The village streets were alive with the fading hum of evening activity as Priest John made his way home from the council meeting. Lanterns flickered to life along the dirt paths, casting wavering pools of light that danced with the shadows of passersby. Old women hurried with baskets of unsold goods, their skirts swishing softly, while a few rough women lingered near the tavern, sharing low laughs over mugs of ale. The air carried the earthy scent of cooling soil and distant cookfires, a familiar comfort for the priest John, after the day's tensions. But tonight, something felt off to him, like the whispers seemed sharper, and the glances of women were longer than usual.
John's robes brushed the ground slightly as he walked, his steps measured at first, his mind still churning over Sara's audacity at today's meeting. That woman, with her noble backing, thinking she could dictate to him, the priest, the village's spiritual anchor.
Just thinking about it one more time, made his fists clenched at his sides, the frustration simmering out of him. He nodded curtly to a couple of villagers who greeted him, their "Evening, Father" carrying the usual respect. But as he passed a cluster of women near the well, their conversation hushed abruptly, their eyes darting away when he tried to lock eyes with them, as he does every day out of habit.
He paused, his brow furrowing at their odd behaviour. One of them, an older woman with a shawl draped over her shoulders, murmured something to her companion, too low to catch fully, but he heard fragments: "...priest's daughter... in the square...ohhh…poor woman… stripped like that..." The words hit him like a stray pebble, insignificant at first, but sharp enough to draw his attention instantly. John turned, his voice steady but edged. "What was that, sister? Speak plainly if you've something to say."
The women exchanged uneasy glances, the older one shifting her bucket. "Oh, nothing, Father. Just... market talk. You know how it spreads." But her companion, younger and bolder, leaned in with a whisper that carried. "It's about Lady Selene, your daughter. They say a boy made her take off her dress right there in front of everyone. Over some spilled water or such. The whole village's buzzing about it. Don't you know it yet?!"
John's stomach twisted, a cold worry forming in his head. Made her? His daughter? The priest's heir, humiliated in public? He forced a calm smile, the one he used in sermons, but his pulse quickened inside. "Rumors are the devil's whispers, sister. Don't heed it to mind. I'll look into it."
He turned away, but his steps quickened now, the measured pace giving way to urgency. The whispers followed him like ghosts, another villager nodding knowingly, a jar of water tugging at her waist.
By the time he reached the edge of the square, the fragments had pieced together into a damning picture inside his head. Selene, his daughter, was exposed by a boy in broad daylight in front of the market. His reputation, now tarnished.
The loss he suffered in the council already fueled a fire inside him; now this? He broke into a hurried stride, robes flapping, his breath coming shorter as anger bubbled beneath the surface.
The heavy door of the priest's house creaked open under his forceful push, slamming against the wall with a bang that rattled the nearby shelves. The air inside was thick with the scent of burning incense and polished wood, a facade of holiness that masked the storm brewing within. Selene stood in the center of the living room. She was wearing her dress, though it had some dirt in it. Helga hovered behind her, eyes downcast, her apron twisted in her hands. The evening light filtered through the curtains in thin, golden slits, casting long shadows that seemed to stretch toward Selene like accusing fingers.
John's face was flushed, his robes disheveled from the brisk walk, a vein pulsing at his temple. Sara's words from the meeting still rang in his ears, her threats, her smug confidence. He'd left the council chamber seething, barely containing his fury in front of the others. But now, at home, with the rumors fresh in his mind, the mask he was wearing all this time began to slip. How can he get humiliated twice in a day?! He was the priest of this village after all.
He tossed his satchel onto the table with a thud, his eyes narrowing as he finally looked at his daughter properly. She looked smaller than usual, her posture hunched.
"What happened?" he demanded, his voice low but tight, like a bowstring pulled too tight, about to snap any minute now. He stepped closer, scanning her disheveled state, the chemise, the pants, no proper dress. The whispers outside had prepared him, but seeing it confirmed twisted the knife. "The whole village is talking. Tell me it's not true, Selene. Tell me you didn't shame me like that." His last sentence's tone was a little higher than the others.
