiting for the inevitable misstep. The horse, its reins had been untethered just enough for it to start galloping around. Abel’s demise hadn’t been a matter of chance—chance was too chaotic. No, it was only a matter of time before Fyodor took advantage of Abel’s rage.

The scream was a spark, igniting a flurry of footsteps and hurried voices as others rushed toward the barn. The commotion fed on itself, a breeding ground for curious eyes and frantic questions.

Some pushed inside, drawn by the noise, while others hovered at the edges, hesitant and afraid. A few rushed to Fyodor, their voices trembling as they asked if he was hurt. He played the role of the bewildered innocent, his hands clean, his expression clouded with confusion.

“I…” he began, his voice soft, trembling just enough to appear genuine. “I don’t know how it came to this.”

The barn felt smaller with so many bodies crowding its space, their overlapping whispers and gasps weaving into the lingering tension.

Fyodor’s mind remained clear, though something twisted deep in his chest, an unfamiliar discomfort he couldn’t easily shake.

The scene was immaculate. The horse’s agitation blended seamlessly with the chaos he had crafted—a tragic accident, nothing more. Fyodor lingered for a moment, staring at the wreckage he had orchestrated. He felt no satisfaction. No triumph. Only the steady weight of grim resolve.

When the questions grew too insistent, a few of them gently urged him away from the barn, their hands hovering as if to steady him. He let them guide him, his steps measured, his gaze distant, his expression carrying just enough of a dazed quality to appear convincing. Yet, even as he moved, his thoughts were already elsewhere.

They turned to you—the way your voice had trembled when you spoke of your role, the soft, resigned look in your eyes whenever Abel’s name came up. He almost felt pity for Abel. Almost.

Abel was part of the cycle—a lamb to be led to slaughter, a cog in a system that would never change. But you—you were different. You didn’t belong to this hollow cycle of devotion and duty.

And that was why Fyodor wouldn’t let you rot alongside them.

---

The news left you reeling. Abel, dead? The words didn’t seem real. You hadn’t loved him—not the way a fiancé should love their betrothed. But your heart, too soft and too big, carried the weight of his loss as though it were your fault. Guilt tangled with disbelief, twisting in your chest. If only you had loved him more, would he have been more careful? The image of the horse flashed in your mind, its startled movements, its strength. Why hadn’t Abel been more cautious? The questions circled endlessly as you stepped into the church, the air pressing down on you like a silent rebuke.

The apse feels colder without the soft façade your mother usually wears in public. Her practiced kindness is gone, leaving behind the sharp, calculating presence of the High Priestess. You’re not supposed to be here. You hesitate by the doorway, drawn by the tension in the air.

Fyodor stands before her, calm as ever, his posture betraying no unease. He looks at her with an air of quiet reverence, his composure a sharp contrast to the tension that fills the room like a rising tide.

“Abel is dead,” she says, her voice cutting through the silence, deliberate and sharp, like the crack of a whip.

Fyodor inclines his head slightly, his expression shifting into something akin to concern, though it never quite reaches his eyes. “A tragedy,” he murmurs, his tone measured and solemn. “I was there, High Priestess. Tending to the horses with him, as requested. It all happened so quickly.”

“Quickly,” she repeats, her words laden with disbelief. Her gaze hardens, narrowing in a way that feels like she’s trying to pierce through him. “And yet, here you stand. Unscathed. Untouched.”

His lips part as if in a sigh, but his voice remains steady. “I wish it were not so,” he says softly, his hands folding behind his back, the imagine of obedience. “There were others who saw what happened. Abel was not himself. His anger… it was consuming him.”

Her eyes flash, the subtle narrowing of her brows the only betrayal of her rising fury. “And what of your role in this?” she asks, leaning forward slightly, her presence pressing into him like a blade against his skin. “What did you do to quell this supposed rage?”

“I stepped back,” Fyodor says, his voice a quiet confession, tinged with what sounds like regret. “To keep myself safe. The horses were startled. Abel was… consumed by his emotions. I feared escalation, and yet…” He lets the sentence trail off, as though the memory itself pains him.

Her hands tighten on the edge of the table, knuckles whitening as she leans further forward. “Convenient,” she says, the word dripping with venom. “How fortunate for you that his anger left little room for blame to fall elsewhere.”

He tilts his head slightly, meeting her gaze without hesitation, his expression serene. “I did only what I could, High Priestess. The others will confirm as much.”

