“You should pack something warm,” Rysa said, her voice bright with enthusiasm—a stark contrast to Dalia’s somber mood. The noise of her rummaging through stacks of trunks and boxes filled the small room, and her slight frame nearly vanished behind the mountain of clothes and linens she unearthed from the nooks of their shared space.

“Something warm?” Dalia replied calmly, her gaze fixed on the gleam of polished metal in her hands.

“Yes, I heard winters there are unforgiving,” Rysa said, emerging from a large chest with a worn scarf in hand. “This isn’t exactly elegant, is it?”

Dalia glanced up at the scarf.

“It’ll have to do,” she said with a faint smile. “I don’t have the luxury of being picky.”

Rysa let out a theatrical sigh and tossed the scarf onto the growing pile of belongings on the bed.

“Do you have any dresses?” she asked, her voice laced with hope as she moved to rummage through another chest. “You should look the part when you travel—you’re supposed to be a lady!”

“Do you have any dresses?” Dalia shot back, raising an eyebrow. Rysa’s frantic search had already transformed their modest room into chaos, fabric scraps, old books, and trinkets strewn about like relics of a storm.

“No, but I’ll probably stay here forever,” Rysa sighed dramatically, sweeping her arm in a wide arc toward the window overlooking the convent garden. “But you—you’re escaping this place. You’ll feast on wonderful food, meet new people!”

“I’d rather stay,” Dalia said, polishing the last spoon and trying to ignore the whirlwind that Rysa had stirred up. Her thoughts were already far away, lost in the journey she could not avoid. Inside, a mix of anxiety and sadness brewed.

Rysa paused, casting her a look filled with quiet concern.

“But you know what?” Dalia finally said, turning to her with a soft smile. “Once I arrive, I’ll buy you the finest gloves—just like the ones we saw at the market yesterday.”

Rysa’s lower lip trembled.

“I’ll miss you,” she said, rushing forward to hug Dalia and press a kiss to the back of her head.

Dalia chuckled warmly, brushing a few stray curls from Rysa’s hair. As a novice, her hair was still long and tightly braided, though unruly curls always managed to escape their ribbon prison, no matter how meticulously Dalia had woven them earlier.

“You’ll need to cut it soon,” Dalia murmured, almost absently. Her hair reminded Dalia so much of Mariella’s.

“It gets in the way,” Rysa sighed, leaning her head back. “I used to think that when I took my vows, I’d cut it and sell it, and we’d spend the coins at the market. They should let us out more often.”

Her long hair tickled Dalia’s nose.

“Sister Laura keeps you inside because she knows if I’m not here, no one would come looking for you,” Dalia laughed, giving her a playful pat on the shoulder. “Can you take this to the kitchen?” she added, handing over a neatly packed box of cutlery.

Rysa rolled her eyes, irritated by the dismissal.

“Yes...” she sighed, resigned, taking the box. Tears shimmered in her eyes, though a small smile lingered at the corners of her mouth. She was trying to be brave, but the thought of parting with Dalia hurt. “I’ll pray for your safe journey, I swear,” she said with determination as she stepped out the door.

As the door closed behind her with a soft thud, Dalia let herself sink back into her thoughts. To Rysa, this journey was an adventure—a way out of the convent she longed to escape. Dalia felt guilty that she herself had no such yearning. The convent was home, the only one she had ever known.

Sunlight poured through the window, warming her face. The air was filled with the scent of blooming flowers and the distant song of birds. It was time to prepare. She carefully navigated the disorder Rysa had left, avoiding scattered clothes and books. In a hurry, she pulled on her light cloak and stepped out, heading for the garden at the heart of the convent.

She pushed open the rusty gate, which creaked in protest. A group of young girls she’d never seen before scattered with a chorus of giggles, dropping armfuls of violets from their small baskets. Their white dresses fluttered like butterfly wings in the breeze.

“Hey!” she called after them, but they vanished among the trees as if swallowed by the earth. She closed the gate carefully, trying not to make more noise. Turning back, she saw no sign of the girls. With a sigh, she knelt on the soft grass to gather the fallen flowers.

“Laura?” she called, leaning forward. “Sister?” Silence answered.

Dalia’s eyes swept the garden until she found Laura standing by the fountain, as still as a statue, lost in thought.

“Laura,” Dalia said gently, resting a hand on her shoulder. The fabric of the habit was cool and rough under her fingers. Laura flinched slightly, as if drawn out of a dream. She turned, her eyes heavy with a sadness that Dalia could not name.

“Who were those girls?” Dalia asked with concern.

Laura looked skyward, as if pondering. A faint smile touched her lips.

