Chapter 22
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
“I can’t believe I’m only now leaving the infirmary,” I grumble to Elowen as I pack up my meager possessions in someone’s old leather satchel. It’s so light, nearly completely empty.
Most of the things in it have been gifted to me in the two weeks since I got here—the clothes from Ryot, a book of poems from Faelon, some dried flowers from Elowen. I’m even wearing Ryot’s shirt from that first day. I haven’t given it back; and he hasn’t asked for it.
Elowen laughs as she works at the table behind me, mixing tonics and grinding herbs into powders.
The softness of crushed chamomile and bitterness of some root drifts through the air.
She turned the little table in here into a temporary workstation.
She said it was to keep an eye on my scar, but really, I think she didn’t want me to be alone.
She’s worked in here every night, and we’ve talked about everything from the books we’re reading to the herbs she harvests. Elowen is soft. Too soft.
“The Synod isn’t exactly made for receiving guests, Leina. There wasn’t anywhere else to put you until now,” she says. “Until you had a home.”
Home . She doesn’t use that word like it’s a weapon—there’s no sarcasm or cruelty in her voice. I don’t think she even has it in her to be cruel. But it slices like a dagger.
Home is a little cottage on the edge of the woods. Home is the smell of lavender on the breeze, the way it curls through the open windows to mingle with the scent of fresh-made bread. It’s the soft creak of the rocking chair that had more years than I did.
Home was family, but all that’s gone.
This is not home. It could never be.
The Synod is my battleground. It’s my chance to remake myself, to become someone strong, someone unbroken by grief, by the weight of oppression. Someone who can help my people fight back.
Because the gods are finally listening. After all those years with my mother on her knees, her face pressed into the ashes, begging for their intervention, for justice, for scraps, the gods have finally answered.
And I won’t waste this chance. I won’t waste her sacrifice.
I will take everything they offer here—every lesson, every weapon, every whisper of power—and I will shape it into something terrifying.
No, the Synod will never be home.
But it’s a beginning.
Elowen turns, her eyes crinkled in the corners as if she’s concerned, like she can sense my turmoil. “What is something that reminds you of your home, Leina? Something that brings you joy?”
Well, fuck. I guess I am an open book. Still, there’s something about her that prompts me to answer honestly. “Lavender,” I tell her.
She smiles at me, wide and beautiful, an offering of friendship. I offer her a little one in return and then shove the too-large blue tunic and brown trousers that Ryot gifted me into the bag. Elowen’s eyes fall to the shirt, and she tilts her head to the side.
“I’d wondered where that had gone,” she said, a teasing lilt in her voice.
I stare at her in horror, realizing that he must have gotten the women’s clothes from the healer. And he didn’t even ask her.
I yank the shirt and pants out of the bag and shove them at Elowen. “I’m so sorry,” I say. “Ryot gave them to me. I didn’t know they were yours.”
Instead of taking the clothes, her hands close gently over mine, wrapping my fingers back around the fabric.
“I don’t have a need of them, Leina,” she says. “I’d like you to have them. Though we should probably take up the trousers. I’m taller than you.” She grabs them from the top of the satchel and starts to mess with the hem.
My eyes round in horror. “You can’t sew my clothes!”
“Why not?” she demands.
“You’re a princess, Elowen!” Though, even as the words tumble from my mouth, I wonder why that should matter.
She laughs again, waving me away as she finds a needle and thread. “I’m a healer who works with warriors,” she says. “Trust me when I tell you I’m very adept with a stitch.” She purses her lips. “Perhaps not fashionable, but adept. I’ll bring them up for you.”
She’s already murmuring to herself as she plays with the fabric when Leif and Kiernan walk in through the open door. Their smiles are wide and welcoming, and some of the tension leaves my shoulders.
“Hey, sister.” Leif’s tucked his hands in his pockets. I don’t think I’ve seen him unarmed since he was in the infirmary with me. “We’re here to bust you out of this wretched place.”
Elowen, unimpressed, throws a sachet of herbs at his head. Leif catches it midair, laughing.
“My infirmary is anything but wretched, Leif,” she retorts, narrowing her eyes.
He holds the sachet up in surrender. “I meant no offense, oh gifted one.”
Kiernan snorts, arms crossed over his chest, and mutters, “Smooth.”
Leif ignores him and turns to me, clapping me on the shoulder. It stings, but I don’t mention it. His eyes are full of mischief. “Ready to see your new room, or have you grown attached to the smell of vinegar and suffering?”
