Chapter 2
Chapter Two
The Fifth Flame
Lyssena
Lyssena stood still, her hands resting at her sides, as her mother finished tying the white gown at her back. The fabric was soft and weightless, finer than anything she had ever worn. Her hair, freshly combed and still damp from her bath, tumbled in loose waves down to the small of her back.
Her mother stepped in front of her and carefully placed a white, silky hairpiece at the crown of Lyssena’s head. It draped like moonlight, pinned in place with a simple mother-of-pearl clip—an heirloom, once hers.
“There,” her mother whispered. “You look just like I did the night I was chosen by your father.”
Before Lyssena could answer, the sound of boots striking earth reached them. Voices calling, a bark of laughter carried in from the outside.
“They’re back,” she breathed, her heart leaping. Without waiting for permission, she gathered up her skirts and ran barefoot toward the front door.
The sunlight stung her eyes for a moment, but then she saw her father and all five of her brothers, just now returning from the hunt.
Her eldest brothers, Koren and Damyn, led the group.
Broad-shouldered and grinning, each had a string of rabbits tied to their belts, the animals swinging with every step, ears bobbing like small pendulums. Between them and their father, they carried a large deer, each man gripping a leg as they hauled the animal together.
Its head and chest dragged in the dirt, the fur along its flank stained dark with blood.
At the threshold, her three younger brothers—Hale, Renn, and Vos—were doubled over, panting hard as if they had hauled the rest of the deer’s weight from the carriage to the house. Now they leaned on their knees, sweat on their brows, faces flushed but grinning ear to ear.
“Lyssena!” Hale called, his voice cracking with joy and exertion. “We brought back the biggest one!”
“All for you!” Damyn shouted, lifting his string of rabbits in triumph.
She laughed and rushed forward, throwing her arms around her father just as he dropped the deer at the edge of the step. He smelled of pine, sweat, and blood. His arms, rough and strong, were supposed to wrap around her like they always had, but this time, he pulled back to look at her.
“You’re ready,” he said, stepping half a pace away.
His eyes softened as he took in the sight of her in white. “You’re. . . beautiful.”
Lyssena flushed but smiled. “Mother made me lovely,” she whispered.
“No,” her father said, pressing a kiss to her forehead after wiping the sweat over his brow onto his sleeve. “We just helped you shine.”
The boys gathered around them, voices overlapping, teasing and boasting about who had hunted what. Lyssena stood among them, heart full.
“Let me help with preparing! There’s so much food,” she offered.
But Father shook his head. “You are clean and ready. I’ll skin the game, and your brothers will help.” He turned to her mother then. “Dear, will you cook it for us?”
Both Lyssena and her father looked to her. Her mother nodded.
As the sound of voices and laughter echoed from the main room where the men worked, Lyssena slipped away. Her room, calmer and quieter, welcomed her. The light had begun to shift, afternoon leaning into evening, and golden beams poured through the window, softening the edges of the day.
She closed the door behind her and crossed to the small table by the window. The shutters were open, and a breeze moved gently through the space, stirring the edges of a folded cloth on the dresser.
She knelt.
Beside the window sat five candles, arranged in an arc. She always kept them there—five flames for five gods. Five slender pillars of wax, all used except for one. The fifth remained whole. Always whole.
She struck the flint and lit the first.
“Oh, greatest Kalos,” she whispered, watching the wick catch and bloom into light. “Grant us strong crops and full baskets. Let the deer be fed well so their meat is rich. Let our trees bear fruit without rot.”
The second candle flared with a soft pop. “Greatest Leyeer, let this home remain rich. Not only in coin, but in peace. Let no hunger or bitterness touch us this season.”
Then the third. “Jenar, keeper of bones and breath, let my father’s hands not ache, let my brothers heal quickly, let none of us grow sick in the cold months to come.”
And the fourth. “Syvaar. Oh, Syvaar,” she whispered more gently. “Tonight, I ask something small and foolish: let him smile at me. Let my voice not fail. Let my words be sweet and my laugh light. Give me courage. And a little beauty, if you will.”
The flame danced on the fourth wick, painting a warm glow across Lyssena’s knuckles. Her eyes drifted then, slowly, to the fifth candle.
She reached for the flint again, her fingers brushing its edge, but she didn’t strike it.
No one prayed to this god.
There was no name for it in their books. No statue in the temple. Only the fifth flame, kept out of habit—or perhaps out of fear—for something they had never dared to name.
She didn’t know what it governed. Didn’t know if it listened. But it had always been there, a shadow among the light.
She wondered, just for a moment, what might happen if she lit it. Suppose she whispered into the space where a name should be. Suppose she asked for something she should never want.
