Chapter 1
Chapter One
Milk and Honey
Lyssena
There were five gods they prayed to.
Kalos, god of harvest. Jenar, god of health. Syvaar, god of life. Leyeer, god of wealth. There was another god, though his name was unknown to men, and therefore unknown to Lyssena. At twenty-three she knew he existed, just like everyone did, but that was where it ended.
Now, with her knees bent and palms pressed gently before her chest, Lyssena prayed.
Oh, greatest Kalos, I beg you to hear my plea.
I vow to kneel and obey, to bow my head and honor the land I asked you to bless.
Oh, greatest Kalos, my words are nothing before your greatness, and yet I beg. I pray.
Lyssena’s family always said that because she had green eyes, her prayers belonged to Kalos. Her brothers, born with brown eyes, prayed to Leyeer.
Jenar and Syvaar were part of their morning rituals. Those gods did not seem to mind the color of one’s gaze.
Greatest Syvaar, I wanted to ask you to watch for me tonight.
I was afraid to face your greatness at the morning prayer with my people.
Now that I’m alone with your grace and knowledge, I shall say at once what lies on my heart.
Greatest Syvaar, let tonight’s meeting go well.
I hope I find this man just fine. Oh, greatest Syvaar; please, I beg you.
Help me have a better life.
She bowed her head before the dark entrance of a sacred room no one was ever meant to enter, then rose slowly to her feet.
The seeds had been planted, offerings laid, words spoken, and prayers whispered. She had asked for the crops to grow.
In that quiet moment, Lyssena felt content. Not joyful exactly, but full.
This was the task of the sinful: to pray and beg for forgiveness until the day the skies welcomed them. It was also the task of the sinful to ask for kindness from gods who owed them nothing.
But today was different. Today was a sacred day.
And tonight. . . tonight she would be engaged.
“Lyssena, dearest, have you prayed again?”
She turned at the sound of a soft, familiar voice. The temple leader stood in the hallway, robed in white, as leader after leader maintained the same tradition.
Lyssena lowered her gaze. It was not proper for an unmarried woman to meet the eyes of a man. She could look at her father, of course, and her brothers, but other men were forbidden. Not unless she was given permission.
“Yes,” she murmured, a small smile pulling at her lips. “I have asked the great Kalos for a good harvest.”
To lie was to sin. But she had not lied; therefore, she had not sinned. She simply hadn’t told everything. That was fine, so long as she hadn’t spoken something untrue.
The thud of leather shoes echoed off the stone walls, each step landing like a soft commandment in the hush of the temple.
A shadow stretched across the floor tiles, long and angular in the fractured afternoon light that spilled through stained-glass windows.
“A good harvest is important, isn’t it?” the leader asked.
“It is.”
“Go now. You have much to prepare for, Lyssena.”
She nodded quickly. The fine linen of her shawl brushed her neck as she rose. Her gaze remained lowered, fixed on the mosaic-patterned floors beneath her feet. She hurried toward the great temple doors, the tall, massive things carved from dark wood.
“Have a good day, Lyssena,” the temple keeper called behind her, his voice echoing in the vastness of the holy place.
“Thank you, keeper,” she murmured and opened one of the doors.
Outside, the air was warm and fragrant, and she smelled dust and wildflowers.
She didn’t lift her eyes, but her feet knew the path.
Once, as a child, she would trip over every stone and root.
Now she walked with confidence, even with her head bowed.
It was easier that way. You were less likely to fall when you crossed the same path so many times.
The sun hung high, warming the top of her covered head. Around her, the village lived and breathed.
A blacksmith’s hammer rang out, and she matched her steps to its rhythm. Somewhere down the road, a goat bleated, followed by the gentler sound of cows behind a wooden fence. Children shrieked with laughter, darting between thatched cottages.
A cart rolled past, one wheel bumping against stone. The creak of wood echoed in protest beneath the weight it carried. Near the well, two women spoke in hushed voices. Lyssena caught her name, then silence. The wind lifted the edge of her shawl, and laundry flapped like flags beside them.
“I heard he’s a knight!”
“Oh, perhaps a big dowry was paid.”
“Yes, yes. Poor Lyssena.”
“Shut it—”
Everyone knew that today Lyssena would meet her knight.