I smirk, shaking my head as I grab my satchel. It is still light, but then I strap my scythe onto my back.
“Let’s go,” I say, ready to start this new part of my life. I turn back to Elowen at the door, though. I’m surprised to find I’ll miss her—a princess of the kingdom that oppresses mine.
Elowen stands by the table, watching me with a knowing look. There’s warmth in her gaze, a steadiness that’s been a quiet anchor through the long days I’ve spent within these walls dealing with isolation, grief, and fear.
She lifts the too-long trousers, a sweet smile tugging at the corner of her lips.
“I’ll get these to you soon,” she says, but something deeper colors her words.
A promise. A thread of connection, however thin, however fleeting, like what she’s saying is she’ll see me soon.
I nod, unsure what to say, unsure if I want to say anything at all.
Then Leif nudges me forward. “Come on, sister, no time for teary goodbyes.” His voice is light, teasing, but also carries a hint of understanding. A recognition of what it means to leave behind one thing for another.
So I follow a confident Leif and an awkward Kiernan down the dark corridors, wondering if I’m never going to find my away around in here.
Everything looks and smells the same—of stone and sweat and adamas.
At least, until we pass a heavy set of double doors, one of them swung open wide to reveal a long, cavernous room that smells of parchment and dust. I slow my pace to peer in.
Books. Shelves upon shelves of them, reaching from the floor to the ceiling and stretching from wall to wall. Thick tomes with cracked spines, scrolls stacked haphazardly in cubbies, papers yellowed with age. Most of them are covered in dust, untouched and forgotten.
“What is this?” I’m unable to keep the awe from my voice.
Leif glances over his shoulder, barely sparing the room a glance before shrugging. “The Reckoning Hall. It’s where they keep the old records—histories of the Altor, the kingdoms, the wars. That sort of thing.” His voice is thick with disinterest. “Mostly the archons and the Elder use it.”
I step closer. “And we’re allowed in there?”
“Sure. If you want to die of boredom,” Kiernan mumbles.
Leif laughs and leans against the wall. “Most of it’s useless unless you’re interested in treaties and council rulings.
But …” He tilts his head. “Some of the old journals from other Altor are fascinating. Faelon is always reading one of those. They talk about the wars, the fights, the training. Some of the first Altor even wrote about the gods.”
I absorb that, my heartbeat quickening.
Histories. Journals. Treaties.
I hate the way the letters blur together when I read, the way the words slip from my grasp when it’s something I can’t make out. But this? This is something I need to make time for. This is something I need to practice . Because this room isn’t only a dusty relic of the past. It’s power.
I have so many questions, most of them revolving around one theme—why me? If I’m the first female Altor in nearly one thousand years, why me? And why am I also the first Altor of Selencia? I’m not special. I’m not unique. I’m a serf.
So why now? Why me?
What does Thayana want from me? And not just Thayana—there are dozens of gods. There’s so much I don’t know.
“Come on, Leina,” Leif calls from ahead of me.
I turn, heavy with reluctance, to follow them.
“How much time do we spend in training?” I double my pace to keep up with the long strides of the men in front of me. I hate being short.
Leif snorts, throwing me a smirk over his shoulder. “All the time.”
Kiernan chuckles. “Not an exaggeration. We train at dawn, after morning meal, midday, after evening meal, and sometimes, if our masters feel particularly cruel, again before lights-out.”
Leif tilts his head, considering. “Or if we piss them off, which is often, all through the night.”
I groan. “So, when do we get to actually live?” When do we get to sneak into the Reckoning Hall and read?
Leif barks a laugh. “Who told you we do? We’re Altor, Leina. We live in war, in training, in service. That’s it.”
Kiernan nudges him. “That’s a bit grim. There’re feast nights, when we’re not in the field. And celebrations when we win something important. There’re rotations at the Crimson Feather.”
Leif sniffs. “Sure. And then back to training.”
I let out a breath, adjusting the satchel on my shoulder.
I’m seeing similarities between how the Altor are expected to live and how the serfs live.
They aren’t bound by chains, not physically, but it’s still servitude—a life dictated by forces greater than them, with no room for anything but duty.
The serfs live for toil; the Altor live for war.
Both exist to serve. To obey. To bleed for a cause they had no say in choosing.
I shake the thought away. Thinking like that will only make this harder.