Five Winters later…
Morning settled over Saint Veil in a pale, reluctant light. Clouds pressed low across the sky—thick enough to dim the sun, thin enough to let a faint glow seep through.
Mist drifted along the ground in slow curls, gathering in hollows and clinging to the uneven cobblestone that now lined parts of the village road.
The place had changed—though not beyond recognition.
The old wooden gate, once a sagging relic, stood half-rebuilt. Fresh beams braced its sides while a carpenter hammered against the top frame, balancing precariously on a stool someone had wedged under him.
The fencing that followed the road had been replaced in patches with rough-cut stone—local granite, mottled and cold, stacked imperfectly but sturdier than the crooked planks of years prior.
Roofs showed similar attempts at improvement. A few homes bore new shingles, darker than the rest, still smelling faintly of tar. Others simply had their weak spots covered with sheets of thicker board.
Walls had been patched as well—no longer yawning with winter gaps, though one could still see where mismatched timber had been forced into old frames.
And the people…
Their clothing had improved by a hair's breadth. Coats not quite as threadbare. Scarves less ragged. Aprons washed more frequently—though the village remained sparse, its streets occupied by only a few early risers drifting between homes and sheds in the cold morning air.
Near the church, the changes were more deliberate.
The outer walls had been scrubbed, though moss still clung stubbornly to the stone. New lantern posts lined the narrow path leading to the doors, iron frames catching the dim light.
The yard had been cleared of debris, making space for small vegetable plots tended by a pair of novices, their silhouettes faint in the mist.
Not far from the church stood the old well.
It had been reinforced with a ring of grey stone blocks that looked newly quarried—solid, squared, damp with morning dew.
A thick timber beam stretched over the top, supporting the rope and pulley, both of which creaked softly in the cool air. Moss rimmed the base where water had splashed for decades.
A boy stood there.
He could not have been older than five, yet his bearing already showed a quiet poise. His dark hair—soft, medium-length, brushed to the side—caught what little light the morning offered.
His complexion was fair; his features held a surprising refinement, the kind seen in portraits of noble families… despite the simple suspenders crossing his small frame and the black trousers rolled neatly at the ankle.
His shirt, white and crisp at dawn, had already gathered smudges from the well's stones.
He pulled on the rope with a steady pace—small hands tightening, legs bracing awkwardly. The bucket rose against the stone rim. He leaned his weight back with more confidence than strength, the awkwardness of his proportions at odds with the unusual grace behind each motion.
His foot slipped once in the wet soil, but he corrected quickly, jaw tightening as he brought the bucket up and settled it beside him.
A few little girls stood down the path—close enough to see him, far enough to remain unnoticed if he didn't turn.
Their dresses were plain wool, hems patched with darker cloth; hair braided loosely or gathered in ribbons faded from age.
They whispered behind their hands, peering between fingers, giggling when he hefted the heavy bucket with both arms.
He paused midway through lifting it onto his head.
Their giggles sharpened—one pointed, another fled a step back. When he lifted his gaze toward them, bucket balanced neatly atop his hair, they scattered at once, fleeing around a corner with laughter echoing behind them.
He blinked… mildly confused.
But he allowed himself a small, quiet smile.
Then he walked toward the church, the bucket steady despite its weight. The mist curled around his legs as he stepped along the stone path.
Ahead, two men approached from the opposite direction.
Both carried two buckets each.
One was tall and lanky, shoulders narrow as a pitchfork. His clothes hung loose—worn brown trousers tucked into boots that had seen entirely too many winters.
The other was shorter but broad through the chest, his beard untrimmed and his coat patched at both elbows.
They had noticed the boy long before they reached him.
The stocky one slowed, sneer forming. "Tsk. My skin crawls each time that creature strolls by," he muttered, leaning toward the lanky man. "Still cannot fathom what possessed that priest."
The lanky one stifled a snort. "You ought to mind your tongue. You would not wish for him to overhear you maligning the church."
"Church be damned," the stocky one grumbled. "They drain our coffers with their taxes and call it charity." He raised his voice slightly—loud enough for the boy to hear as he neared.
The boy kept his eyes forward.
Just as they crossed paths, the stocky man jutted a shoulder out—deliberately.
"Watch where you tread, boy."
The shove came quick and forceful.
The bucket slid from the boy's hands—slosh—splshh—soaking his shirt and suspenders as the water spilled across him. He hit the ground with a soft thmp, his palms sinking into the wet soil.
Dirt smeared his elbows; cold water ran down his chest in thin streams.
For a brief moment, he just stared upward.
The stocky man loomed over him, breath harsh in the cold air. "What in the devil are you doing lying there? Are you blind?" His lips curled with contempt. "Do those cursed eyes of yours fail to see your betters? Hm?"
The boy's small fists tightened—white knuckles, trembling.