Her lips press into a thin line, her silence growing sharper, heavier. “Do not mistake my silence for ignorance,” she says at last, her voice dropping to a low, dangerous register. “I know what you’ve done.”

For a moment, the faintest flicker of amusement dances in his eyes. It vanishes as quickly as it came, replaced by a carefully composed neutrality. “And I await proof, High Priestess,” he says, his voice unwavering but carrying an edge now, subtle but unmissable. “The truth, after all, always has a way of revealing itself.”

The room feels suffocating all of a sudden. You realize too late that you’ve stepped too far into the doorway, drawn in despite yourself. Her gaze snaps to you with the precision of a hawk catching its prey. “What are you doing here?”

“I—I didn’t mean to interrupt,” you stammer.

Her expression softens slightly, but only enough to mask her irritation. “You have duties to attend to,” she says, her voice firm. “Go.”

You hesitate, your eyes flicking to Fyodor. He meets your gaze briefly, his violet eyes calm and unbothered, as if none of this concerns him. Something unspoken lingers in his gaze, something you don’t fully understand but can’t look away from.

“I said go,” your mother repeats, and her voice leaves no room for argument. Reluctantly, you turn and leave, the door closing behind you.

Her next words are muffled by the thick wooden door, but you can hear the warning in her tone, the anger simmering just beneath the surface. “And stay away from my child,” she says. There’s a pause, heavy and menacing. “You may have charmed the others, but insolence has its limits.”

Fyodor’s reply is quiet, but there’s an edge of amusement in his tone. “As you wish, High Priestess.”

You stood just beyond the door, your heart pounding as you strain to hear what comes next. There’s a long silence, followed by your mother’s voice. “Be careful, Fyodor. You walk a fine line.”

The door creaks open behind you, and you jump back as Fyodor steps out. He closes it softly, his expression calm but unreadable as his eyes meet yours.

“You shouldn’t eavesdrop,” he says, his voice quiet, carrying a faint trace of humor.

You flush, clasping your hands in front of you, “I wasn’t—” The words stumble out, unconvincing even to yourself. “I mean... I didn’t mean to.”

He tilts his head slightly, his gaze sharpening, though his faint smile lingers. “No?” he murmurs, the word soft, almost indulgent. “Then why are you still standing here?”

“I...” Your voice falters, the weight of his presence bearing down on you. The shame burns in your chest, but it’s tangled with something else—an aching need to know. “I was worried,” you admit quietly. “About what she was saying. About you.”

His expression shifts subtly, something unspoken flickering behind his composed façade. “And why would you worry about me?”

The question throws you off balance, and for a moment, you can’t find the words. “She... she doesn’t usually speak like that about anyone,” you manage. “And—” You hesitate, then push forward, the words tumbling out before you can stop them. “Did you have anything to do with Abel’s death?”

For a moment, there’s silence. Not the calm, expectant silence he so often wields, but something heavier. His violet eyes remain locked on yours, unblinking, as though he’s weighing every possible answer against the consequences it might bring.

“Do you think I did?” he asks finally, his voice low and steady, yet there’s an edge to it—a challenge hidden beneath the softness.

Your chest tightens under the weight of his question. “I don’t know,” you admit, the words trembling on your lips. “You always seem to know things—things no one else does. And she sounded so certain, like she has proof.”

“Proof,” he repeats, almost absently, as if the word itself is a curious puzzle. He looks away, his gaze lingering on the shadows flickering along the church walls. When he speaks again, his tone is quieter, more thoughtful. “Certainty and proof are not the same. Certainty is... convenient. It can mask fear. Or doubt.”

You search his face, desperate to read the truth in his expression, but his features remain infuriatingly calm. “So it wasn’t you?”

This time, his hesitation is so slight you almost miss it. But it’s there—an imperceptible pause, a flicker of something in his eyes. “I had nothing to do with Abel’s death,” he says, his voice quiet but firm. “He was... a kind man. His loss is a tragedy.”

His words soothe something in you, yet they also stir a nagging unease. You want to believe him. You need to. But the shadow of doubt refuses to leave you entirely.

“I shouldn’t have asked,” you whisper, your hands twisting the fabric of your robe. “It’s not my place.”

“Questions are not a crime,” he says, his tone softening. “But sometimes, they lead us to answers we aren’t ready for.”

