9 Vandaryn, Year 431
Teresa clung to her mother’s robe as the sun broke over the hill. Angelica, too young to understand, patted her sister’s arm and babbled to the goat grazing at the palisade. Catellina bent and pressed her forehead to theirs—one kiss for memory, one for hope.
The steward of Zammora, an old man named Harun, bowed. “Your daughters will be as my own. This I swear by hearth and rain.” Catellina rose. “Keep them near the shrine. Let them walk the olive rows. Tell Teresa she must keep her promises.” – “She will,” Harun said.
That morning, Catellina rode out. No veil. No guard. She caught the army before they reached the river’s bend. Her horse was lean, her eyes steady. The men stared, but no one dared speak. Giti did. “You should return. There’s no shame in staying.” – “I’m not here for pride,” Catellina replied. “I serve where I’m needed. And I am needed.” Gaspar met her eyes. “It won’t be safe.” – “It isn’t safe anywhere.”
She rode at the center of the march. Water stores. Grain weights. Sick rolls. Bandage counts. She bore them all. Tatva, the foreigner, observed her closely. “Many claim virtue,” he told Gaspar. “Few count beans and wounds in the same breath.” By the third week, men no longer whispered. They came to her with cracked feet, fevers, missing sons. She never promised more than rest, food, and a listening ear.
In the shadow of the dunes, when firelight danced low and silence hung between footsteps, she began to pray aloud. Not to the gods. Not to the Exile Hero. To no one.
She prayed for the living.