November of the Sainted Year (First Civil Month)

Adana Bimario, cousin to Tasha Bimal, watched in uneasy silence as her husband, Sylan Syresmundi, sat speaking with his cousin, Grenar Krevoski. The latter, she had long come to regard as little more than trouble. A man once sharp, now plagued by madness. His mind, she suspected, had been frayed by prolonged exposure to Masha. Though Adana never spoke it aloud, she feared the girl. Masha wore sweetness like a veil, but there were moments when her voice carried the chill of something evil. There was a venom in her words that dripped straight into the minds of those who listened—words that certain men, like Grenar, seemed to absorb as though they were divine edicts rather than delusions. Grenar had been the worst among them, but lately, even Sylan had begun to change.

He had grown distant not only from her, but from Sylia, whom he had once pursued openly with his brothers and cousins. None of them had ever bothered to conceal their intimacy with Sylia. Least of all her two husbands, Sylan and Sarendo Syresmundi. Or rather, the men who had once shared that title. She corrected herself bitterly. As of a few days ago, Sarendo was no longer her husband. The divorce had been swift, final.

It was now the second week of the Sainted Month of November, and everything around her seemed to be shifting. One of her sons had left home for good. A rift had formed within the Syresmundi line, dividing it into two bitter factions: those who pledged loyalty to Masha, and those who would stand beside Sylia until the end.

The tension had reached its peak when Sylan and Sarendo clashed in a violent fight that left bruises on both their bodies. And in the aftermath, Adana had been told to choose.

How could she not remain with Sylan? He was the one she lived with, the one who, despite his distance, still shared her space. Sarendo, for all his quiet strength, had grown cold. He barely touched her anymore nor did he touch his other wife. If she had chosen him, she knew how it would end. He would tuck her away in some forgotten household, claim his duty was elsewhere, and forget she ever existed.

In truth, she had always known this day would come. Sarendo was the most powerful of the two, adopted like his elder brother Kladios, and destined to side with Sylia—the only force in their world strong enough to free him from his forced Magic Enslavement and restore the prestige of his bloodline.

Only fools, madmen, or those desperate for a quick end would align themselves with Masha, who seemed poised to drag them all into ruin. That had been made unmistakably clear just days prior.

Now, as Adana listened to her husband speaking in low, conspiratorial tones with Grenar, she found herself wondering whether she had chosen correctly after all. Certainly, she and Sylan had more children together but given what she had overheard so far, it was becoming increasingly clear that she would soon need a new husband, and perhaps even a new home.

They currently lived in the military quarters of the Sheltered Slums Area, in a modest house assigned to them through an internal decree. It was, at least, an improvement over the standard military barracks they had previously endured—barracks that left them freezing in the winter and sweltering in the summer. Poorly constructed, those early lodgings had been embedded with outdated Runes that required powerful, unrestrained Magic to properly activate. In practice, that meant they barely functioned at all. Most families had since abandoned them. Only a few stubborn inhabitants from Krakow or the semi-independent lands of Krasavira still clung to those dwellings. They usually belonged to families hailing from ancient Ducal or Marquess lines with Darkling gifts potent enough to overcome the faulty enchantments.

Her husband, however, belonged to a far lower class. His Magic was restricted, monitored. His abilities neutered by bureaucratic control.

The very first homes they were offered may have been worse still. The doors would not stay shut in the storm season, and the windows shattered frequently from loose debris and wind-blown stones. One such incident had left a daughter of hers injured. That was the moment Adana made her choice. She moved them permanently into the current house. It had been given to them directly by Sylia and Syl Celia, a gesture that meant real protection. No State Guard, no matter how bold, dared approach a home under their Blessing.

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Before, she'd endured endless harassment from guards and enforcers who saw her as easy prey. Now, she had peace.

And there was Glumar Syresmundi, anyway.