He steps closer, and you can feel the weight of his presence, the quiet intensity that seems to draw everything toward him. “Your mother is a formidable woman,” he continues, his voice barely above a whisper. “She cares for you deeply. But her care can be... suffocating.”

You look up at him, startled by the edge of empathy in his tone. “She’s trying to protect me,” you say, though the words feel hollow.

His faint smile returns, tinged with something almost bitter. “She sees danger everywhere,” he says. “Even where there is none. Her warnings... they’re for your sake, not mine.”

“What danger?” you press, your voice trembling. “Why would she think you’re a threat?”

He pauses, his gaze slipping past you as if searching for an answer in the dim light of the church. When he looks back, there’s a shadow in his expression—an emotion you can’t name. “Perhaps because I don’t fit neatly into her world,” he says finally. “People fear what they can’t control.”

The words settle heavily between you, and you can’t help but wonder if they apply to more than just your mother. “But you’re not a danger,” you say, the statement more a question than you intended.

His smile deepens, though it’s far from reassuring. “Would it matter if I were?”

The question takes your breath away, and for a moment, you can’t respond. He steps back, the moment slipping away as quickly as it arrived.

“I should go,” he says softly. “Your mother would not be happy if she saw us talking.” He steps past you, his presence lingering even as he walks away. You turn to watch him go, your mind can't seem to let go of the subject.

“Wait,” you say, your voice unsteady. “What does she fear? Is it really you?”

He hesitates at the door, his hand resting on the worn wood. “She fears many things,” he says, his tone almost gentle. “But most of all, she fears losing you.”

He glances back at you one last time, his gaze lingering in a way that leaves you frozen in place. “Be careful,” he says, his tone softer now. “Sometimes, it’s better to leave things alone. For your own sake.”

With that, he’s gone, leaving you alone in the quiet of the church.

---

The preparations for the interment felt like a hollow ritual, a series of motions drained of meaning. You were no stranger to death—it was a quiet constant in your duties. Tending to elders who had lived full lives or stillborn children who never had the chance to begin felt like an extension of God’s will, a cycle you could accept.

But Abel? Abel’s life was brimming with potential, his laughter still echoing faintly in your mind. To see him reduced to this—motionless, silent, stripped of the warmth that had once defined him—felt profoundly wrong, almost cruel. Yet beneath the grief and guilt, another emotion lingered faintly—a weight you could not name lifting from your chest, leaving behind an ache you didn’t dare yet examine.

The river is calm tonight, its surface reflecting the firelight as if the water itself mourns. Abel’s body lies on a small wooden boat, his head covered by a white veil, his hands crossed over his chest. Flowers are tucked around him—delicate wildflowers from the fields, their petals already wilting under the heat of the torchlight. Gifts surround his body: a carving knife, a jar of honey, and a lock of your hair tied with a red ribbon.

You stand at the edge of the gathered mourners. The High Priestess holds the ceremonial torch, her expression somber as she recites the prayer of passage.

“May this fire guide you Abel,” she says, her voice steady, resonant. “May the waters carry you to the eternal embrace of the divine.”

She hands you the torch, her fingers brushing against yours. You step forward, your legs trembling as you kneel at the riverbank. The crowd watches in reverent silence as you lower the torch, lighting the pyre. The flames catch quickly, crackling and consuming the dried wood and herbs. The fire comes to life, its reflection dancing on the water’s surface.

Then the boat drifts slowly into the river, carried by the gentle current. You can feel the weight of their gazes on you as the flames climb higher, engulfing everything. The chanting grows louder, filling the night with its haunting melody. You bow your head, but your thoughts are elsewhere.

Somewhere in the crowd, Fyodor stands apart. His face is unreadable in the flickering light, but you can feel his gaze on you. It’s like a promise, something you can’t sever no matter how hard you try. When you lift your head, your eyes meet his across the riverbank. He doesn’t look away, but you don't either.

The embers of the funeral boat glow faintly on the surface of the dark water, their light flickering like dying stars. You linger by the riverbank, unable to leave, even as the others return to the village. The weight of Abel’s death presses on you like a shroud. You tell yourself it’s the grief of the community—of your mother—but a deeper, more private part of you knows the truth.

You feel relieved.

The realization sits heavy in your chest, twisting into a knot of guilt. He’s gone. Abel is gone, and you will never have to kneel at his side, never have to smile through vows that made you feel small, never have to endure his kind, earnest gaze, so full of devotion it almost made you cry.

