205. The Apprentice

2 Years Ago, Oakhaven Village Near Nexus Town, On The Outskirts of The Ancorna Empire borderThe sting was sharp and immediate. Marie yelped, dropping the splintered piece of firewood and clutching her palm. A wicked sliver of pine was embedded deep, a bead of crimson welling up around it. Instinctively, a warmth began to pool in her uninjured hand, a soft, golden light flickering at her fingertips, ready to mend, to soothe, to make whole.

“No!”

Her father’s voice was a whip-crack across the quiet yard. He crossed the distance in two long strides, his calloused hand closing gently but firmly around her wrist, smothering the nascent glow. The warmth died instantly.

“Marie, look at me,” he commanded, his voice dropping to a harsh, urgent whisper. His face, usually creased with a quiet smile, was drawn with fear. “We do not use that. Not for a splinter, not for a fever, not for anything. Do you understand? The world is not kind to miracles. They are commodities to be owned, and you…” His eyes, the same chestnut brown as her hair, scanned the empty lane between their cottage and the forest’s edge. “…you are a secret we must keep until my dying breath. The Saintess must remain a story they tell, not a girl chopping wood in Oakhaven Village.”

Tears of pain and frustration pricked Marie’s eyes. “But it hurts,” she whispered, the protest sounding childish even to her.

“I know, little bird,” he said, his voice softening as he pulled her into a brief, tight hug. He smelled of earth and honest sweat. “And I will fix it the old way. But your light… it is for a greater purpose, one we must hide from.” He led her towards the water trough to clean the wound, his head on a constant swivel, a nervous habit she had grown up with.

The first scream tore through the afternoon peace not five minutes later.

It was not a sound of accident or argument. It was a raw, terror-filled shriek that was abruptly cut short. Marie’s father froze, his head snapping towards the village square. His face went pale.

The sounds that followed were a nightmare symphony: the thunder of hooves on hard-packed earth, the clash of steel, more screams, and rough, laughing shouts. Through the gaps in the fence, Marie saw figures on horseback, armed and armoured in mismatched leathers, riding down old man Hemmett as he fled his smithy.

“Raiders,” her father breathed, the word a death sentence. He grabbed her arm, his grip iron-tight. “The root cellar. Now. Don’t make a sound. Don’t come out for anything.”

He was pushing her towards the hidden door under the kitchen floor when their own gate splintered inward. Two men filled the opening, their eyes gleaming with violence. One held a bloodied axe.

Her father didn’t hesitate. He shoved Marie behind him and charged, not to fight, but to delay, to give her one precious second. The man with the axe sidestepped and swung. The sound was wet and final. Marie watched, her breath trapped in her throat, as her father crumpled to the ground, his kind eyes staring at nothing.

A scream built inside her, a torrent of agony and power that begged to be unleashed, to scour these men from the earth. But his last words echoed in her mind, a final command: Hide.

Help support creative writers by finding and reading their stories on the original site.

Strong hands grabbed her, yanking her up. She was dragged into the chaos of the village square. Others from Oakhaven were being rounded up, those too slow or too brave to flee into the woods. The raiders were efficient, brutal. They wanted the young and the healthy. The old and the defiant were left bleeding in the dirt.

As she was thrown roughly into a growing group of terrified captives, her wrists bound with coarse rope, Marie’s eyes, blurred with tears, caught a strange sight. Near the village head’s smouldering house, one of the raiders, a lean man who seemed to be in charge, was not overseeing the pillaging. Instead, he was carefully placing four large slabs of polished glass on the ground, arranging them in a precise square around the perimeter of the burnt building. He touched one, and the glass hummed faintly, shimmering for a moment with a sickly, internal violet light before fading. It made no sense. It was purposeless, a bizarre ritual amidst the carnage.

But Marie had no room for curiosity. The image of her father, lying still in the yard, filled her world. The saintess within her screamed in silent, powerless agony, a hidden, sacred thing now chained and common.

Present Day, Ravenna’s Office, Lord’s Castle, Kim City, Kim Island, Kim Dukedom, Ancorna Empire

Nille nodded with a faint smile. “Yes, Your Highness. We are already picking up pace.” Then, hesitating, his expression clouded. “But… there is a small issue.”

Her gaze narrowed, sharp as a knife sliding free of its sheath. “What issue?”

The blacksmith’s throat bobbed as he swallowed nervously. “My… apprentice wishes to meet you.” He paused, shifting uneasily under Ravenna’s piercing eyes before lowering his voice. “He has a rather bizarre idea. Foolish, perhaps. I dismissed him several times, but he insists, he truly wishes for you to hear him out.”

Marie leaned forward curiously, her eyes sparkling. “Bizarre idea? That already sounds fun.”

Ravenna, however, did not smile. She studied Nille for a long moment, as though weighing not his words, but the weight of his caution. Finally, she leaned back, resting one arm lazily against her chair, her tone smooth yet resolute.

“Very well. Bring him in. Let us hear this apprentice of yours.” Nille bowed again, relief softening his shoulders. “At once, Your Highness.”

The door creaked open, and in stepped a young man barely past his twenties, his every movement betraying the nerves that wracked him. His sandy hair clung damply to his forehead as though he had been sweating since the moment he was summoned. His hands twisted together, and when he finally bowed, it was too low, too hurried—anxious to please, terrified to fail.

“G–greetings, Your Highness…” His voice cracked halfway through, forcing him to clear his throat and try again, weaker but steadier. “Your… Highness.”

He remained bent a heartbeat longer than necessary, as though afraid to straighten under Ravenna’s gaze. When he finally did, his chestnut eyes darted briefly toward Marie and then away again, unable to hold the sight of the important figure watching him.

“I… I am Ryan,” he stammered, his fingers tugging at the hem of his tunic. “An apprentice of Master Nille Vermen, tasked mainly with… with glasswork.”

The words dribbled from his lips like a stream losing itself in the stones, uncertain and hesitant. His shoulders hunched as though he wished to disappear into them.

Ravenna leaned back in her chair, the golden chain at her gown’s neckline glinting as the morning light caught it. Her eyes narrowed, twin blades glinting with irritation. When she finally spoke, her voice carried the weight of steel drawn half an inch from its scabbard.

“I don’t have the time to waste on some trembling brat mumbling into his boots.” Her gaze pinned him where he stood, cold and unyielding. “If you have something worth my attention, then speak it clearly. Otherwise, get out.”

Her words sliced through the heavy air of the office. Even Marie, who had been leaning forward in eager curiosity, straightened slightly at the sharp edge in her master’s tone.

“So,” Ravenna continued, her lips curving into a razor-thin smile. “What is it you want to show me, apprentice?”