“Who knows?” she said, her voice teasingly mysterious. “Maybe future novices from the city, or perhaps mischievous spirits who don’t want you to leave us.”

With a slow, deliberate motion, she pulled an embroidered handkerchief from her pocket and dabbed at her nose. The movement was graceful, but Dalia noticed her sister’s hands were trembling. Was she crying? It was hard to tell, for when the handkerchief disappeared back into her pocket, Laura’s expression was calm again, touched by a wan smile.

“Are those for the princess?” she asked, nodding at the flowers in Dalia’s hands.

“It seems so,” Dalia replied, standing up. “You know how much she loves them.”

“Yes, her mother adored them too...” Laura sighed, her gaze drifting. “I think I might be allergic,” she said, forcing a smile as she sniffed.

Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

Dalia looked at her, studying the silent pain that seemed to grow in her each day. She smiled faintly.

“Can’t you wait to replace me until after I’m gone?” she joked, hoping to lighten the mood.

“Replace you?” Laura echoed, her eyes locked on the fountain, where sunlight danced on the rippling water. “Rozalia will have to take over your duties,” she said pragmatically. “And as for the rest, I can manage. I always have.”

“I know. You practically built this convent with your own hands,” Dalia teased, trying to make her smile.

“I’m not that old,” Laura said, rolling her eyes as she walked ahead, each step deliberate on the gravel path, her habit rustling softly. “Have you heard what the villagers are saying?”

“I have,” Dalia said, a hint of surprise in her voice. She hadn’t expected Laura to care about gossip.

“People really believe in this prophet. They say miracles herald the end of days,” Laura said, her sigh deep and weary. “Do you know what old Ryban told me?” She paused by the well, resting a hand on its edge. “One of his disciples visited them and brought his mother’s mind back in her old age.”

Dalia moved closer to observe Laura, who cranked the handle of the well in a disjointed way, unlike her usual composed manner. Dalia stepped in to take over, and Laura, to her surprise, did not protest. She waited for Laura to continue, but the silence returned. The crank clattered as Dalia drew up the bucket, and the gathered violets rested on the well’s stone edge.

“I spoke with her,” Laura said after a moment. “She knew who I was.”

Laura looked so troubled that Dalia hesitated, unsure of what to say. Beads of sweat mingled with the cool water droplets on her hands as she lifted the bucket.

“Sometimes these things happen. Maybe she finally found a good healer?” Dalia offered quietly, handing the bucket to Laura. But Laura’s attention had already drifted.

“I should go back,” Dalia added uncertainly.

“Of course,” Laura murmured, not turning around, dabbing at her nose once more with the handkerchief.

As Dalia walked away, she glanced back at Laura’s still figure framed by the setting sun. She looked like a lone statue among the blooming flowers, wrapped in an aura of unspoken sorrow.

At precisely ten, Dalia arrived at the princess’s door, a vase of violets already in hand. But from inside, there was no familiar rustle of fabric, no soft humming that typically marked Mariella’s mornings.

“Mariella?” Dalia slipped quietly into the room, setting the vase on the dark wooden vanity. The air inside was stifling, as if the windows hadn’t been opened for days. The room held a cluttered stillness that whispered of neglect.

Dalia drew back the heavy drapes, letting sunlight flood in, illuminating the disarray. She imagined that if Rysa had such a spacious room, it would be just as chaotic. She pushed open the window, and a cool breeze stirred the curtains, carrying with it the scent of freshly cut grass and blooming roses.

Approaching the bed, she found the princess awake, staring blankly at the screen across the room. Mariella’s pale eyes were devoid of their usual luster. Dalia sat at the edge of the bed, careful not to disturb the silence that had taken hold of the space. It was a scene she had grown accustomed to over the past weeks, but the weight of it only deepened as their departure loomed closer. Just as yesterday, and countless days before, words failed her.

“Would you like tea and breakfast in bed?” she asked gently, breaking the silence. Mariella didn’t respond, didn’t even shift.

After another pause, Dalia spoke again, softer this time, “We have to leave tomorrow. We can’t delay any longer.”

She glanced at Mariella from the corner of her eye, noticing the shimmer of unshed tears. They clung stubbornly to her lashes, refusing to fall, as if too heavy to let go. Dalia’s gaze swept the room, searching for a distraction, something to lift the princess from her despair. Most of her belongings had already been packed and sent ahead a week ago. A few summer dresses lay draped carelessly over the chairs, their light patterns a perfect match for Mariella’s delicate features.

