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 asmenin 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?
