The wind shifts near noon, bringing the sharp, sour scent of lemons from the garden slope behind the temple kitchens. The scent lingers in the cloisters, caught in the laundry lines strung between the courtyard arches.
Seren wrings out another damp robe, careful to twist evenly. The water falls in a quick stream and disappears into the moss-lined cracks beneath the stone floor.
Her arms ache. Her knuckles are red. Her sleeves are damp past the elbows. A splash of soapy water stains her robe across the hip, and the wet fabric sticks to her like a second skin.
The sun is too bright. It makes the courtyard look clean and holy and kind. It lies.
"Stop wringing it like you're trying to kill a snake," Calda mutters beside her, yanking her own robe across the line with a loud thwack. "You'll stretch the seams. Sister Alyne'll box your ears again."
"I'll tell her you distracted me," Seren replies without looking up.
Calda smirks. "You wouldn't. You love me."
Seren doesn't answer.
She doesn't need to.
Across the courtyard, Brielle hums softly to herself as she folds bedsheets in careful squares. Her hair is pinned up in a messy twist, and a smudge of soap streaks her cheek. She keeps stopping to smooth out wrinkles that aren't there.
"I heard the bishop's page arrived this morning," she says to no one in particular.
Calda glances over. "What, another one?"
"No, a new one. Came on horseback. Yellow banner. I saw it before morning rites."
"He's probably just here to check our grain stock. Or pinch the bread."
"Or maybe it's about the Midyear Procession," Brielle says, folding another sheet with exaggerated delicacy. "There's always extra blessings from the capital before the holy day."
"Extra blessings. Sure." Calda rolls her eyes. "That's what they call it when they need more tax."
Seren keeps working, but the word procession rings faintly in her ears.
In her last life, the Midyear Procession was the first time she walked through the High Gate in full Saintess regalia.
Silken robes that didn't breathe.Flowers that made her sneeze.A golden circlet too tight against her temples.
And crowds. So many eyes. So much kneeling. So many prayers.
So much expectation. And none of it saved them.
"Sister Alyne's coming," someone whispers.
Calda flinches and drops the robe she's folding. Brielle straightens her posture like a pole just ran up her spine.
Seren doesn't move. She only turns slightly to watch the door.
Sister Alyne steps out into the courtyard with her hands clasped behind her back. Her robe is cleaner than anyone else's. Her gray hair is drawn tight into a knot, and the shadows beneath her eyes look permanent.
She's not cruel. Just tired in a way that no amount of rest will fix.
Her gaze sweeps the courtyard. She gives no smile, no greeting. Just a nod.
"Continue. The east dormitories are still waiting for clean linens."
The girls return to their work, quieter now.
Later, when the sun has begun its slow descent behind the tower spires, the bell rings again—this time for supper. The smell of lentils and garlic drifts out of the kitchens, pulled along by the same lemon-scented breeze.
Seren walks behind Calda and Brielle as they cross the courtyard.
Brielle has stopped humming.
"Did you ever think about what you'd do if you left here?" she asks suddenly.
"Like run away?" Calda asks.
"No, I mean after we complete training. When we're sent out."
"Be a scribe in the west." Calda shrugs. "Get fat on olives and write prayers for money."
Brielle grins. "You hate olives."
"They'll grow on me."
Seren listens quietly.
In her first life, she was never sent out. She was chosen instead. Lifted by divine vision. Carried by whispers of miracles. Bound by expectation.
She never left the temple until it was to parade through the city or kneel before kings.
She wonders what it would have been like. To choose.
The refectory is crowded. Dozens of novices eat in uneven lines at long wooden tables. The walls echo with spoon clinks and quiet chatter. Someone sneezes. Someone else swears softly and gets smacked with a ladle for it.
Seren sits between Calda and Brielle, her bowl of lentils steaming in front of her.
The girl across from her is new. Small, with a pinched mouth and bruises on both knees. She eats quickly, like she's afraid someone will take the food away.
"Your braid's crooked," Calda says, not unkindly.
The girl stiffens. Touches her hair.
"Don't worry," Brielle says with a smile. "It always is on your first month. Here, turn—I'll fix it."
As the girl leans forward, Seren sees the fading mark of a belt across her collarbone. She looks down at her own food again.
That night, Seren stands by the dormitory window, combing her hair with slow, steady strokes. The moon is thin above the rooftops. Somewhere beyond the outer wall, the city sleeps—its lights scattered like coals across a dark hearth.
The wind is cold on her bare arms.
She remembers another night.
A boy kneeling in a storm, holding a bloodied sword and whispering her name.
The temple bells screaming in the distance.
The smell of ash in her throat.
She closes her eyes.
It's not just about revenge. That's too simple. Too easy.
It's about rewriting everything.