And yet, the relief doesn’t quiet the sadness. Abel hadn’t deserved this. He’d been kind, gentle, and undeserving of the violence that stole his life. You shiver, clutching your arms as though to hold yourself together.

The sound of footsteps pulls you from your thoughts, soft against the earth but unmistakable. You don’t need to turn to know it’s him. Fyodor’s presence is unmistakable.

“I thought I might find you here,” he says softly. His voice carries no judgment, only a quiet understanding that feels too sharp against the tumult of your thoughts.

You don’t respond. You keep your gaze fixed on the water, the last embers of the funeral pyre drifting away on the gentle current.

For a moment, he says nothing more. He steps closer, his movements unhurried, as though he knows you won’t send him away. He stands beside you, his presence warm despite the chill in the air. “You shouldn’t linger,” he says eventually, his tone as soft as the breeze. “The night is cold.”

“I know,” you whisper, though you make no move to leave.

Silence settles between you, broken only by the faint ripple of the water. Fyodor doesn’t press you for words, doesn’t fill the quiet with questions or platitudes. He simply waits, as if he knows you need space to untangle the knot inside you.

“It’s wrong,” you murmur finally, your voice trembling. “To feel this way.”

His gaze shifts to you, steady and patient. “What way?” he asks gently.

You shake your head, unable to meet his eyes. “I shouldn’t feel relieved. I shouldn’t feel...” You falter, the words catching in your throat. “Happy.”

“Happy?” he repeats, his tone light, as though coaxing the truth from you without force.

You swallow hard, your chest tightening with shame. “That I’m not marrying him anymore,” you admit quietly. “That I don’t have to...” Your voice trails off, and you squeeze your arms tighter around yourself. “He didn’t deserve this. And I feel guilty for being glad.”

The words hang in the air, fragile and raw. For a long moment, Fyodor says nothing, and you fear his silence more than anything he could say. But when he finally speaks, his voice is quiet, almost tender.

“Grief and relief can exist together,” he says. “Feeling one doesn’t erase the other.”

You glance at him, startled by the gentleness in his tone. His expression is calm, but there’s something in his eyes that you can’t quite name—a depth, a quiet understanding that makes your chest ache.

“It doesn’t make you cruel,” he continues. “Or unkind. It makes you human.”

You lower your gaze, tears stinging your eyes. You want to argue, to tell him he’s wrong, but the words won’t come. Instead, you find yourself leaning into his presence, drawn to the strange, steady calm he exudes.

“I didn’t want this,” you say softly. “I didn’t want him to die.”

The silence stretches for a moment, soft and heavy, before you find yourself asking the question you’ve been holding back since the funeral.

“How was he?” you whisper, your voice trembling as you force the words out. “When you saw him last... what was he like?” You search Fyodor’s expression, desperate for something to soothe the ache that’s been gnawing at your chest.

Fyodor doesn’t flinch. His answer comes after a brief pause, as though he’s carefully turning over the words in his mind. When he speaks, his voice is calm, steady, yet imbued with a softness that feels almost kind. “He was troubled,” he says, his tone measured, “but he was trying to find peace in his own way.”

Your chest tightens, a bittersweet mix of guilt and relief clawing its way to the surface. “Troubled?” you echo, your voice cracking. “I... I wish I had known. I should have seen it.”

“You couldn’t have known,” Fyodor says, the words quiet but firm. His gaze holds yours, steady and unyielding. “Sometimes, people carry burdens they cannot share. His anger wasn’t about you—it was about the expectations placed on him. Expectations he could no longer bear.”

The weight of his words settles over you, heavy but grounding. Your throat tightens, and the tears you’ve been holding back spill over, unchecked. “I just… I wanted him to be happy,” you whisper. “He deserved that much.”

Fyodor watches you for a moment, before he speaks again. “Happiness isn’t always something we can give to others,” he says softly. “But he knew you cared. In the end, that mattered to him.”

You let out a shaky breath, clutching at the fragile comfort his words offer. “Thank you,” you murmur, your voice hoarse with emotion. “For being there. For trying to help him.”

Fyodor inclines his head slightly, his expression gentle but inscrutable. “It was the least I could do,” he says, his voice carrying a quiet gravity.