Selene flinched, her shoulders drawing up instinctively. She'd seen this look before, too many times. The sweet priest the village adored, the one who blessed babies and consoled widows with gentle words, vanished behind closed doors. Here, he was a tempest, unpredictable and cruel, especially when his pride took a hit.
"Father... it was... I didn't mean..." Her voice trembled, the words tumbling out in fragments. How could she explain? The market, the boy, the dress pooling at her feet while the crowd stared. Her cheeks burned anew, not just from the memory, but from the fear knotting her gut. This house had always been her cage, ever since she was small, when her mother's death left her alone with him. Back then, the slaps came for spilled milk or forgotten prayers, each one etching deeper into her soul. "Be perfect," he'd say, "or the gods will abandon us like they did your mother." The village expected her to be the priest's flawless daughter, poised and powerful, but at home, perfection was a shield she could never hold steady enough.
John's breath came heavier now, the rumors fueling his simmering anger from the meeting. He paced a step, his hands clenching and unclenching. "An accident? You stripped in the square like some common whore is an accident? In front of the whole village?" His voice rose gradually, echoing off the walls, building like a gathering wind. He snatched a glass from the side table, the water inside sloshing wildly, his grip tightening as disbelief gave way to fury.
Selene's heart pounded. She raised her arms just in time as he hurled it at her in a burst of frustration. The glass shattered against her forearm, shards flying like angry bees. Pain lanced through her skin, warm blood trickling down her arm in thin rivulets. She gasped, stumbling back, but bit her lip to stifle the cry. Crying only made it worse; she'd learned that young, hiding bruises under long sleeves while smiling at church services.
Helga froze behind her, her stout frame rigid. She knew better than to speak; interrupting meant sharing the punishment, and John's blows fell harder on servants. Her eyes darted to Selene, wide with silent apology, but she stayed silent, her breath shallow.
John's chest heaved, his face twisting as the reality sank in. "You shamed me! The priest's daughter, reduced to that? Do you know what they're saying out there? That my blood is weak, that I can't control my own house!" His voice cracked with rising intensity, the council's humiliation layering onto this fresh wound. He grabbed a vase next, his hand shaking slightly before he smashed it against the wall near her head. Pottery fragments rained down, one nicking her cheek, drawing another line of blood.
Selene ducked, her hands trembling as she pressed them to her wounds. The metallic scent of blood filled her mouth where she'd bitten her tongue. This wasn't new; the outbursts had started small after Mother's funeral, a slap for crying too loud, then escalating as she grew. By twelve, she'd learned to anticipate his moods, to shrink herself to avoid them. But the village's eyes added weight; she had to be strong outside, the untouchable lady, while inside, the trauma festered like an open wound.
"Father, please," she whispered, her voice cracking as the pain and fear mounted. "It wasn't my fault. I tried to…."
John lunged forward, his hand tangling in her hair. He yanked hard, forcing her to her knees with a sharp cry. The pull burned her scalp, tears springing unbidden to her eyes. "Well, then you should have tried harder! Whose fault is it then? Tell me the boy's name. The one who dared touch you, who made a fool of us!"
Selene's mind raced, the pain blurring her thoughts. She didn't know his name; in the chaos, it hadn't mattered. Just his face, those steady eyes that had stripped her bare without a touch. "I... I don't know," she gasped, her scalp throbbing.
Silence fell for a heartbeat, then John's face darkened further, veins bulging. "Huh, what did you say?! You don't know? You let some nameless scum humiliate you, and you don't even know his name?!" He tightened his grip, dragging her forward toward the fireplace, where embers glowed hot and angry. The heat licked at her face, promising worse pain, his rage now fully ignited by the last sentence.