“They say winters there are harsh,” Dalia began, trying to keep her tone light. “We should arrange for a tailor when we arrive, to make you a warm coat.”

“It’s warmer in Traturia than it is here,” Mariella said, her eyes fixed on the distance, her voice flat, empty. “I don’t know why everyone insists on these stories.”

She sat up abruptly, frustration overtaking her melancholy. She threw the thin blanket that had draped her shoulders to the floor.

“I told you to take off that ridiculous mask when we’re alone,” she snapped.

Dalia watched in silence as Mariella reached for the nearest dress, struggling to pull it over her slender frame. The princess’s movements were unsteady, her bracelets chiming softly as they collided. The gown slipped from her shoulders, revealing skin turned even paler from days of sparse eating.

With a sigh, Dalia removed her mask and placed it in her lap. Mariella slumped into the chair at her vanity, eyes searching her own reflection with a mixture of resentment and grief.

Dalia moved beside her, offering a small, hopeful smile. “I don’t want this either,” she said with a hint of humor. “But we don’t have a choice.”

Mariella let out a sigh so heavy it seemed to carry the weight of her seventeen years of silent suffering. Her shoulders sagged, and her gaze returned to the mirror, where it caught the reflection of both her face and the heavy burden she bore.

“I don’t want to be queen,” she said bitterly, fingers clenching the embroidered edge of her dress. “What if he doesn’t like me and sends me away?”

Dalia chuckled softly, her eyes warm. “Not like you?” she echoed, incredulous. “He’d have to be blind!” She tied the final ribbon on Mariella’s dress, smoothing the fabric over her shoulders. The soft pink hue of the gown enhanced the alabaster of her skin.

“You look beautiful,” Dalia said, smiling. “As always.”

Mariella’s gaze lifted, and for a moment, a shadow of a smile crossed her face, though it was still veiled in sorrow. Without a word, she took one of Dalia’s hands and pressed it to her cheek.

“I’ll walk you to the dining hall,” Dalia offered. “The king and the prince are already waiting.”

Mariella’s expression darkened as she turned away from the mirror. “They’re only waiting to finally be rid of me,” she murmured, her voice bitter, shoulders slumping once more. Suddenly, she grasped Dalia’s hands, eyes wide and pleading.

“Dalia,” she whispered, voice low but firm. “Let’s run away together.”

Yet, even as she said it, there was no conviction behind her words.

+++

Morning came, and Dalia donned her traveling habit. She stood before the small mirror, smoothing down her short, dark hair. The reflection that met her gaze was weary, her eyes ringed with shadows from a sleepless night. The thought of leaving the only home she’d ever known filled her with dread.

She hurriedly covered her face with the mask she always wore around others. She hesitated by Rysa’s side, debating whether to wake her for one last farewell. But when her cold hand brushed Rysa’s face, the girl didn’t stir, her beautiful hair now a tangled mess.

“I’ll miss you,” Dalia whispered, knowing her friend wouldn’t hear.

She pressed a gentle kiss to Rysa’s forehead and stepped away. With her bag in hand, she slipped quietly out of the room, closing the door behind her. The convent corridors were still, the soft sounds of sisters preparing for morning prayer the only signs of life.

The courtyard was blanketed in a thin veil of morning mist, like milk spun into the air. Only Laura stood beneath the statue of Astra, tall and dignified, appearing almost carved from the same stone as the goddess herself. It was as if the artist had immortalized her there, beside Astra’s stern figure. Dalia approached, careful not to disturb Laura’s silent prayer.

She, too, had come to pray, though no words surfaced—only the familiar recitations she had whispered countless times. She always prayed for others and now found herself unsure if she even knew how to pray for herself. Astra loomed above, her gaze cold and unyielding, a hammer in one hand, a shield in the other. Dalia could have prayed for Mariella’s marriage to succeed, but she doubted such a plea would reach Astra, the goddess of craft. She tightened her grip on the short sword at her side.

“I’ll pray for you, sister,” Laura’s voice was soft, yet it echoed against the courtyard walls. Her eyes remained fixed on the statue, as if Astra’s gaze were solely for her. “I won’t be there,” Laura continued, choosing her words carefully. “If anything happens... you’ll be on your own.”

“Thank you, Mother.” Dalia’s reply was barely more than a whisper, gliding through the air unnoticed. She wanted to say something—anything—that would reassure Laura, that would make her seem like someone worth worrying about, but no words came.

“Take care of yourself,” Laura whispered, and from the corner of her eye, Dalia saw the glisten of tears slipping down her sister’s cheeks.

They stood side by side, isolated and sorrowful, cloaked in nothing but the cool gaze of Astra.