Gods, she hoped he was a good man. She wished for a happy life and to be a happy wife.
Bees hummed in the wildflowers that edged the road, and somewhere nearby, a dog barked. Once, then again. The air carried a medley of smells: baking bread, smoke, sweat, and the sweet tang of ripe fruit. It was an ordinary day for everyone else but Lyssena.
As she neared her home, Lyssena finally lifted her gaze.
She rushed past the garden, past the fat pigs snorting near the fence, and past the gate where vines curled like lazy fingers.
Her mother stood by the open door, brushing flour from her dress, leaving pale streaks in scattered patterns across the fabric.
“Come, Lyssena, come!” her mother urged, already turning to lead her inside.
Lyssena followed, and the door closed softly behind them.
“Have you prayed for tonight?” her mother asked.
Lyssena nodded and reached up to remove the scarf from her head. “I did. And I was careful.”
“Did anyone notice?”
“The leader and the keeper, Mother. But no one else.”
She folded the scarf and held it out. Her mother took it with distracted fingers, her gaze flicking along Lyssena’s sides, never quite settling on her face.
“Don’t worry,” Lyssena added gently. “I haven’t lied.”
“What did you say?”
“I prayed for a good harvest.”
“It wasn’t a lie?”
“It wasn’t. I truly did pray for that.”
Her mother exhaled slowly, the tension easing from her shoulders.
“Your father said he’s a good man,” she said at last, clutching the folded scarf in both hands. “Yes. A very good man. I know we did well.”
She nodded, more to herself than to Lyssena, and there was something in the gesture that felt strange. Not unkind.
Just. . . odd.
The next few hours passed quickly.
Her father and brothers were out hunting while Lyssena remained home with her mother, preparing to welcome the man who would soon be her husband.
Most girls were married much younger than she was—at sixteen, mostly—but her father had waited.
He wanted to secure their future properly, and with Lyssena’s green eyes and pretty face, that had been more than possible.
This knight, Kaan, she had heard his name was, had been at war for many years.
He had given their people a name to be proud of.
He had coin, land, and reputation. Lyssena was afraid, but not too much. She knew her father would never lie.
“You have such lush waves, dear,” her mother murmured, coughing softly as she drew the comb gently through Lyssena’s hair. “I used to have that kind of hair when I was young. Your father once held it in his palm and said our children would have the same. And he was right.”
Lyssena smiled at her reflection in the mirror, its wooden frame carved with curling vines. She loved that mirror. Its frame was as light as her hair.
Lyssena and her mother sat in her room—hers alone—while her brothers shared the larger room across the hall. She had always been her parents’ little princess. In this quiet moment, she felt it more than ever.
Her hair fell in soft waves down her back, the color of fresh-cut wheat. Most summers, the sun would have kissed her skin with freckles across her nose and cheeks. But this year, she hadn’t worked the fields. This summer had been set aside. Reserved for preparing.
For meeting her knight.
“Do you think the knight is kind?” Lyssena asked, pulling the brushed half of her hair over one shoulder as her mother began working through the rest.
The room was quiet, save for the soft scratch of the comb and the faint crackle of a few lit candles. Her mother had already scrubbed her back until it gleamed. Glowing, she had called it. Lyssena must look her best for tonight.
“He is, yes,” her mother said at last. “A kind man. Just. . . hardened from war.”
She spoke slowly. There was a pause after the words, a small silence that made Lyssena wonder if her mother was nervous too. Perhaps she was praying, just as Lyssena had, that everything would be alright.
Lyssena believed it would be. It had to be.
Her mother had been feeding her more than usual over the past few months.
Rich stews, honeyed bread, dried fruits soaked in sweet wine.
She had gained just enough weight to appear fuller and more plump.
In their village, softness was seen as a sign of health, of care for a daughter well-loved by her family.
It was a kind of love expressed in roasted meat and second helpings, and the way her father smiled and teased her into finishing every bite.
He had even brought her fabric for a new dress, though they had little to spare. Her mother had added rose oil to the bathwater that evening. For weeks now, Lyssena had soaked her hands in honey and milk. Luxuries they did not often afford.
She was grateful, deeply so. As she was getting so much attention.
And she could hardly wait to meet him.