was High Priestess of Requiem. All these bleeding, broken, burnt souls were her children too. They lay in rows upon the floor, dozens of them filling the armory. The swords and shields were gone from this place, taken to battle; the wounded were returned. Every few moments they were carried in: men whose legs ended with stumps, men with entrails spilling from sliced bellies, men burnt and cut, men crying for wives and mothers. In battle they were brave warriors, heroes of Requiem. Here in her chamber, they were sons and husbands, afraid, the terror of battle too real.
"Mother Adia… Mo…" A wounded man reached out to her. Skin hung from his hands, the flesh of his fingers blackened, falling to show the bone. "Mother, a prayer, please…"
She turned to him, placed her hand on his forehead, and prayed for him. She prayed to the stars to comfort him, to heal him or lead him peacefully to the halls of afterlife. And yet Adia did not know if starlight could reach these tunnels. All her life, she had prayed in temples between columns and birches, watching the sky. Now that sky burned, and here they hid, in darkness and pain. The world has become fire and shadow, and all starlight is washed away.
But still she prayed. Still she believed, forced herself to. If her stars had abandoned her, what purpose did her life hold? So she prayed for this burnt man, kissed his bloodied forehead, and bandaged his wounds. She gave him the nectar of silverweed, until he slept, feverish and dying.
"As the leaves fall upon our marble tiles," she whispered, lips sticky with blood, "as the breeze rustles the birches beyond our columns, as the sun gilds the mountains above our halls—know, young child of the woods, you are home, you are home." She held him as his breath stilled and his face smoothed. "Requiem! May our wings forever find your sky."
She closed his eyes, covered him with his cloak, and stood up. She pulled him to the corner and placed him among the piles of bodies. There he would stink, decay, lie as rotting flesh until they found room to bury the dead. Adia needed men to dig graves underground, or soon the disease of bodies would claim them all. She needed healers to help her. She needed her husband by her side, and she needed her children back, and she needed this war and death to end. But all she had were her hands that could stitch a wound and hold a dying man, her bandages and nectar, and whatever faith still remained in her heart. And she used them all as the blood flowed, the stench of bodies wafted, and soldiers kept dragging new death into her chamber.
Stay safe, Bayrin and Lyana. Stay alive. Return to me.
She did not know how many hours or days passed as she worked, healing and praying. She did not know night from day. When her husband appeared at the doorway, armor splashed in blood and eyes dark, her fingers were sore, her eyes stinging, her head light. She walked to him, embraced him, and kissed his bristly cheek.
"Adia," Deramon said to her, voice deep as these tunnels, rough as his hands and hair and body. "You need sleep. You need food and drink. Come, we will rest. Sister Caela will take over."
The young healer stood by his side, a girl no older than Lyana, her hair braided tight behind her head, her eyes haunted but strong. She held bandages, towels, and vials of herbs and silverweed.
Adia shook her head. "Sister Caela is too young. She is only a healer in training. She… come, sister. Work with me. Help me."
A man wept at her left, crying for his mother. His hands clutched a wound on his stomach; it gaped open, glistening and red, gutting him.
"I want to go home," he whispered, lips pale, eyes deathly. "Please. Please, I want to go home."
Adia realized that he was just a boy, younger than her own children, and she turned to him, to heal him, to pray for him, but Deramon held her fast.
"Let Sister Caela tend to him," he said, voice low, touched by a softness Adia rarely heard in him.
He held Adia's arm, gently but firmly. His hands were bloody and rough, and Adia wanted to break free, but she was so tired. Her head felt so light. His second hand held the small of her back, keeping her standing.
Sister Caela moved