Time crawls. Every small sound makes me jump—the scratch of someone turning in sleep, the rustle of wool, the soft whistle of breath drawn and released. I count heartbeats. I lose count. I begin again.
At last, the latch moves.
The sound is soft, but to me it splits the dark cleanly in two. The door opens once more, slower this time. A sliver of starlight spills across the packed earth floor. My breath catches in my throat.
I rise again, quicker now, the urgency pressing at my ribs. I do not look at anyone. I do not think. My feet find the narrow path between sleeping bodies. The air shifts as I pass, but no one wakes. The door grows larger with every step, the slice of sky widening before me. I see the trees beyond, their branches stirring faintly against the night. I feel the pull of them like a hand at my back.
Just a few more steps.
The cold air reaches my face. I am close enough to see the stars clearly now, scattered above the dark line of the forest. My fingers lift, ready to slip around the edge of the door—
A hand closes around my arm. It jerks me backward before I can even gasp, fingers digging into flesh, halting me mid-step. My breath vanishes. I turn slowly, dread crawling up my spine.
Old Petru stands there, eyes wide and unblinking in the dark.
His fingers dig deeper when I twist, the bone of his thumb pressing into the soft inside of my arm. I can feel the heat of him through my sleeve, the sour edge of ale on his breath as he leans close.
"Where are you going, girl?" he whispers, though there is nothing gentle in it.
The door stands open beside us, night pouring in like spilled ink. My chest heaves once before I force the air steady.
"I—" The word fractures in my mouth. "I saw the door. It was open. I thought—" I swallow. "I thought it best to close it."
His eyes narrow. In the dim light they gleam, as though measuring the shape of my lie.
He gives a faint laugh, but his grip does not loosen. "No need for you to fret," he says. "The men keep watch. Mircea only stepped out to ease himself."
The pressure on my arm increases as he speaks, until a thin line of pain runs from wrist to shoulder. I force myself not to pull away. The night air brushes my cheek for one last breath, carrying the scent of pine and frost. I try to hold it there.
"You’ll go back with the women now," he adds, voice tightening slightly. "You must rest. It is not fitting for a bride to wander about at night."
My voice has gone somewhere beyond reach. I nod, the motion small. My throat feels closed.
He studies my face for another moment, searching for something I cannot allow him to see. Then, at last, his fingers release me. The skin where he held me burns in their absence. I step back without looking at him, eyes fixed on the open doorway.
Old Mircea’s shape moves toward us from the dark, adjusting his belt. He slips inside with a grunt, and the door swings inward behind him.
Stars vanish one by one behind rough wood. The trees disappear into shadow. The air thins and is gone.
The latch falls into place with a soft, final click. I stand there a heartbeat too long, staring at the seam where night has been shut out, as though I might will it open again. The scent of the forest lingers faintly in my lungs, already fading.
Behind me, the barn settles back into its heavy breathing.
I return to my place without feeling the steps beneath my feet.
The blanket scratches against my palms as I lower myself onto it. The barn settles around me again—breath, straw, the faint shifting ofbodies—but it all feels distant now, muffled, as though I am already somewhere else. My arm throbs where Petru held me. My throat pulses where he marked me. I draw my shawl higher, curling inward, trying to hold the warmth inside my chest where it hurts the most.
Tomorrow they will bind me. Tomorrow there will be vows and hands and eyes watching to make sure I do not falter.
My chest tightens until breathing feels like work. I press my forehead against the crook of my arm and bite down hard to stifle the sound rising in my throat. The scent of hay fills my lungs. It does nothing to steady me.
Please.
The word forms silently on my tongue.
I close my eyes.
Please let me sleep. Let me wake beneath the trees. Let me open my eyes and see the sky instead of these beams. Let me feel moss beneath my back instead of straw. Let him be there. Let his hands be the first thing I feel again. Let me feel again the weight of him beneath me, his hands steady at my hips while I move, guiding nothing, forcing nothing. Letting me choose. Letting me take.
