Days bled into each other like ink in water. Rosalinda had lost count. The shrine had no windows, only flickering firelight and the scent of dried herbs. She asked the priest every morning if the gods had spoken. He never answered.

Lately, she noticed his absence. He returned late into the night, his robes damp with dew, and left before the first rooster crowed. She didn’t ask where he went. Not yet.

That evening, sleep took her without warning. Her body, worn from waiting, gave in. But the ...