Chapter 3
M?R?I?OR
The air thrummed with music, and villagers swirled about in brightly embroidered clothing—so different from the drab browns and grays of our everyday wear.
Near the village square, a group of young men lounged, their eyes following the dancing girls.
But it wasn't they who held my gaze. It was the two boys standing slightly apart from the rest.
Caius—tall, lean, and powerful—reminded me of a mountain cat.
He was striking, with wavy hair the color of honey, golden streaks lightened by the sun.
His high cheekbones always seemed flushed, more so when he laughed or was angry.
And those eyes—ringed in stormy grey, their centers the clear, cloudless blue of a summer sky.
He was born the same night I was—under a blood moon the old women still whispered about.
We shared that beginning, and something else besides.
His mother had died bringing him into the world, just as mine had.
But where my grandmother gathered me up and loved me fiercely enough for two, Caius had grown under the shadow of a father who never forgave him for surviving.
The boyar remarried, of course. Duty demanded it.
His second wife bore him two daughters—healthy, golden-haired half-sisters who carried none of the blame Caius did.
The boyar adored them. He tolerated his son.
Caius wore that knowledge like armor: bright smiles, bold laughter, recklessness that dared the world to ignore him the way his father did.
At his side was Dani, his ever-present shadow.
Broader and taller still than Caius, Dani reminded me of a brown bear—solid and steady.
His thick chestnut hair framed a face with soft, sleepy brown eyes that disguised the strength beneath.
The son of the boyar's armorer, he was no nobleman, yet far above a simple peasant, raised among tools and iron, craft and discipline.
From the time I was a small girl, the three of us were inseparable.
I loved them both—because they treated me as one of their own.
Never as the granddaughter of the village witch, but as an equal.
Together we raced our ponies across the hills at breakneck speed, stalked deer through the forest, and practiced swordplay—though my “sword” was whatever sturdy branch I could find beneath the trees we climbed, skirts tied up in a knot between my legs.
My grandmother had taught me to read and write, a rare gift in our village, and now and then they'd smuggle me books from Caius's father's library—tales of distant lands and daring adventures, my favorite kind.
But the last few years had changed us. We'd all grown—and I wasn't the only one who noticed.
It wasn't just the leering old men of the village whose gazes lingered on me now.
Caius and Dani looked at me differently, too.
Beneath the laughter and easy familiarity we'd always shared, I sensed something new stirring, a hunger they tried—and failed—to disguise.
At first, I wondered what my approaching womanhood would do to the bond between us.
But I could already feel the shift: the way their eyes followed me a moment too long, how a single smile could catch and hold them.
There was power in that. A rich, heady awareness that unsettled me even as it thrilled.
A peasant girl had little to bargain with in this world—and discovering this, discovering myself, tasted unexpectedly sweet.
The other village girls whispered and fluttered their lashes at Caius and Dani—after all, they were the most handsome young men for miles. But if my friends noticed, they said nothing. Their attention never seemed to stray far from me.
I thought of this as I joined a circle of girls dancing, the music of flutes and violins weaving through the air.
One of them caught my hand and laughed, “Come—don't stand there!” as they pulled me into the ring and we linked hands and spun.
The coin belts at our hips and the bracelets we wore chimed with every rhythmic stomp of our feet and clap of our hands, adding a bright, metallic harmony to the lively tune.
As we whirled, I made a point to catch Caius and Dani's eyes. Caius grinned broadly, lifting a hand in an exuberant wave. Dani's smile was softer, almost shy. He glanced at his friend, then back at me, his expression hesitant.
Where Caius was bold and easy with his emotions, Dani held his close, his quiet reserve shielding an inner world I could never quite reach.
The music shifted, a new dance began, this one a dance that included the men.
The next time I passed I reached for their hands to drag them into the circle, my long hair flying this way and that.
Caius joined in immediately but Dani held back, tugging his hand out of my grip.
“I don't know how to dance, Magda,” he said with a soft laugh.
No, he knew how to dance. He simply preferred work that required precision and strength—steel beneath his hands, something useful taking shape because of him.
Attention never tempted him the way it did Caius and me.
Where we burned bright and restless, Dani was steady—deliberate in all things, even in joy.
Reserve was not weakness in him; it was choice.
Between dances, we spent hours feasting on smoked meats, sweet bread studded with walnuts and dried apples, and washing it all down with honey mead and ale.
After a few drinks, Dani finally joined us, though he lingered more at the edges than in the center of the revelry.
As the night waned and the villagers began drifting back to their homes, I reluctantly stood to say my goodbyes.
“No, Magda—wait! I almost forgot.” Caius grinned as he hurried after me.
When he caught up, he pinned a M?r?i?or charm to my sleeve—a tiny carved flower threaded with the traditional red-and-white string.
His fingers lingered at my arm, warm and deliberate, and my heart faltered when I realized I was the only girl he had given one to that night.
I barely managed a breath of thanks before he was gone again. I glanced back to where Dani had been standing, but he was no longer there, and I found myself wondering when he had slipped away.
I watched Caius go, the mark of his touch still burning through my sleeve, and found myself wondering what it would be like to kiss him—to taste those soft-looking red lips, to learn whether his boldness carried through to that, too.
Other village girls had already crossed that threshold.
Some were married. Some whispered behind their hands and smiled like they were keeping secrets.
I had none of that yet. Only the question, sudden and aching, blooming in my chest.
With the flush of excitement still burning my cheeks, I lifted my hand in a farewell wave and turned toward the road home. The half-mile walk to my grandmother's cottage was quiet, the night air cool against my skin. But then I heard heavy footsteps behind me, boots crunching against gravel.
Startled, I turned—and when I saw Dani alone in the lane, I let out a quiet sigh of relief. He stopped a few feet away, his large frame silhouetted against the moonlight, something small held loosely in one hand.
“What is it?” I asked, glancing around for Caius. But even in the darkness, I could see he was alone.
“I have one for you too,” he said softly.
He didn't step forward to pin it to my blouse as Caius had. Instead, he placed it gently into my palm. Another charm, tied with red and white string—this one a wooden heart, painted deep red.
“Thank you, Dani,” I said, surprised by his gift.
“It doesn't mean anything,” he said too quickly, already turning away. He didn't wait for me to ask what he meant, just strode back toward the village as if distance might undo the words.
But my friend's voice held an ache he couldn't quite hide, and I knew then that it meant more than he was willing to admit.
The knowing settled heavy in my chest. Something fragile was shifting between the three of us, something I'd been pretending not to see.
I tried to tell myself I owed Dani nothing, but that was a lie.
Friendship carried its own vows, spoken or not, and I felt them tightening around my ribs.