Victor stood before the White Monarch statue inside the shrine room, a solemn chamber that connected directly to the church school.

  The stone walls here were smoother than the rest of the church, scrubbed pale by years of incense smoke and candle soot. The air smelled of wax and dried flowers left by past worshippers.

  Behind him, Mary followed at a timid distance.

  She kept her head lowered, fingers tightening around the handle of her basket as though it were an anchor.

  The White Monarch statue towered over them. The statue was carved from pale alabaster, depicting an aged man with an angular face. Deep lines marked his brow and cheeks, giving him an absolute expression.

  He wore a long cassock, heavy folds of stone fabric cascading down to his feet, with a thick cape draped over his shoulders. A large, ornate cross necklace rested prominently on his chest. Upon his head sat an exquisite mitre hat, its surface etched with symmetrical patterns.

  Nesting in his right shoulder was a carved crown.

  In one hand, the statue held an ornate orb crowned with a small cross.

  In another hand, he held a long staff topped with a cross, its head angled toward the heavens, mirroring the posture of the Moon Maiden statue in the village square.

  But unlike her flowing elegance, this statue’s stance was upright and imposing.

  Victor turned his back from the statue and urged the girl to stand next to him with an expectant look in his eyes.

  Mary obeyed. She stepped forward until she stood directly before the White Monarch, her small frame dwarfed by the statue’s presence.

  She silently placed a hand over her heart and murmured.

  “P–praise the White Monarch.”

  Father Victor nodded, a look of satisfaction on his face.

  He wrapped his hand around the girl's slender shoulder and said gently.

  “Miss Mary, I know you to be a bright and intelligent child.”

  “…”

  A chill crept down her spine as his calloused hand rested against her shoulder.

  “Yet it grieves me to see you absent yourself from your lessons so often.” Victor continued, his voice carrying a hint of reproach beneath its warmth. “What should I explain to your father, should he learn of it?”

  Mary lowered her head further.

  “…”

  “Have you given my proposal further consideration?” he asked gently, leaning down so his voice was a conspiratorial whisper near her ear.

  Mary swallowed, her small hands fiddling with the handle of her basket.

  “I–I believe Miss Vine would be a more suitable candidate, Father.”

  For a fleeting moment, Father Victor’s gentle smile tightened, the corners of his mouth pulling down into something unpleasant.

  Mary saw it briefly from the corner of her eye, but it vanished as quickly as it had appeared.

  Father Victor stroked her head tenderly, his fingers brushing through her hair.

  “Do not doubt yourself, Miss Mary. You are the only one compatible with her.”

  “...”

  Mary didn’t dare respond. She pressed her lips together, biting down hard to keep them from trembling.

  “Imagine, child. If you accept this honour, your station in this village will be elevated beyond imagining.

  “The villagers will look up to you. Your father will know such pride, and your dear mother, she will surely smile down upon you from heaven.”

  His hand traced a slow path from her shoulder, down the thin fabric of her sleeve, until they rested lightly upon her wrist.

  ‘!’

  Mary’s breath caught, she restrained her thought.

  “Miss Vine will be powerless to object. You shall have the white wedding dress you dream of, holding young Bennet’s arm as his bride.”

  He paused, letting the image settle.

  “What do you say? Is it not a beautiful dream?”

  Victor withdrew his hand and straightened himself. He turned away from her, his white robe and layered vestments fluttering gently against the stone floor.

  “I trust you will consider my words with the gravity they deserve.” he said over his shoulder. “There are only four days left until the next rite.”

  He stopped at the doorway and smiled gently.

  “Don’t make the same mistake your mother did.”

  He walked out of the shrine room, leaving Mary alone before the cold, impassive statue.

  “Oh dear Mona, what should I do?” Mary murmured, lifting her eyes toward the White Monarch.

  The White Monarch, the sole witness to it all.

  —

  “Mary, give me a moonflower, if you would.”

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  “Here for you, mister!”

  “Mary, child, could you bring this loaf to Mister Otto for me?”

  “Coming!”

  Mary moved through the village with bright energy, her voice chiming wherever she went. She scrubbed floors, carried baskets, ran errands, and sought out anyone who might need an extra pair of hands.

  Coins clinked lightly in her pouch as she worked, but more than that, she earned smiles, thanks, and familiar greetings.

  This was her usual routine.

  ‘I hope Pa returns early today,’ she thought as she wiped her hands on her skirt and glanced toward the treeline.

  When the sun finally dipped low and the sky softened into hues of orange and violet, Mary followed the familiar dirt path toward a small abode at the rear of the village. The path was uneven, worn smooth by years of footsteps, bordered by tall grass and the scent of sap and cut wood.

  Her Pa, Lumber Smith, was a lumberman. As such, he often returned home late. Sometimes he didn’t return for a night or two, sleeping near the forest or staying with fellow workers when jobs ran long.

  ‘But he has a respectable job!’ she reminded herself, lifting her chin.

  Although it might not bring in much coin, a lumberjack was crucial for the village’s life, to take care of the warmth in winter when the snows came.

  She pushed the creaking wooden door open and walked in.