His words linger between you, heavy with unspoken meaning. Somewhere beneath the surface, you feel a current of something darker, something you can’t quite name. But you push the thought aside, holding onto the solace he’s given you instead.

And that night, you finally let yourself cry—small, quiet tears that fall into the stillness. Fyodor doesn’t move closer, doesn’t try to touch you. But his presence remains, solid and grounding, as though he knows exactly what you need.

And as the last embers on the water fade to black, so too does the knot in your chest. It doesn’t disappear completely, but for now, it feels lighter.

---

As swiftly as Abel’s passing came, so did the murmurs of his replacement. The inevitability of it clawed at your chest. Who would they choose? The question lingered, heavy and suffocating. You didn’t love anyone in that way—you weren’t sure you even knew how. But it didn’t matter. It never had. Love was a luxury reserved for others, not for you. Your duty to serve and protect stood above such things, an immovable force that demanded everything, leaving nothing for yourself.

The sacred chamber bared the weight expectation. The candles lining the room burned low, their wax pooling like spilled offerings onto the scarred surface of the circular table at the room’s center. Icons glowed faintly in the flickering light, their intricate patterns seeming to pulse as though alive.

You sat at your mother’s right hand, your presence as ceremonial as the candles. They had positioned you carefully—not as a participant, but as a reminder. A living symbol of the decision they had gathered to make.

The council of elders surrounded the table, their robes pooling around them. Their faces were worn and lined with years of devotion, their gazes sharp with the weight of tradition. Their voices, low and murmured, weaved a thread of tension through the room, a quiet hum that settled in your chest.

At the head of the table, your mother sat straight-backed and composed. Her silver hair caught the light like threads of spun steel, and her white robes were pristine as ever. Though she hadn’t yet spoken, her presence was enough to keep the room in balance, every elder’s words carefully measured, every movement deliberate.

You remained silent, your hands folded neatly in your lap, your gaze fixed on the candlelight as though it might offer you some form of escape.

The conversation began predictably, each elder taking their turn to speak with the slow gravity of a ritual.

“We must consider their future,” one said, his voice rumbling like distant thunder. “The vessel cannot remain unbound.”

Another nodded, her fingers steepled before her. “It is not just tradition—it is their purpose. Without a partner, their role is incomplete. Unity is required, both for them and for the community.”

Their words surrounded you like a net, each thread tightening with every passing moment. They spoke of you, about you, but never to you. You were not a person here. You were an offering.

The discussion turned to Abel’s death.

“It was a tragedy,” one elder murmured, shaking his head. “He was a promising match. His devotion was unwavering.”

“But it leaves us with an opportunity,” another interjected. “We can find a match that will strengthen their position further—someone who embodies not just faith, but leadership.”

The High Priestess remained silent, her sharp gaze sweeping over the elders. Though her expression was serene, you could see the faint tension in her jaw, the slight tightening of her fingers around the edge of the table.

And then, a new name entered the conversation.

“What of Fyodor?”

The murmurs grew louder, the elders turning toward the speaker with surprise and curiosity.

“He is young, yes,” the elder continued. “In his short time here, he has proven himself. Devout, polite, eager to serve. He carries himself with dignity.”

Murmurs of agreement rippled through the chamber.

“He performs every task with care,” another said. “Always thoughtful, always measured.”

“And the people respect him,” someone added. “The children adore him, and the elders speak of his humility. He has shown the kind of character we need.”

Your mother’s frown was almost imperceptible, but you saw it. Her fingers tightened on the table’s edge, her composure flickering like a candle in a gust of wind.

“He is still an outsider,” she said, her voice cutting through the murmurs. “A man we barely know. Devotion takes time to prove.”

“But his actions speak for him,” one elder countered gently. “Even you must admit he has adjusted seamlessly to our ways.”

“It is his seamless adjustment that concerns me,” your mother replied, her tone sharp. “No one adapts so quickly without intent. Devotion should be earned, not performed.”

Her words hung heavy in the air, silencing the murmurs for a moment.

You sat frozen, your gaze dropping to your lap as their words swirled around you. They spoke of Fyodor with admiration, of Abel with reverence, of you as though you were an extension of the altar itself—a sacred object to be placed, given, assigned.

You felt your throat tighten as one elder leaned forward, their voice soft but deliberate. “Mother Maria, with all respect, we cannot deny the strength of his character. He has brought stability, even in the face of tragedy. Perhaps he is exactly what they needs—a man who can uphold appearances while serving the divine.”

