Bishop Anderson's Perspective
The third day. The morning air was thin and brittle, carrying the scent of pine resin, horse sweat, and old smoke from last night's fires. Frost still clung to the shaded edges of the trail like dying breath. The camp had broken early—no fanfare, just the tired choreography of hardened soldiers, hollow-eyed healers, and half-awake guards.
The caravan creaked back into motion, wheels groaning against damp earth. Birds sang above, indifferent to the holiness of the company.
I walked with the procession, hands folded neatly over my chest. My pace was measured. Posture upright. A bishop among the faithful, even in the wild.
Then I saw her.
She wasn't in the carriage with the other healers. No blanket draped over her legs. No caretaker fussing. Just walking. Calm. Alone.
Like she belonged here.
I narrowed my eyes and adjusted my robe.
"Alliyana," I called, soft and smooth.
She turned, her expression open and polite.
"Good morning, Bishop Anderson," she said with a faint smile, as if greeting an old friend—not a man who had personally condemned her.
No fear. Not even a flicker.
I caught up to her, boots crunching over hardened soil and scattered twigs.
"Why are you out here?" I asked, tone even. "The healers are in the carriages where it's warm."
"I enjoy walks," she replied, glancing ahead again.
My brows furrowed. "We'll be marching for hours. That's not something little girls are built for."
She tilted her head slightly, then smiled—genuinely, sweetly.
"Then you better keep up," she said. "Wouldn't want you falling behind… little girl."
I stopped.
The words weren't cruel. They weren't loud. Just quietly disrespectful. Worse, clever.
She kept walking, hands folded behind her back like a schoolteacher—no, a matron—stoic and unhurried.
I felt the heat crawl up my neck. My hand lifted on instinct. Open palm. Not enough to injure. Just enough to remind her.
She didn't flinch.
She had seen it coming. Expected it. Her body language didn't change.
But before I could bring it down—
A hand caught my wrist.
Firm. Warm. Gloved.
Alana Sato.
I turned, breath caught behind clenched teeth. She regarded me with cool detachment—neither friendly nor hostile. Just watching.
"Bishop Anderson," she said evenly.
"Ah—Paladin Sato," I nodded, too quickly. "Yes. Good morning."
Her grip didn't loosen. "What are you doing?"
I opened my mouth, then hesitated.
Alliyana answered for me. "We were just playing," she said, smiling with a sincerity that made the lie sound like gospel.
The paladin looked between us. Then, slowly, let go of my wrist.
I smoothed my sleeve, pretending it hadn't trembled.
The girl kept walking, as if nothing had happened.
The indignity of it boiled under my skin. I—a man of the cloth—being managed by a soldier and dismissed by a child.
But it was more than that.
She walked like someone much older. Her back straight. Her hands calmly behind her. No tension in her stride. No fear in her eyes.
She oozed something I couldn't name.
Presence.
Not forced. Not theatrical. Something innate.
As if she was born not to kneel—but to be knelt before.
I stared at the ground and moved forward.
And as I did, I felt her gaze on me again. I turned.
She was looking back. Still walking. Still smiling.