  “Ma, I’m home!”

  The interior was modest and dim, lit only by the lingering glow of sunset filtering through a small window.

  Her gaze fell naturally upon a crude painting resting inside a wooden frame on the wall. It depicted her family, frozen in a moment of happiness.

  The painting had been done by a traveling artist from the city years ago. It was a small miracle that this picture had not been burned when her house was consumed by fire.

  “Ma! Today, I met the most kind gentleman, hehe.”

  She stood before the painting and began talking about Arnold, how they had become friends, and how he had treated her with such unexpected courtesy.

  “And,” she blushed, holding a hand to her warm cheek, “I think he holds a fondness for me. Hehe.”

  Mary spun around in a small circle, skirts swaying, speaking to her mother as if she were still alive and well, listening from her favourite chair.

  “Ma, I wish you were still here.”

  Mary didn’t have many memories of her Ma.

  What she knew came mostly from neighbors’ stories. They said her Ma had been beautiful and gentle, the most sought-after maiden in the area.

  Nobles from distant cities had come all the way for her hand, yet she took her Pa’s instead.

  But fate had not been kind to their family.

  A bitter memory flickered in her mind.

  A fire broke out, while her Ma was caring for her.

  Her Pa had done everything he could, throwing himself into the heart of the flames, desperately searching for them.

  But it was too late.

  Her Ma died, shielding Mary from the flames with her own body.

  ‘Ma.’

  Mary’s smile wavered, but only for a moment.

  “Pa is still very well, Ma.” She stroked the frame tenderly.

  “He’s still strong.”

  Her Pa had been strong.

  He never blamed Mary for her mother’s death.

  Instead, he worked harder than ever, pouring all his strength into raising her alone.

  “I want to help him. But what can I do to help him, Ma?”

  Mary smiled.

  Part of her wanted to fulfill his wish, to marry a good man, to secure a comfortable future.

  But another part of her wanted to stay by his side, to work alongside him, to remain unmarried and care for him when he grew old.

  ‘But I’m weak.’

  Throughout her short life, she had come to realise one thing.

  Mary was not suited for being a lumberjack like her father.

  She was weak, weaker than the boys at the school. She often made mistakes when Lumber taught her how to handle tools or weapons, she was clumsy.

  She made mistakes again and again.

  That’s why she dismissed the idea of being like her Pa, and chose to study diligently instead. It was the only other path she could see.

  Although…

  “I do not wish to see him again.”

  The thought surfaced the moment she remembered Father Victor.

  There was something about him that made her stomach churn.

  It was the reason she had formed the habit of skipping school, choosing instead to study on her own whenever she could. Books felt safer than his presence.

  She had little interaction with boys to begin with, and her pa had never taught her much about such matters. Because of that, she did not truly understand what that feeling of revulsion was. She only knew that it made her want to flee.

  Mary stood quietly in front of her Ma’s painting.

  “Today, Father Victor spoke of it again, Ma, of me becoming the Moon Elf. But I do not know, I am not certain I am suitable for such a role.”

  The Moon Elf. On the day of the Rite, the Moon Maiden would bless the Elf before the full moon, offering the Elf’s purity to Her Majesty.

  It was a symbolism. The moon was associated with Elves, a mythical race believed to bring good harvests and sweet dreams.

  By becoming the Moon Elf, her status in the village would be elevated. A higher standing in the village. But part of her recoiled from the very idea.

  “What should I do, Ma?”

  On one hand, being the Moon Elf would surely help her Pa in some way, earning them favour and perhaps a better standing.

  But on the other hand, she was afraid of change. Change in her surroundings. Change in how people looked at her. Change in relationships. And more than anything, she didn’t want to face Father Victor again.

  “I wonder, what would Madam say?”

  Madam Amanda, the Baroness. Despite being in the same village, she had only met her a few times when her Ma had brought Mary to the estate.

  She had heard they shared a very close relationship.

  Madam had shut herself off from the world the very day her mother died.

  Would Madam blame Mary for her Ma's death? She did not know.

  Lost in contemplation, Mary heard the familiar heavy boots on the path outside the door.

  “Pa!”

  ‘Pa is home! Pa has returned!’

  Through the window, she caught sight of his broad shoulders and towering frame. His usual scruffy beard framed his jaw, and his brown hair, grown past his neck, was tied neatly back.

  His haggard eyes raised concern in her, likely from not sleeping for many days.

  He wore a patched shirt of faded colour, with the chest open. Crude brown trousers clung to his legs, stained with dirt and sap.

  Mary’s face lit up in a bright smile. Her pa carried a heavy pack of wood on his shoulder and hauled a cart full of logs, setting it down in the front yard with a dull thud.

  Mary rushed to the door and flung it open.

  “Pa, you’ve returned!”

  But her Pa, Lumber Smith, only looked down at her with a strange, unreadable gaze.

  Without returning the greeting, he stepped past her and walked into the house.

  Mary hesitated, her smile faltering. She stepped back, her eyes following the axe strapped to his back.

  A thin trickle of dark, red liquid ran along its blade.

  ‘Did he encounter a bear again?’ Mary tilted her head.