Your mother’s gaze darkened, her frown deepening. “Appearances are not enough,” she said sharply. “The vessel must be bound to someone who embodies faith and tradition. Fyodor is neither. He is an outsider, a stranger who has only begun to understand our ways.”

Another elder shifted in their seat. “And who, then, would you propose?” they asked carefully. “Abel’s passing has left us with few options. The sacred vessel cannot remain unbound.”

The room grew heavy with silence, the air thick with unspoken tension.

Finally, your mother spoke again, her voice steady but cold. “There are others. Men whose families have served this community for generations. Men whose loyalty is proven, not assumed.”

Her gaze swept across the room, her authority pressing down like a weight. “We will not make this decision lightly. And we will not make it tonight.”

Her words were final, the tone leaving no room for argument. The murmurs faded into uneasy quiet as the elders began to rise, their robes rustling softly as they filed out of the chamber.

You remained seated, your hands clenched tightly in your lap. The flickering candlelight cast wavering shadows on the walls, but the weight in your chest remained still, solid.

When the chamber was nearly empty, your mother turned to you, her expression hard but laced with something else—something close to fear.

“I will not allow this,” she said, her voice low. “You may think him charming, but I see what the others cannot. There is something... unnatural about him.”

Her hand rested on your cheek, soft almost possessive. “You will be promised,” she continued. “But not to him. Never to him.”

She rose, her robes sweeping the floor as she left the chamber. The sound of her footsteps faded, leaving you alone in the suffocating quiet.

You stared at the candlelight, its faint glow reflecting in your eyes. You wondered if she was right to be afraid.

---

Days passed, but the elders’ conversation lingered—a quiet echo in the moments you least expected. Would Fyodor be a good match? The question felt like a cruel jest. It didn’t matter, not really—not when your mother had made her feelings about him painfully clear. Her disdain, her insistence that his presence near you was sacrilege, kept him at an arm’s length even now.

And yet, for all her hatred, Fyodor stood apart from anyone else. Abel was predictable, the others distant, and even you could only see yourself in fragments. But Fyodor? Fyodor saw you whole.

And what he saw terrified you.

It wasn’t just that he seemed to know you better than anyone else. Sometimes, it felt like he knew you better than you knew yourself.

But more frightening than that—the thing you couldn’t admit, not even in the quiet of your mind—was how you reached for him in return. Like forbidden fruit, dangerous and tempting, he pulled you in with a force you couldn’t resist.

The embers of the ceremonial pyre glow faintly against the night sky, casting restless shadows over the clearing. The others have gone, their murmured prayers and reverent footsteps swallowed by the forest. You should have left with them. You should be anywhere but here, but the ceremony lingers in you like a weight you can’t shake off. The sacred blood on your arms feels heavier than it should, its warmth long gone.

You stare into the dying fire, hoping its last flickers will burn away the unease twisting inside you. But it doesn’t. It never does.

“Still here?” Fyodor’s voice drifts toward you, as though he’s been waiting for the moment you’d be alone.

His voice slips through the stillness, soft and smooth. You don’t turn. You don’t need to. Fyodor’s presence isn’t loud—it doesn’t crash or demand attention. It seeps into the space like smoke, slow and inevitable.

“You seem to always find me,” you say, your voice quieter than you intended.

“I wasn’t looking,” he replies, his tone smooth and unhurried. “It’s just that you’re always where I expect you to be.”

You glance over your shoulder and find him leaning against one of the great trees that ring the clearing. The white of his robe catches the firelight, making him look ghostly against the shadows. His posture is as it always is—calm, controlled—but his eyes hold something sharper, something that makes your pulse quicken.

“I needed a moment,” you murmur, turning your gaze back to the fire.

“To think?” he asks, stepping closer.

“To breathe.”

“That is because you give so much,” he says softly, and his words cut through you with an unsettling precision. “But what does it give you in return?”

You flinch, the truth of his question striking a nerve you didn’t know was exposed. “It’s not about what I get,” you reply, though your voice trembles. “I told you before...It’s my purpose.”

“And who gave you that purpose?” he presses, his steps slow as he closes the space between you. “Did you choose it? Or was it chosen for you?”

