She had remained under the wizened and dried leaves for many hours. The night had set in, but she dared not return home, she feared what the villages would do, the threat of punishment for sacrilege would likely be steep. The hours passed, the cold set in and her warmth slowly seeped from her body, the path revealed the old priest gingerly setting foot in the grove. His face awash with shock. His eyes shifted to the small cold child sitting in the shade of the holy once-life-giving perennial tree of the village. The balance disrupted took a heavy toll on the man, as he with tears streaming from his face turned away, back to the village.

Syndra considered fleeing, but had not the will, nor the strength. Whatever would come, whatever punishment the village would deem, she would accept. She was guilty after all. She understood her name in that moment, to destroy for one self.

The injuries her brother and his friends had sustained were heavy, though seemingly not lethal. Crashing wood, and gale force winds, had tossed the boys away and out, and she remembered seeing them flee. She could not recall precisely what had transpired, but they were probably fine. Probably. More than the potential maiming of her kin, she regretted the passing of the tree. She would slip in and out of consciousness, every time waking to the sight of her crime. Every time she would remember and whisper and apology to her guardian. The only steadfast companion, the only friend she had known.

Hours passed and the cold permeated through her entire being. It was not an alien feeling, she had had to sleep outside before. This time felt worse. Somehow colder. So when the sun’s rays peered through the forest crown, the warmth provided little solace. Syndra was awake, though her body ached. Dew had her clothing cling tightly to her. The light was not what had awakened her. There was a sound. Footfalls neared, she looked up and saw her father, staring down at her. She revealed her neck, in anticipation. Instead, a weight was placed beside her.

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“We’re leaving. Come now.” The deep voice of her father croaked, weary of a night without sleep.

She stretched. Limbs locked, cold, sore. She grabbed for the backpack and looked up at her dad. His eyes transfixed upon the dead wood in front of him. His breathing was shallow. Syndra threw on her backpack and walked to him. She grabbed for his hand. Apprehensive and distant. There was not comfort in his limp grasp. They walked silently down the path.

The walk through the village was tense. Eyes were upon them. Silent and judging. An old lady she had bought bread from a few times spat at the ground as she passed. Most eyes were filled with awe. Eyes she had seen only the evening before. Eyes she had shared, as she stared at the spellslinger. This awe, however, was built from fear, rather than enchanted entertainment. Following her father’s footsteps, they headed for the village’s palisade, and exited through the front gate. No fanfare, no yells. Only a silent judgement and the sound of a forest waking met her senses as they exited the village. Outside her mother stood, with Evard on a makeshift stretcher. Bound wood and cloth, taut with rope. As Syndra approached, she let go of her father, and slowed her pace. Her brother’s eyes were wide and locked on Syndra, yet he did not seem to move much. Their father bent to pick up the other half of the stretcher and the small family moved down the path.

Towards what, Syndra did not know. The weight of her actions weighed heavily on her. Her parents took their first step. She stole a glance back to the walls of her village of birth. Always had she dreamed of leaving her life here behind. Now she doubted if the world outside the walls were as free and hopeful as she had dreamt. She jogged towards her parents, who paid her no mind.