The gods were petty beings with too much time on their hands and too little discretion to simply let man waddle off into an abyss of confusion and die there. They were the reason people like Hermes—who worshiped Sūn, the god of war and fortune—rose to power and why the shadow-walker people snuck out during the high moon and drained village men of their blood to offer sacrifices to Maroun, the god of darkness and harvest.

Oris would not have minded these happenings—or even thought about them—if the sound of hymns and songs of praise to Mathea, the female god of enlightenment and healing, did not wake her up prematurely.

It was late into the day but too bright for it to be considered night. She could tell because she had parted her eyelids slightly, nothing more than a flutter, and taken a look at window since it was no longer hidden behind the beige curtains.

There was also now depression to the right of her on the bed, one she knew was caused by a person, a person who from singing worship songs had segued into a series of tongue-twisting prayers and pleas for forgiveness.

From the lightness of their voice, Oris could tell that the person was female. Despite the woman being her first visitor since she had gotten since waking up, Oris still fought to school her expression, suppressing the frown and wince that would have surfaced when the intensity of the prayers increased and a spot her nose began to itch.

Luckily for her, it was over soon. Thick silence followed the passionate worship session and Oris relaxed her tense muscles, thinking that the woman would leave now that she was done being religious.

She was wrong.

"When Father said he had a way to fix things, I didn't know this was what he meant," the lady began softly, her voice laced with guilt. "I never knew that he would sin for my sake."

Father again? Oris thought, curious about the relationship between the man, the brothers and this woman. Is this the 'sister' Tristan had talked about?

"And now that things have come to this, I cannot even redeem myself," the woman continued with remorse. "If only you would open your eyes now and let me send you back to your brother. It would not be atonement for this wrong but it would be a start."

Oris had to resist the urge to get up then and there in favor of just keeping still. The woman sounded so pitiful and sorry, yet she hadn't been the one to kidnap her, she hadn't been the one to plan it either.

Where are Marcka and Tristan? And that father of theirs? They are the ones supposed to apologize not you, she wanted to say but thought better of it, choosing to seal her lips and keep listening instead.

"This is all my fault," fingers lightly touched Oris' left cheek, tracing soothing patterns into her skin, "my beauty put the convent in danger."

Convent? Oris suddenly understood. The woman was a nun.

But that realization only confused her.

Why would the emperor want a nun? As a worshiper of Sūn he had to at least understand the concept of a woman completely devoting herself to the gods. He could not lust for one no matter how beautiful she was.

As though hearing Oris' thoughts, the woman started speaking again, her words tinged with bitterness. "If it weren't for the fathers who hurriedly married off their daughters, the daughters who disguised as men to escape being chosen and the men who told our Lord of me, how would things come to this?"

A muffled sniffle followed the outburst and Oris could imagine the nun pressing a handkerchief over her face. "Yet how can I fault them for trying to protect themselves and the one they care for. It is my fault for not having the fate to avoid this calamity. A fate you had. A fate I took from you."

Hastily married daughters? Girls dressed as men? Calamity? Fate? As a firm believer in Fate and his power over man's destiny, it was easy for Oris to now understood what Marcka and Tristan had told her in the stable days ago.

Her capture was a coincidence, an unlikely one especially since she had been dressed as a boy. She had been a gamble taken out of desperation and the brothers just happened to strike gold.

To use an orphan to save a nun from a life of servitude as the wife of the man that had killed her people. Now everything seemed so just, just because in the end the orphan they chose would not even suffer but lead a life a luxury till she died.

It had to be someone similar in figure to the devoted nun, someone pretty enough to be passed off as the most beautiful in the land. Someone like Oris.

Too bad Oris was not just any orphan. She was a queen, however empty the title now was.

"You are too beautiful to die," the nun said softly, her fingers now combing through Oris' hair. "Wake up soon."

Oris nearly sneezed when the woman's hair brushed her nose as she got up but she managed to hold it in. At least her itch had been scratched in the process.

Three sharp knocks sounded on the door, displacing the focus Oris used to monitor the nun's movements. Don't tell me I have more visitors.

"Sister Eve, Marylynne is calling for you again, she can't sleep. Wicker has been crying since you left, I don't know what's wrong with him," the voice of a child seeped through the wood. "Sister Maya and Sister Clarice can't keep him quiet either."

Returning her attention to the spot beside her, Oris heard a sigh and then some shuffling before the door was open then shut just as quietly. She could have sworn that that sigh translated into, "whatever shall they do when I'm gone," and suddenly planning to escape felt so wrong.

Why did her kidnappers have to be so pitiful that such a heinous crime was committed for a nun who had her hands full taking care of children, children who had probably been orphaned by the war and couldn't be fitted into the clustered orphanages across the state?

Why couldn't Marcka and Tristan have done this job for a slave trader that needed a new supply route or a lustful man looking for new prey?

Oris stared at the parted curtains, touched her hand to her cheek then let out a sigh of her own. The window was open and large enough for two of her to fit through together.

She turned away and shut her eyes, her hands clenched into fist as she thought about what to do next.

At this point escaping seemed to do more harm than good. She was a queen, yes. But she was also an orphan. After she left here she would have nothing but the clothes on her back. How would she find Rodholf without a map or a horse or food? And even if she somehow ran into a member of her own resistance, how would she prove her identity?

If she left then this convent would surely be in shambles. Maybe even destroyed if 'Father' made another attempt to save Eve.

But if she remained. . .

~