But she didn’t.
She let the silence wrap around her like a veil and bowed her head before four flickering flames and one quiet sentinel.
Lyssena hadn’t spoken much to men before. A few polite exchanges with the temple leader and the keeper, of course. Oh, and that one man at the market who had sold them pears. He’d had a kind voice, she thought. Or maybe that had been the man with the onions?
She didn’t remember their faces, only vague echoes of words that barely counted as conversation.
She was comfortable with her father and brothers, but that was different. They were hers. They didn’t count as men in the way this knight would. A stranger. A husband.
How was she supposed to speak to a man she didn’t know?
She turned to the mirror once more and tried again.
“Hello, my name is Lyssena,” she said aloud. Immediately, she winced. He already knows my name, she thought. That was foolish. Why would she say it like he’d never heard it before? What if he thought she assumed he’d forgotten? That might seem rude. Would it?
She sighed and pressed both palms to her cheeks. Her skin was warm. Maybe she was blushing. Was she already embarrassing herself, and he wasn’t even here yet?
She tried again.
“I am Lyssena. You probably know that—”
No. No, no, no. Who says that?
She sounded ridiculous, like a girl trying to fill the silence with something—anything—but grace.
“Hello,” she whispered, watching her mouth form the word in the mirror. “I am . . . grateful for your time?”
Gods. What if she just smiled and said nothing?
What if her lips twitched strangely and she looked like she was in pain? What if she laughed too loudly at something that wasn’t even a joke? What if he had no sense of humor at all? What if—?
She groaned and flopped onto her bed, burying her face in her favorite pillow.
This was impossible.
She was the daughter of a good family, and yet a single sentence felt like a battlefield. Still, she rose again and smoothed her gown. She turned back to the mirror.
Because she had to get it right. Or at least, not get it wrong.
“Welcome to our home. I am honored to finally meet you.”
Oh. That was better, she thought. That would sound very noble of her.
“My name is Lyssena, and—”
A knock at the door made Lyssena gasp. She turned toward it, hands flying to her chest.
Koren opened it slowly, his grin barely contained. He loved teasing his younger sister, and seeing her reaction was indeed very funny.
“Come, Lyss. Everything’s ready, and your knight in shining armor is at the village gates.”
She swallowed hard and rose to her feet, smoothing the front of her gown with trembling hands. Koren offered his arm with a small, dramatic bow, clearly trying to make her smile. She took it, yet her fingers were not quite as steady as his.
They walked together down the narrow hall, the wooden floors creaking beneath them.
The air was warm with the scent of roasted meat and honey-glazed bread.
As they turned the corner, the dining room came into view, and Lyssena’s breath caught.
She knew tonight was a great celebration, but she definitely did not expect her parents to spend so much coin they didn’t have.
The long table had never been so finely dressed. Fresh bread steamed on carved platters. Bowls of berries and thick cream glistened beside roasted rabbits and spiced deer meat. A wreath of herbs hung from the beam overhead.
“There’s our girl,” Father said, his voice filled with pride.
Mother turned, already reaching out to adjust Lyssena’s shoulders, though they needed no smoothing. “You look lovely.”
Lyssena nodded. Words would not come. Her chest felt too tight.
Koren gave her arm a gentle squeeze before letting go, walking toward the table to join the others.
She inhaled slowly, trying to calm her heartbeat.
Then she heard hooves.
At first, just as a whisper, like wind stirring dry leaves. But the sound grew louder, deeper, and more solid. Her heart pounded so fiercely she was sure someone would hear it.
Outside, the sun had nearly vanished. The sky was painted in tones of burnt peach and bruised lilac, the last breath before night took hold. Shadows stretched long across the walls.
Lyssena edged toward the window, just close enough to peek past the curtain.
She saw the tail of a great, dark horse swishing in the dusky air. Just a flicker of movement. Just the edge of a presence. But it was real.
Kaan had arrived.
“Keep your head down, sweet one,” her mother whispered as Lyssena rushed back to stand beside her. A hand settled gently on her back. “Let him come to you.”
Then the front door creaked open.
There was no knock. Just the slow, groaning protest of the hinges, like someone entering a place they believed already belonged to them.
Lyssena froze.
Her pulse stumbled, her hands curled into the fabric of her gown. Her breath caught, and she refused to move.
He didn’t knock. Why didn’t he knock?
Her mother’s hand remained on her spine, but Lyssena’s mind had already begun to spiral. The sound of boots met her ears. Not her father’s. Not her brothers’. Heavier and very unfamiliar.
Her eyes stayed lowered.
Her heart thudded high in her chest.
And now everything began.