Her husband's cousin lived nearby. He was closer to her age, someone she had known for many years. Sylan was nearly a decade older than her, and with each year, more distant. Glumar, on the other hand, was kind. Steady. Protective. He might even marry her if she asked, if only to shield her from further instability. And perhaps that alone would be enough.

Adana sighed as she folded the linens she had just brought in from outside. She would have to remind her husband, yet again, that the house they lived in belonged to Sylia. Plotting her murder or enslavement was not the path to salvation. It was madness. Perhaps she should send word to Master Mathias, if only to distance herself from whatever reckless ideas were fermenting in the shadows. Sylia would know she wasn't involved but it was better to make it clear to all. Last time had been more than enough. Her half-sister had been scorched alive, and truth be told, she had deserved it.

When Adana learned what she had unknowingly supported, what she had been tricked into upholding, she had wept for days. Her mother, Yzilda Karmieni, had comforted her but hadn't spared her from a thorough scolding. Yzilda was not the kind of woman who held her tongue, not even with her children. Yet since then, their family's fate had shifted profoundly.

Her mother's circumstances had changed, as had those of several siblings. No longer did they suffer in the Slums of the countryside, scraping together meals or huddling for warmth in crumbling houses.

Adana's sister Susanne and her mother Yzilda had been restored to their rightful titles, settled within newly sheltered lands governed by one of Sylia and Syl Celia's Divisions. Not all members of the family had received such grace. Some were left behind especially those descended from the Bimal line, or those merely related to it. The Bimal were not trusted. Not even their cousin families were.

Still, for many who had once been forsaken, their conditions had improved. Their children now attended better schools. Their homes were safer, warmer, built by the hands of Sylia's own Divisions. And here was her husband, plotting betrayal. Dreaming of severing ties to the very powers that had saved them, just to crawl back under the rule of the corrupt Province Lord and dance to the tune of the False King's whims.

Was he truly planning another rebellion, alongside Grenar and their ilk? Had the deaths of his father and other kin, who had been scorched by Divine Wind after pledging loyalty to Masha, taught him nothing? If anything, it had hardened him further, made him more susceptible to the lies of false Saints and hollow Gods, the ones who whispered promises without power.

Adana stilled. That, perhaps, was the root of it. Loss had pushed him over. He could not forgive the world that had incinerated those he loved, even if they'd been wrong. Even if they had chosen their own ruin.

And yet, he still wore the black and dark blue uniform of the loyal forces—the very same forces who were funded directly by Sylia and Master Mathias. Mostly by Sylia. Mathias had a softer influence. He was known more for distributing meat, ale, and coin when he was inclined. Sylia paid the troops. She housed them. Fed their children. Protected their families.

Grenar, of course, didn't wear that uniform. His allegiances still lay with the Province Lord's ranks, though even those were financed, three-quarters of them, by Sylia's administration. Kladios had told her that, not long ago.

Adana had already suspected as much. Every stipend sent to the families of soldiers, every ration of food or cloth, came from Sylia's coffers. She looked after everyone.

The Province Lord had once let them starve and used them as pawns, traded them like tools. Even their weapons and armor had been unreliable.

Some soldiers had been more favored by Sylia than others, their uniforms adorned with colored threads that shimmered with protective enchantments. Blue. Black. Silver. And gold.

Adana didn't know the meanings behind each shade, but she'd seen the way men with gold-threaded uniforms carried themselves with pride. Some had even bragged that not even Nobles wore those Sigils. That they were chosen by the Goddess herself. That they bore that Divine thread to guard the City against evil.

She once witnessed a caravan of foreign clergy stop mid-journey to bow before a unit of those soldiers, murmuring thanks and reverence. One of the guards explained it to her afterward. Some of those golden threads came from the Golden Phoenixes. They were said to protect not just the body, but the Soul itself. Even from the powers of Divinities.

And now, Adana laughed bitterly to herself. That was the woman her husband was scheming to betray.

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