“Obedience. Obedience. Obedience.”

  The word struck the chapel again and again, each repetition pressing down on my chest until it felt harder to breathe. The clergyman stood above us, hands gripping the pulpit as if it might flee him, his voice swelling to fill every crack in the stone hall.

  “The Father has taught us,” he proclaimed, “that through obedience, our salvation is assured.”

  I sat stiff on the bench, knees together, hands folded the way my mother had taught me. Around me, heads bowed in practiced unison. Even the candles seemed to lean toward him, their flames trembling as if afraid to stand upright.

  “Have faith, my beloved brothers and sisters,” he continued, voice thick with emotion. “For the Pontiff bleeds for you. He weeps for you. He cries out to the Father in the dark of night, carrying your sins upon his own back.”

  A wet sound caught in his throat. Spittle flecked the wood of the pulpit. I could not tell if it was sweat or tears that ran down his face, only that the sight of it made my stomach turn.

  “It is our sacred duty,” he shouted now, “to submit ourselves fully to the counsel of Pontiff Ulric. To trust his judgment. To obey his word without question. For he has been chosen to lead us to the glorious heaven above.”

  The crowd shifted, a ripple of murmured assent. Someone behind me whispered a prayer. I did not turn to look.

  The clergyman leaned forward, eyes burning with something fierce and unblinking.

  “Through obedience,” he said softly, almost tenderly, “we keep the Devil at bay.”

  Silence followed. Heavy. Expectant.

  I felt it then — the weight of the room pressing inward, the certainty that doubt itself was a sin that could be smelled, hunted, dragged into the light. My fingers dug into my palms until they ached. I wondered, briefly, if the Devil truly feared obedience… or if obedience was his finest work.

  My eyes burned — not for the tears fallen on the pulpit, but perhaps for the truth I would not live to see.

  ***

  The bells rang once.

  Then again.

  Then a third time, low and hollow, shaking dust from the cathedral rafters.

  The service was over.

  Benches scraped against stone as the congregation rose as one. Cloaks were gathered, prayers murmured, heads kept low as they filed through the great cathedral doors. Cold daylight spilled inside, pale and thin, and I followed it out like a man released from underwater.

  My father was waiting for me just beyond the threshold.

  He adjusted his spectacles as he always did when thinking, thumb and forefinger pinching the bridge before settling them back into place. His coat was threadbare at the elbows, patched once, then again, but clean. He did not bow his head to the clergymen as they passed. Neither did he hurry.

  We walked together through the streets of Old Tumbledown, our boots tapping softly against the uneven stones. It was a quiet town — too small to matter, too far from the capital to be watched closely by the Marantell Empire. Smoke drifted lazily from chimneys. A dog slept beneath a cart. Life went on, unremarkable and unseen.

  Our block of Clan Verity sat at the edge of town, where the stones gave way to packed earth and the forest began to press close.

  My father slowed.

  He looked at me then — really looked — as if measuring how much of the morning had lodged itself inside me. His mouth tightened. He sighed.

  “Listen to me, Thomas,” he said quietly.

  I met his eyes.

  “The preachers will drone on and on about tithes, sacrifice, and sacraments,” he continued, voice low enough that even the walls would struggle to hear. “They always do. They speak as if truth can be portioned out by those men in robes.”

  He gestured vaguely back toward the cathedral.

  “But the truth worth dying for,” he said, “is not found at a pulpit.”

  He tapped his chest once, then pointed outward — to the trees lining the road, to the stream cutting through the low fields beyond the houses.

  “Our sovereign lord is there. In the roots and the water. In the air you breathe without thinking. No man can claim him. No Pontiff can speak for him.”

  His mouth twitched — not quite a smile.

  “Let them have their speeches.”

  We resumed walking.

  The bells rang again behind us, distant now. They sounded smaller the farther we went, until the forest swallowed them whole.

  We had not gone far when the street opened into the square.

  A crowd had already gathered.

  They stood in a loose ring, murmuring softly, some with hands clasped, others with arms folded tight as if bracing against the cold. No one shouted. No one wept. It had the quiet of something expected.

  The gallows had been raised at the center of the square.

  Fresh timber. New rope.

  Two executioners stood at either end of the platform — large men, tall and broad, clad in black armor trimmed with dull gold. Their helms were open, their faces bare and expressionless, as if this were no different from standing guard at a gate.

  A clergyman stood between them, robes stirring slightly in the breeze as he read the last rites.

  Three men knelt on the platform.

  Wooden placards hung from their necks, each letter painted thick and black.

  THIEF. MURDERER. And the last—

  HERETIC.

  My father stopped.

  So did I.

  The clergyman’s voice carried clearly across the square, calm and measured, offering forgiveness he did not have to grant. The men knelt with ropes already looped around their necks. One of them sobbed quietly. Another stared straight ahead, jaw clenched so tight I could see the muscle jumping beneath his skin.

  The one marked Heretic said nothing at all.

  The clergyman finished. He closed his book. He nodded.

  The executioners moved as one.

  The platform dropped.

  The sound was sharp — wood slamming down, rope snapping taut. Two of the bodies jerked violently. One went still almost at once, neck broken by the fall.