Only for a second.
Then they eased open.
He lifted his chin just enough to be heard, his voice low.
"…You are the one who pushed me."
The stocky man's scowl deepened at the boy's quiet defiance. "You wretched little—" He raised his hand, palm open and ready to strike.
Adriel did not flinch.
Not yet.
His eyes simply followed the upward motion, jaw set.
But the blow never landed.
"Stop right there."
A voice travelled through the mist like a firm bell—softly spoken, yet impossible to ignore.
The man froze mid-motion. A familiar irritation twisted across his face before he slowly turned toward the road.
Sister Anne stood there.
Her arms were crossed, her steps unhurried as she advanced. Five winters had refined her features, not dulled them—her beauty had sharpened into something composed, undeniably mature.
The morning wind pushed strands of her black hair loose from beneath her veil, sending them drifting across her cheek. She brushed one aside and adjusted the thin spectacles on her nose with a silent tap, her gaze narrowing at the two men.
Her eyes flicked to the bucket on the ground, then to the water staining Adriel's shirt. She inhaled once—a quiet, controlled breath—and continued forward.
The stocky man lowered his hand at once, stepping back as though distance might wash the guilt from him. He clicked his tongue, scrambling to regain face. "Sister… keep this little demon of yours on a leash," he said, gesturing vaguely. "The clumsy brat nearly spilled water over my overalls."
Anne didn't blink. "The only thing in need of a leash is your tongue."
A few villagers nearby halted mid-stride, glancing toward the confrontation.
"Do you feel no shame?" she continued. Her voice carried the cool edge of someone who didn't often raise it—but never needed to. "Harassing an innocent child? This boy is more educated and versed in scripture than a wayward sinner such as yourself could ever aspire to be."
A flicker of red anger climbed the man's face. His jaw tensed, shoulders hiked as though he wished to spit something venomous back—but something held him still. Fear? Pride? Perhaps the memory of Titus's stare.
His lanky companion tugged gently at his sleeve and whispered, "Let it be. We cannot—"
"I know," the stocky man snapped, shaking the hand off with a grunt. He turned to walk away, muttering curses under his breath.
He barely made two steps before Anne's voice reached him again.
"Hold a moment."
He stopped.
She stooped, lifting the fallen bucket with calm, measured grace. Droplets slid down the wood, splashing at her boots. She walked to the man and extended it toward him.
"I am not blind to what occurred here," she said. "Rectify yourself before Father Titus hears of this."
The man's scowl deepened, settling like stone under his brow. Still, he retrieved the bucket. "I understand, Sister… may the Lord watch over you."
"And over you," she replied evenly.
He muttered something indistinct and stomped off with his lanky companion trailing behind.
Adriel, still seated in the wet soil, watched the entire exchange. His mind worked far faster than his young face revealed.
'Sister Anne…'
'She carries herself like someone unafraid. Someone the village listens to.
And I—.'
His thoughts were cut short as two women passed on the opposite side of the road. They leaned close, whispering loud enough for his sharp ears to catch.
"Oh, it is that boy and the insistent nun."
"The church has grown far too lax. Allowing that little creature to wander about… do they not see the danger, with our children playing nearby?"
Their words left no sting on his face—no reaction, no crack in composure. At five winters old, he already knew to expect little kindness from the people around him.
'They always disapprove of me, he thought. Regardless of what Father teaches… regardless of the Word…'
His hand drifted to a small stone beside him. Without thinking, he curled his fingers. The surface fractured, thin lines spreading like brittle frost.
Before the stone could shatter completely—
"Adriel?"
Anne's voice broke through his haze.
Not stern.
Not loud.
Just… concerned.
She knelt beside him at once. "Heavens, you are drenched." She brushed wet strands of hair from his forehead, checking his sleeves, his collar. "Are you hurt? What if you catch an illness? Medicine is hardly affordable, and at your age—"
He blinked at her fussing—embarrassment rising, but not from the fall. He didn't understand why her presence made his thoughts scatter. Why her voice untied knots he hadn't known were in him.
"I'm… I'm fine, Sister," he murmured.
"Nonsense," she said, steady but gentle. She took his arm and helped him to his feet, dusting dirt from his trousers and shooing water from his shirt with quick brushes of her hand. "Look at you. Come, we must get you warmed."
A tiny smile edged onto his lips—unbidden.
It felt strange.
But good.
Anne noticed the smile mid-inspection. She paused, spectacles slipping slightly as she looked at him. Adriel froze, suddenly fearing he appeared foolish.
But she only sighed softly… and returned his smile.
"Come along," she said, guiding him toward the church path. "We will run you a bath. Father Titus is asking for you as well."
Adriel walked beside her—small hand loosening around the now-cracked stone, letting it fall back into the dirt without a sound.