Helga couldn't stay silent anymore. Her voice trembled as she stepped forward slightly. "It's Lys, my lord. Lys Veyne."
John froze, his head snapping toward her. He released Selene's hair with a shove, sending her sprawling beside the fireplace. She caught herself on the rug, gasping, her vision swimming.
"Veyne?" John echoed, his voice a dangerous rumble, the name pulling him back from the brink for a moment. He stepped closer to Helga, towering over her. She was half a foot shorter, her ample frame seeming to shrink under his gaze.
Helga swallowed, her throat bobbing. "Not exactly, my lord. I think his family migrated from the Silandor Kingdom, like others. They're nobodies, really, just settlers scraping by somehow."
John's lips curled into a smirk, but it held no humor; the information stoked his anger rather than quenching it. "So you're telling me a mere migrant peasant got the better of my girl? Cornered her enough to make her strip in public?" He loomed closer, his breath hot, the rage building again as the full scope of the insult settled in.
Helga nodded faintly, her voice steady despite the fear in her eyes. "I... I was there, my lord. Close to her. But I couldn't stop that madman. He was too quick, too bold."
The words hung in the air, and John's face contorted. "Couldn't stop him? Where were you, then? Standing there like a useless lump?" He grabbed her hair in a flash, yanking down with brutal force. Helga cried out as her head jerked, her body slamming into the wall with a thud that shook the portraits behind her. She stumbled, crashing into the table next, fruits rolling off like fleeing rats, apples thudding to the floor, a pear squishing under her foot.
John didn't stop. His open palm cracked across her face, once, twice, the slaps echoing like whip cracks, his frustration from the day channeling into each blow. Helga's cheeks reddened instantly, blood trickling from her lip. She raised her arms to shield herself, but he batted them away, his rage turned into a blind force now.
Selene pushed herself up, her own blood dripping onto the rug. The sight of Helga, her loyal shadow, the one who'd bandaged her childhood scrapes and whispered comforts during Father's storms, seeing her getting beaten like that, twisted something inside her. Helga had been her only constant, a buffer against the isolation. "Father, please! Let her go!" Selene's voice broke through, raw and desperate. "It wasn't her fault. She tried, she was right there, but he... he wouldn't stop."
John paused, his hand mid-swing, breathing heavy. He turned slowly toward Selene, his eyes narrowing. "Then whose fault is it, girl? Yours? For being weak?"
Selene gulped, her throat dry as sand. This was the moment, the answer could tip the scales. She'd learned to navigate these rages, to shift blame just enough to survive. But the truth burned inside her: it was half hers and half Lys's fault. Yet admitting she was also guilty of this incident meant more pain. Social pressure outside demanded she be iron-clad, the priest's heir, but here, vulnerability was a weapon, which could be turned against her. Trauma from years of this made her sure of that.
"Speak up!" John bellowed, his voice shaking the room, the accumulated slights of the day erupting fully.
Selene lifted her chin, forcing the words out louder this time. "It was that Lys's fault. He... he forced it. Made me."
John's grip on Helga's hair loosened, and he shoved her away. She crumpled to the floor, her face a mess of welts and blood, unrecognizable under the swelling. A sob escaped her, muffled against the rug.
John stepped closer to Selene, his voice dropping to a cold whisper that chilled her more than the shouts. "Yes. That's what I wanted to hear. Why didn't you say it sooner?" He loomed over her, his breath hot on her face. "So why wait here now? Let's go find that bastard and make an example out of him, shall we? We have to teach him what happens when you cross the priest's blood."
Selene didn't respond, her eyes fixed on Helga's huddled form. A tear slipped down her cheek, mixing with the blood on her skin. The house felt smaller, the walls closing in, just like always. Outside, she ruled with sharp words and status; inside, she was still that scared girl, trapped in the cycle her father had forged for her. But tonight, the crack of that cycle felt deeper, the trauma of today stirring something new, a quiet resolve, buried under her fear.