Chapter 2: The First Offering
Light leaked through the cracks in the barn walls, pale and golden, casting thin stripes across the hay. Ramon's eyes snapped open. His hand shot to his hip, reaching for a blade that was not there, and he found himself staring up at a woman's face.
She knelt a few paces away, balanced on the balls of her feet, a cloth bundle resting in her lap. Her hair was dark and thick, pulled back from a face that was soft and weathered at once. Eyes the color of river stones watched him without fear. Her tunic was simple, worn, and beneath it her chest was heavy and full, the fabric stretched tight across her breasts. The scent of warm milk clung to her like perfume.
Recognition hit him a moment later. Lulusa. Grag's wife.
Ramon scrambled backward in the hay, his heart slamming against his ribs. "I'm here just to rest. I'll leave. So don't do anything stupid—"
"Easy," she said, her voice low and calm. She set the bundle down between them and unwrapped it, revealing a round of bread still steaming in the morning air. "No one saw me. I come to the barn every morning to check the tools and the stores. It would look stranger if I did not."
He stared at the bread. His stomach clenched with hunger so sharp it was almost pain. The last time he had eaten, he could not remember. He had not dared to stop, had not dared to slow, had only run and hidden and wept.
"You should not help me," he said hoarsely. "I am a condemned man. The chief was stabbed with the dagger. The whole village believes I did it."
"I know what they believe." Lulusa's gaze did not waver. "I also know what I saw."
He went still.
"Three nights ago," she said softly, "I could not sleep. Grag was restless, and I went out to draw water before the morning heat. I saw two figures near the temple, moving in the dark." She paused, and something hard passed over her face. "Elara and Kaelen. They were together. He had the dagger in his hand, and she was laughing. A low, quiet laugh, the kind you share with someone who has done something wicked."
Ramon's blood turned to ice. "You saw this?"
"I did."
"Why did you not tell anyone?"
She looked at him then, and there was a weariness in her eyes that had nothing to do with lack of sleep. "I didn't realized it was the sacred dagger. I realized yesterday. But it was too late. Who would believe me now? The chief's daughter and his nephew, conspiring to steal the sacred relic? And me, a woman whose husband is trapped in his own body, living at the edge of the village, seen by no one." She shook her head. "I would have been called a liar. A jealous woman reaching above her station. And Grag would be angry on me."
Ramon pressed his palms against his eyes. Elara. The woman he had loved, the woman her father had promised him. She had stood at Kaelen's side while they dragged him away. She had not spoken. She had not looked at him. He had thought she was merely weak, afraid to defy her father and his accuser. But she had been in it from the beginning. She had laughed in the dark with the man who had destroyed him.
"She was the one who gave Kaelen access to my home," he said slowly, the pieces clicking into place. "She knew where I kept my furs. She knew my comings and goings. She knew when I would be at the training grounds and when I would not."
Lulusa said nothing, but her silence was confirmation enough.
"Why?" he asked, his voice cracking. "I gave her everything. I would have given her anything. A home, a life, children. Why would she—"
"She wanted more than you could give her." Lulusa's voice was gentle, but it cut deep. "You are a great warrior, Ramon. Everyone knows it. But a warrior's wife does not wear gold. She does not command the warriors at her table. Elara wanted to be first among the women of the tribe, and the chief's daughter can only reach so high. Kaelen offered her something else. Power, perhaps. Or the promise of it."
Ramon stared at the bread, his hands trembling. The hunger was still there, gnawing at his belly, but it felt distant now, muffled by the weight of his fury. He had been so blind. So trusting. He had walked through the village like a fool, believing himself beloved, and all the while the woman he loved had been plotting his ruin with the man he had never trusted.
"Eat," Lulusa said. She pushed the bread closer to him. "You cannot plan a revenge on an empty stomach."
He looked up at her. "Why are you doing this? You do not know me. I am a stranger to your home. You have risked everything just by coming here."
She was quiet for a long moment. When she spoke, her voice was soft and honest. "I know what it is to be trapped. To have the whole world close in around you and no one to turn to." She glanced toward the house, where Grag lay in his bed, the man she had married and the shell he had become. "Grag was a proud man once. A strong man. Now he cannot feed himself, cannot even turn in his bed. He has become an angry vegetable. And some nights I sit beside him and listen to him breathe, and I feel like I am drowning in a house that has become a tomb."