His words dig into you like thorns, and you pull your arms closer to your chest, as though shielding yourself from the weight of his gaze. “It doesn’t matter,” you say sharply. “It’s what I’m meant to do.”

“But does it feel that way?” he murmurs, his tone softening in a way that feels more dangerous than his earlier sharpness.

You look away, your breath hitching as his presence presses against you—not physically, but in a way that feels just as real. You want to step back, to break the pull he seems to have on you, but instead, you find yourself leaning toward him.

“The divinity that was pushed onto you,” he murmurs, his voice dipping lower, almost reverent. “It will stain your fingers and mouth like a pomegranate. It will swallow you whole and spit you out, wine-dark and wanting. And still, you’ll reach for it, again and again.”

You take a shaky breath, your chest tightening. “Why are you saying this?”

“Because you deserve to ask the question,” he says simply. “Because no one else will let you.”

You want to argue, to push him away with words that make sense, but all you can feel is the ache in your chest, the way his presence seems to burrow under your skin. His words are too sharp, too close to truths you’ve tried to ignore, and yet you can’t bring yourself to step back.

You glance at him, searching for something in his expression—mockery, cruelty, anything that might give you an excuse to dismiss him. But his gaze is steady, unflinching, as though he’s been waiting for this moment. It unsettles you, the way he looks at you. Not with reverence, not with the awe you’re used to, but with something deeper. Something you can’t name.

“I should go,” you say finally, though the words feel hollow, turning away from him and started walking.

“Should you?” he says, his soft but relentless, stopping you in your tracks, “You are trying to flee from the truth.”

The weight of his words pulls at something deep inside you, something you’ve tried to bury beneath years of ritual and obedience. Your chest tightens, your heart pounding against your ribs as you search for an answer, but none comes.

“You let it take everything,” he continues, stepping even closer, “and you ask for nothing in return. Not even its mercy.”

“Stop,” you whisper, though there’s no force behind the word.

“Why?” His gaze burns into you, the intensity of it making your skin prickle. “Because you’re afraid of the answer? Or because you already know it?”

The air feels too thick, too heavy, but you can’t seem to move. You lower your gaze, the words tangling in your throat as your chest tightens. “I don’t... I don’t want to—”

“To think about it?” he finishes your sentence for you, his voice softer now. “I know.”

His words hold no malice, no triumph. Instead, there’s something almost tender in the way he says it, as though he sees the storm inside you and knows exactly how to navigate it. It’s too much, and yet you don’t push him away. You tilt your head, giving him the space to press closer. Letting his words sink into your soft skin.

Fyodor stands close now, his presence steady but overwhelming, like a shadow that refuses to vanish. His words linger in the air between you, carving truths you don’t want to face.

“So, this is where you are.”

You stiffen, the sound like a blade slicing through the fragile stillness. Your mother, the High Priestess, steps into the clearing, her purposeful gait as deliberate as the firelight still flickering behind her. Her face is carved from stone, her fury tightly leashed.

“Mother,” you say softly, turning to face her.

Her gaze doesn’t land on you. Instead, it pierces Fyodor, her eyes narrowing with a quiet, terrifying intensity. “Fyodor,” she says, her tone dangerously calm. “You have a habit of overstepping your place.”

He inclines his head, his posture unshaken. “High Priestess,” he greets her, his voice a smooth undercurrent. “I deeply apologize, I wasn’t aware I had stepped beyond the boundaries.”

She steps closer, her movements slow and deliberate, the weight of her authority filling the clearing. “You are speaking to my child,” she says sharply, motioning toward you with a flick of her hand. “That, in itself, is overstepping.”

Your mother’s gaze flicks to you then, her expression unreadable but heavy with disappointment. “And you,” she says, her voice quieter now but no less cutting. “Lingering here with him when I warned against it. Have I not taught you better than this?”

You open your mouth to respond, to explain, but the words die in your throat. “I—”

“Silence,” she snaps, the single word ringing out like a whip. “You shame me.”

Her hand moves suddenly, and you flinch, expecting a blow, but instead, her fingers close around your wrist. Her grip is ironclad as she drags you forward, pulling you closer to where Fyodor stands. He watches silently, his expression unreadable, though his eyes follow every movement with unsettling calm.

“This ends now,” she says, her voice a low growl. “If you cannot respect the boundaries I’ve set, I will remind you of them.”