  The other two kicked.

  Boots scraped uselessly against empty air. A wet, choking sound tore from one man’s throat, desperate and animal. The crowd shifted. Someone turned away. Someone else made the sign of the Father.

  My father’s hand came down hard on the back of my head, forcing my face into his coat.

  “Don’t look,” he said.

  But sound does not obey commands.

  I heard it anyway — the gasping, the choking, the rope creaking as the man fought for breath that would not come. Each rasp grew weaker than the last, until finally there was nothing.

  Just silence.

  My father held me there until it was done. His hand trembled.

  When he let go, the bodies were already still, swaying gently in the open air like warnings left behind.

  We did not speak as we walked away.

  Behind us, the clergyman began to pray again.

  By the time we reached the Verity block, the road had softened to dirt beneath our boots.

  Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on Royal Road.

  The houses there were small and close together, built from old timber and patched stone, their roofs uneven but stubborn. Smoke rose from cookfires. Someone laughed. Someone else argued over a spilled bucket of water. Life, continuing despite itself.

  My father’s brother was waiting near the entrance, sleeves rolled up, hands stained dark from work. He grinned when he saw us and pulled my father into a rough embrace. They clasped shoulders, foreheads nearly touching for a moment — the kind of greeting men give when words would say too much.

  Around them, our cousins ran through the open yard, shouting and chasing one another between stacked crates and laundry lines. James — my younger brother — broke away from the game and ran toward me, nearly tripping over his own feet.

  “Thomas!” he said, breathless.

  He held out something small and misshapen in his hands.

  Clay birds.

  Crudely formed, wings uneven, beaks barely shaped — but to him they were perfect. He beamed, pride shining in his eyes.

  “Look,” he said. “I made them.”

  “They’re beautiful James,” I told him, and I meant it. He turned them carefully, as if afraid they might fly away.

  My mother stood in the doorway, wiping her hands on her apron. She caught my eye and tilted her head toward the house.

  “Inside Thomas,” she said gently. “Supper’s ready.”

  I followed her in, passing beneath the low lintel worn smooth by generations of hands.

  Clan Verity had never been important; we were potters, smiths, farmhands,. We were born common, and we would die common — that was what Grandfather always said. Keep your head down. Work hard. Don’t give the world a reason to notice you.

  It had kept us fed. It had kept us alive.

  Still, as the door closed behind me, I thought of the gallows in the square. Of the word painted on that last man’s chest.

  Heretic.

  And I wondered how low a man had to keep his head…

  before even that was no longer enough.

  I ate alone at the small table near the hearth.

  The soup was thin — little more than hot water clouded with potato skins and a pinch of salt. A heel of bread sat beside the bowl, hard enough that I had to tear it apart with my hands. I dipped it carefully, letting it soak before each bite so it wouldn’t scrape my throat.

  We rarely had meat.

  That was a luxury for nobles and clergymen — men who preached sacrifice with full bellies. The downtrodden like us made do with scraps. Hooves, gristle, bones boiled until they surrendered what little they had left.

  Sometimes Uncle would hunt in the woods beyond the block, slipping out before dawn and returning with a deer slung over his shoulders. He only did it when he was sure no one was watching. Those nights felt like feasts. Like I was celebrating my name day all over again.

  Tonight was not one of those nights.

  The fire cracked softly as I ate, the sound filling the silence where conversation should have been. I could hear my parents’ voices through the thin wall — low, urgent, broken by long pauses.

  I glanced toward the shutters.

  Through the narrow gap, I saw my mother standing close to my father, her hands clasped tightly in front of her as she spoke. My father looked pale, the lines on his face deeper than they had been that morning. He nodded once, slowly, as if agreeing to something he did not want to say aloud.

  Then he leaned in and kissed her.

  Not quickly. Not carelessly.

  It was the kind of kiss men give when they are not certain they will have the chance again.

  They stepped out of sight.

  I lowered my spoon back into the bowl. The soup had gone cold.

  ***

  I walked toward the lake alone, the afternoon sun warm on my back.

  I spotted Mara before she saw me.

  She stood near the water’s edge, skipping stones with easy precision — one, two, four skips before the stone vanished beneath the surface. Her dark hair caught the light as she moved, shining almost gold in the sun. A simple sundress clung to her frame, its hem tugged and teased by the wind as if the lake itself were trying to keep her there.

  She had always looked like she belonged outdoors. Like the fields and water knew her.

  Mara was of Clan Feld — farmers by trade, soil-stained hands and sunburned faces. Their land fed half of Old Tumbledown in lean years. When our cupboards were bare, it was Feld grain that found its way to our table, quietly and without debt spoken aloud.

  The downtrodden took care of their own.

  She skipped another stone, then sighed when it sank too soon.

  “Terrible throw,” she muttered to herself.

  I smiled despite everything and stepped closer, my boots crunching softly against the gravel.

  “Want a lesson?” I asked.

  She turned, surprise flashing across her face before softening into a grin.

  “Only if you promise not to show off,” she said.

  “I make no such promises.”

  She laughed — light, unguarded — and for a moment the world felt simpler than it had any right to be.