Ramon said nothing. He did not know what to say.
"You were strong," Lulusa continued, her gaze returning to him. "Everyone in the village knows what you were. The warrior who never lost, the man who drank his mother's milk and fought like a god. And in one night, it was all taken from you by a lie." She shook her head. "I cannot stand by and watch that happen. I cannot be another person who looked away. I actually liked you a bit. When I was a teen, before my marriage. Haha. But don't worry. It was nothing."
She rose, brushing the straw from her dress. The morning light caught the outline of her body beneath the thin fabric, and Ramon looked away, his cheeks warming. She seemed not to notice.
"Stay as long as you need," she said. "No one comes to this barn. Grag does not leave his room, and I keep the village out of our business. If you are careful, you can hide here until you find a way to prove your innocence."
"Thank you." The words felt small, inadequate, but they were all he had.
She gathered the empty cloth from around the bread and folded it over her arm. At the door she paused, turning back to look at him. "I will bring food at noon. And in the evenings, if you like, we can talk. It is lonely here, Ramon. I have not had a conversation worth having in years." A sad smile touched her lips. "I would not mind the company."
She slipped out the door and closed it behind her, leaving him alone with the bread and the silence. The barn creaked around him, and the morning light grew stronger, filtering through the cracks and painting stripes of gold across the hay.
Ramon tore a piece of the bread and chewed slowly. It was warm, still fresh, the taste of it grounding him. He thought of Elara's laugh, low and wicked in the dark. He thought of Kaelen's smile, his false kindness. He thought of his mother's face, the cold flatness of her eyes as she banned him from her milk.
He would prove his innocence. He would expose them all. And he would never again trust a smile that did not reach the eyes.
The bread was gone by the time the sun climbed to its peak. Ramon had eaten it slowly, forcing himself to chew, to swallow, to let the warmth settle in his hollow stomach. He had checked the barn's walls for gaps, had found a rusted sickle hanging from a hook and set it beside the hay mound within easy reach. He had paced. He had thought. He had run his fingers over the splintered wood and tried to plan a future that did not end with a rope around his neck.
The door creaked open at noon. Lulusa slipped through, a clay jug in one hand and a leather satchel slung over her shoulder. She closed the door behind her and stood for a moment, letting her eyes adjust to the dim light. When she saw him watching her from the hay, she nodded.
"I brought water and dried meat," she said. She crossed to him and set the jug down, then crouched, untying the satchel. "The village is buzzing like a kicked hive."
Ramon took the water and drank deep. "What news?"
"Chief Boru is still alive, but barely. The wound is bad, poisoned, maybe. The healers have done what they can, but they say if he does not wake by tomorrow, he will not wake at all." She paused, her river-stone eyes holding his. "Ramon, your mother has been questioned. Twice. They asked if you came to her. She said no."
The bread curdled in his stomach. "She lied for me."
"Or she told the truth as she sees it." Lulusa's voice was careful. "She cast you out. In her mind, you did not come home. You were already gone."
Ramon looked away. It should have comforted him. His mother had not betrayed him to the searchers. But the distance in her words, the way she had closed herself to him, felt like a second exile.
"Kaelen did this," he said, the words low and hard. "He stabbed the chief. He had the dagger. You saw him with it."
"I saw him with the dagger three nights ago," Lulusa corrected. "I did not see him stab anyone. But yes. I believe he did it. And I was thinking if Elara knows."
"That woman," Ramon muttered. "She laughed in the dark while he held the sacred blade. And now she sits beside the chief's bed, playing the grieving daughter."
"Not grieving," Lulusa said. "Watching. I heard the women talking at the well this morning. Elara has not left the chief's side since the attack. She holds his hand, she wets his lips with water, she weeps at the right moments. But one of the older women said she saw Elara smile when the healer said the chief might not wake."
Ramon's hands clenched in the hay. "She is making sure he dies."
"It looks that way." Lulusa sat back on her heels. "The search parties are still out. Most of them are looking in the forest to the east, toward the old hunting grounds. A few have gone west, toward the river. No one thinks you would hide in the village itself. That is the one place they are not searching."
"Grag's barn is the last place they would look," Ramon said. "I know. That is why I chose it."