Her other hand rises, striking you across the cheek before you have time to process her words. The force of it makes your head snap to the side, your skin stinging as tears spring to your eyes. You bite your lip, refusing to cry out.

Fyodor shifts, a flicker of something—anger, perhaps—crossing his face, but your mother’s gaze cuts to him before he can speak. “Do you think you’re exempt from consequence?” she says, her tone sharper now, laced with menace.

“I wouldn’t dare,” he replies, his voice smooth but edged with defiance.

Her eyes narrow, and she steps closer to him. Though she is smaller in stature, her presence feels overwhelming, like the weight of the heavens pressing down. “Kneel,” she commands, her voice heavy with authority.

For a moment, you think he won’t obey. The air in the clearing is thick with tension, the space between them crackling like a live wire. But then, slowly, deliberately, he lowers himself to his knees, his posture still calm, still composed, as though he’s granting her a favor rather than submitting to her will.

Your mother circles him like a predator, her steps slow and deliberate. “You think you’re clever,” she says, her voice venomous. “You think I don’t see what you’re doing, creeping into my flock, whispering your poison.”

He doesn’t respond, his gaze fixed ahead, but you can feel the weight of his composure, the way it unsettles her.

She stops in front of him, her hands folding neatly in front of her. “I warned you to stay away from them,” she says. “You chose not to listen.”

She raises her hand, striking him across the face with the same force she used on you. The sound is sharp in the quiet night, echoing through the clearing. He doesn’t flinch, doesn’t even blink, as though the blow hadn’t even registered.

“Your defiance will end,” she says, her voice cold. “Do not mistake my mercy for weakness.”

Fyodor tilts his head slightly, and though he doesn’t smile, there’s something in his eyes that feels like a challenge. “Of course, High Priestess,” he says softly. “I am yours to punish as you see fit.”

His words are obedient, but the tone beneath them feels like something else entirely—something darker, something that tightens the knot in your chest.

Your mother turns to you then, her expression cold. “Look at him,” she commands. “This is what happens to those who forget their place.”

You lift your gaze reluctantly, your eyes meeting Fyodor’s. There’s no trace of the humiliation your mother intended to inflict, instead, his gaze holds yours steadily, the weight of it grounding you in a way you don’t understand.

“Do you understand?” your mother demands, her voice breaking the moment.

“Yes, mother,” you say softly, though your chest feels hollow as you speak.

She straightens, her authority radiating outward as she looks between the two of you. “This is the last time I will address this,” she says. “Please do not make me do something I will regret.”

With that, she turns and strides out of the clearing, her long robes sweeping the ground behind her. The silence she leaves behind is deafening.

You stand frozen, your cheek still stinging from her blow, your chest tight with shame and something else you can’t name. Fyodor rises slowly, brushing the dirt from his knees.

“You didn’t have to kneel,” you whisper, your voice trembling.

He glances at you, his violet eyes sharp in the faint light. “Didn’t I?”

His words twist in your chest, but you don’t have the strength to respond. Instead, you look away, the weight of his gaze almost too much to bear.

“She sees you as her lamb,” he murmurs, his voice quiet but firm. “But even lambs grow restless.”

You shiver, his words digging deeper than you want them to. Before you can reply, he steps closer, his presence steady but overwhelming.

“Go,” he says softly, his tone gentler now. “She’ll be watching.”

For a moment, you hesitate, your body refusing to move. But then you nod and turn, your steps unsteady as you leave the clearing. Behind you, the air feels heavy, as though it will never truly clear.

That night, you were restless. Sleep didn’t come easily, your mind replaying the scene in the clearing over and over again—the sting of her hand, the weight of her gaze, and the calm defiance in Fyodor’s eyes. You felt raw, stripped bare in a way that made your skin prickle even in the stillness of your room.

You avoided your father as much as you could. His presence, always so quiet, so small in the shadow of your mother’s, felt unbearable now. When he glanced at you during supper, his eyes gentle and searching, you looked away, unable to meet his gaze.

He didn’t ask what happened. He never asked. But you knew he could see it in the way you held yourself, in the silence that stretched between you like an unspoken confession.

And still, he didn’t press. He never did.

The house was silent, but your thoughts were loud, the echoes of your mother’s fury and Fyodor’s calm threading through your mind until they tangled together, like wire impossible to separate.

Even as exhaustion weighed on you, you lay awake, staring at the ceiling, feeling the sting of everything you couldn’t say.

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