The wind whispered through the rose bushes, making the petals tremble like frightened maidens. Cala stood before the Goddess’s statue, her delicate fingers tracing the cold marble base. The scent of jasmine hung heavy in the air—too sweet, too cloying, like the lies they told her about safety.

So many women... so many screams in the night... Her thoughts slithered, unwanted. The stories of captured noblewomen—taken, bred, broken. A shiver ran down her spine. Her full hips, her soft curves—everything the orcs prized in a broodmare. She clenched her fists, her nails biting into her palms to chase the images away. "Oh Goddess..." Her lips moved in a silent prayer. Why won’t Father use the jewel? How many more must suffer before he acts?

Her fingertips brushed the hidden seam in the statue’s pedestal—the jewel rested here, just beneath the stone. Her breath hitched. "If I told someone... if I just"

A footstep. Too close.

She whirled, her heart a frantic bird in her chest. There he stood—the knight. His armor gleamed dully in the fading light, his face unreadable. Had he heard her whispered secrets? Seen her trembling hands? Stupid, stupid! I almost said it aloud! She dipped into a curtsy, too quick, too formal—a noblewoman’s armor. "Y-you..." Her voice was a mouse’s squeak. Why won’t it steady? "You must be the knight my father sent."

She swallowed, her throat tight. "The orcs..." Her gaze dropped to the crushed petals at her feet. Don’t say it. Don’t think it. "What they do to women... I... I c-can’t..." A tear escaped. She hated it.