Lulusa nodded slowly. "You chose well." She hesitated, then reached into the satchel and pulled out a small clay pot. "Medicine. For the cuts on your face. You got them running through the brush."
Ramon touched his cheek. The skin was raw, crusted with dried blood. He had not even noticed.
"Thank you," he said.
She unstoppered the pot and dipped a cloth into the salve inside. "Lean forward."
He obeyed. She dabbed the salve onto his wounds with gentle fingers, her touch surprisingly soft for a woman who worked a farm alone. The balm was cool, numbing, and it smelled of herbs and honey. For a moment, the only sound was the wind against the barn walls and the soft rustle of hay.
"Grag does not know you are here," she said quietly, not meeting his eyes. "I have not told him."
"Why not?"
"Because he would tell. Not out of malice, but because he does not understand anymore. The fever took his mind two years ago. It comes and goes, but when it is gone, he is not my husband. He is a shell that eats and sleeps and speaks cruelty." She pulled the cloth away and capped the pot. "There was a time I respected him. When he was strong, when he carried me over the threshold of our house and swore he would give me a dozen children. But the ambush took more than his legs. It took his mind, his soul, his kindness. Now he lies in that bed and snaps at me like a dog."
"I am sorry," Ramon said.
"Do not be." She smiled, and it was a sad, tired smile. "I have made peace with it. I run the farm. I sell the grain and the eggs at the market. I barter the milk from the goats and keep the house standing. The village respects me, in their way, even if they pity me. I am the woman with the crippled husband, the one who does not complain."
She rose, brushing the hay from her knees. "I should go. Grag will need his midday meal, and if I am gone too long he will accuse me of taking lovers."
Ramon's jaw tightened. "He says that to you?"
"Every day." She gathered the satchel and looked down at him. "That is why I am glad you are here, Ramon. Not because you are a great warrior or because I pity you. Because when I bring you food, you thank me. When I speak, you listen. That is more than I have had in five years."
She slipped out the door before he could answer, and the barn was quiet again.
The afternoon crawled. Ramon slept in fits, his body still recovering from the night's flight, his dreams a tangle of torchlight and his mother's cold face. He woke to the sound of hoofbeats in the distance and pressed himself against the wall, heart hammering, until the sound faded. No one came to the barn.
The evening light filtered through the cracks, long and golden. The door creaked open, and Lulusa entered with a steaming pot in her hands and a bundle of cloth under her arm. The smell of stew filled the barn, rich and savory, and Ramon's stomach lurched with hunger.
"I brought supper," she said. "And a blanket. The nights get cold in the hills."
She set the pot down and unwrapped the bundle, revealing a woolen blanket, worn but clean. Ramon reached for it, and their fingers brushed. She did not pull away.
"Thank you," he said.
"Eat while it is hot."
He ate. The stew was thick with root vegetables and game meat, seasoned with herbs he could not name. It was the best meal he had eaten in days, and he told her so. She smiled, sitting cross-legged in the hay, and told him about the farm: the goats that had to be milked twice a day, the chickens that kept escaping their pen, the trader who came every week to buy her grain and always tried to cheat her.
"He thinks because I am a woman alone, I do not know the price of wheat," she said, a spark of fire in her eyes. "I have been selling wheat since I was twelve. He has not once gotten the better of me."
Ramon laughed. It was the first time he had laughed since before the dagger, before the accusations, before his mother cast him out. The sound surprised him.
They talked until the light faded and the pot was empty. Lulusa told him about her childhood, about the river where she used to swim, about the dream she had once had of opening a weaving shop in the next valley. Ramon told her about the training grounds, about his hopes for the tribe, about the way his mother's milk had always tasted like strength and safety.
He did not mention Elara. She did not ask.
Finally, she rose, gathering the empty pot. "I should go. Grag will need his evening care." She paused at the door and looked back at him. "You are safe here, Ramon. I will keep bringing food. I will keep watching the village. And when you are ready to fight back, I will help you any way I can."
"Lulusa," he said. "I do not know how to repay you."
"You already have," she said softly. "You talked to me like I was a person. That is payment enough."
She slipped out into the gathering dark, and the barn settled into silence. Ramon lay back in the hay, the blanket wrapped around him, the taste of stew still warm in his mouth. The moon was rising through the cracks in the wall, white and clear.
For the first time since his world had shattered, he did not feel alone.