"Thirty prostrations," he instructs. "Each day. Morning and night. Until the Lord is satisfied."
"I will, Father."
"Now," he says, "recite the Lord’s Prayer."
Relief flickers through me. This, I know.
I cross myself, quick and practiced, and begin. My voice is soft, steady as I lower my gaze, letting the words carry me.
"Our Father, who art in heaven—"
"Look at me, child."
The command cuts clean through the prayer.
I hesitate, confusion flickering through me. Still, my head lifts again, my eyes finding his once more.
"Again," he says.
My mouth feels dry.
"Our Father," I begin again, quieter now, "who art in heaven, hallowed be Thy name…"
I hold his gaze as he asked.
This is the cost. This is what must be endured for wanting what I wanted, for what I allowed. What keeps the evil away.
"Thy kingdom come…"
***
The church door closes behind me with a hollow sound.
For a moment, I stand there, blinking in the abrupt light, my eyes aching as they adjust. The chill still clings to my knees, to my bones, as ifI have carried a piece of the floor out with me. My neck feels stiff from looking up. I lower my gaze instinctively, smoothing my skirts, pressing my palms together to still their trembling.
I draw a breath—
A cry tears through it before I can finish. It echoes once against the church wall, then breaks apart into murmurs and hurried footsteps.
Another voice answers it, then another. Footsteps scrape against packed earth. Doors open. People spill into the path, drawn by the sound, all turning the same way.
I move with them.
The crowd thickens as we pass between the houses, shawls pulled tight, heads craning. I catch flashes of colour among the familiar browns and grays—painted cloth, loose hair. The travellers linger at the edge of the gathering, quieter now, watchful. One of their women crouches, fingers brushing the grass as she studies something unseen. Another rests a hand on her arm, murmuring something low and quick in their language.
As I draw nearer, it is the smell that reaches me first. Metallic. Sour and thick in the air, cutting through the familiar scents of trampled grass and animal warmth. Someone sobs. Something cold slides down my spine as I press forward, drawn despite myself.
Two sheep lie still on the ground.
Their wool is matted and darkened, pressed flat against their sides. One lies twisted, legs bent at an angle that makes my stomach turn; the other rests strangely whole, as if it simply decided to stop breathing where it stood. Their eyes stare wide and glassy, fixed on nothing.
There is no tearing. No scattered fleece. No gore slicking the grass as there should be. Only stillness. Emptiness.
Wolves tear. They rip and scatter. They leave ruin behind them, red splashed everywhere, bone and fur dragged into the brush. I have seen it before—everyone here has.
My breath catches painfully. This is wrong. This is not how animals kill.
A prayer rises to my lips without thought, fingers brushing the beads hidden beneath my sleeve.