  The lake lay calm before us. The sky was wide. The afternoon stretched on, pretending it had all the time in the world.

  And I remember thinking — foolishly — that maybe it did.

  “Guess what day it is tomorrow,” she said.

  I frowned, though I already knew. The air felt different when she said it — tight, like something holding its breath.

  “The Right of First Calling,” I muttered.

  She let out a small, humorless laugh. “And my fifteenth name day.” She glanced at me sideways. “Just my luck, am I right?”

  I opened my mouth. Closed it again.

  “Mara, I—”

  I swallowed my words.

  The lake lay flat and dull beneath the sky, the kind of quiet that made you think nothing bad could ever happen here.

  I skipped a stone. Once. Twice. It sank on the third bounce.

  “Don’t you envy your sister?” I asked.

  The words felt harmless when I said them. Practical. Almost kind.

  “She’s being fed,” I went on. “Taken care of. Doesn’t have to work the fields anymore.”

  Mara didn’t answer.

  I glanced at her. Her jaw tightened, eyes fixed on the water like she was daring it to argue back.

  “She sold us Feld out for prettier scraps,” she said finally.

  “Mara—”

  “Don’t,” she cut in. “I remember her face when she was chosen.”

  I frowned. “What do you mean?”

  Mara picked up a stone and rolled it in her palm.

  “She laughed,” she said. “Do you remember that?” Her voice sharpened. “She laughed when they called her name. Smiled like she’d just won something.”

  I hesitated. I did remember the sound—bright, sudden, out of place.

  “She was scared,” I offered weakly.

  Mara shook her head. “No. She was relieved.”

  The stone left her hand and vanished into the lake.

  “She wasn’t a daughter to them anymore,” Mara went on, bitterness seeping into every word. “She was just a two-legged breeding sow. Something to be fed and kept quiet as long as it did what it was told.”

  The words hit harder than I expected.

  After a moment, Mara sat down at the edge of the lake, boots dangling just above the water. The anger drained out of her, leaving something tired behind. I followed her.

  “She won’t starve,” I said softly.

  “And what do you think that costs?” she asked.

  I had no answer.

  She leaned over then and rested her head on my shoulder, the way she always did when pretending stopped being worth the effort.

  “I dream of a quiet place,” she said. “Far from the Empire. Far from the Church. Somewhere girls like us don’t have to worry about the First Calling.”

  “But. you’d be safer with the clergy if you were chosen,” I said, though my voice tightened. “Food for life. No more fields. No more winters scraping by.”

  Mara’s hand slid over mine, her fingers warm against my knuckles.

  “Thomas,” she said gently, “what if we wanted to struggle?”

  I turned toward her.

  “To grow,” she continued. “With someone you actually love.” Her mouth twisted. “Not some old pork wrapped in regal robes.”

  I snorted. “They’d strike you for that.”

  “Then don’t tell anyone,” she said, a quick, sad smile crossing her face.

  She watched the water for a long moment before speaking again.

  “Wouldn’t you want a world,” she asked quietly, “where our sons and daughters didn’t have to eat potato-skin soup just to survive?”

  The question settled heavy in my chest.

  I skipped another stone. It barely made one hop.

  “I would,” I said.

  The water lapped softly at the shore. Somewhere behind us, the fields stretched on, endless and waiting.

  Mara stayed there with her head on my shoulder, and I did not move.

  I skipped another stone with my free hand. It barely made two hops before sinking.

  Neither of us said what we were both thinking. Tomorrow, The First Calling. I prayed it would never come. Mara was more outspoken than I, yet I silently believed in her world, as if it was almost in arm’s reach.

  But for a little while, our world between us was only a lake, a handful of stones, and the quiet hope that maybe — somehow — we could outrun tomorrow.

  ***

  The sun had begun its slow drift westward, warming the lake in a way that made the afternoon feel endless.

  Mara stood and brushed the grass from her dress. For a moment she hesitated, then reached into the satchel slung at her side.

  “Here,” she said, holding something out to me.

  It was a small cloth bag, rough-spun and tied with a simple cord. When I took it, the weight surprised me. Whatever was inside settled heavily into my palm, solid and deliberate.

  “Don’t open it,” she said quickly. “Not until my name day. It’s a surprise.”

  I turned it over once, curiosity already gnawing at me. “I think I’m the one supposed to give you gifts for your name day,” I said. “Not the other way around.”

  She raised an eyebrow. “Another pot this year, Verity?”

  “Absolutely not,” I said at once. “I was thinking… a slightly larger pot.”

  She laughed, the sound soft and bright, and reached for my hand. Her fingers curled around mine, warm and sure, tightening as if the wind itself might carry me off if she let go.

  “Just promise you’ll keep it,” she said. “No matter what.”

  “I promise,” I replied, though I didn’t yet understand why the word felt heavier than the bag in my hand.

  For a moment, neither of us spoke.

  The lake shimmered. The reeds whispered. Somewhere in the distance, the town went on pretending tomorrow was just another day.

  Mara squeezed my hand once more before letting go.

  And even then, I could still feel her there — like if I turned away too quickly, something precious would slip through my fingers and be lost to the wind.