Chapter 3: The Naked Pilgrimage
The last piece of Aurora’s plate armor clanked onto the growing pile of steel and leather beside the enchanted pool. She stood rigid, the forest air a shocking kiss against skin that hadn’t seen direct sunlight in years. Goosebumps rippled across her thighs, her stomach, her arms. She cupped her hands over her breasts, the gesture instinctive and utterly futile.
Lyra sat on a mossy rock, one bare foot tucked under her, examining her nails. “There. Doesn’t that feel more honest?”
“It feels exposed,” Aurora gritted out, her jaw tight. Every rustle of leaves sounded like a gawking crowd.
“It’s part of the process. The curse lingers in artifice. In layers.” Lyra’s emerald eyes swept over her, not with lust, but with a frank appraisal that was somehow worse. “Now, the reagent. For the purification brew.”
Aurora’s head snapped up. “What reagent?”
“Consecrated wine. From the village chapel at the forest’s edge. The one with the little stone spire you passed on your way in.” Lyra said it as if asking for a cup of water.
“You want me to go to the village? Now? Like this?” Aurora’s voice hit a panicked octave she didn’t recognize.
“The earth’s vibrations must touch your skin directly to ward off the curse’s recoil. Even a cloak would disrupt it.” Lyra’s tone left no room for argument. She stood, walked to a hollow oak, and drew out Aurora’s own longsword. She offered it, hilt-first. “Here. You’ll feel better with this.”
Aurora stared at the weapon. It was a cruel joke. She couldn’t sheathe it. She had no belt. Taking it meant uncrossing her arms. She let out a shaky breath, forced her hands away from her body, and took the sword. The familiar weight of the hilt was a small anchor in a sea of humiliation. She held it awkwardly, blade pointing down, one arm partially shielding her torso.
“Good luck,” Lyra said, a smile playing on her lips. “Try to look heroic. It helps with the staring.”
Then she turned and vanished into the deeper green, leaving Aurora truly alone.
The walk was an eternity of minute sensations. The cool, damp earth under her bare feet. The whisper of ferns against her calves. The unaccustomed swing of her hips without the weight of a gambeson and plate. Every breeze was a caress she didn’t want. She held the sword in a white-knuckled grip, one hand awkwardly trying to cover her pubic mound, her other arm pressed across her chest. It was hopeless. She was on full display.
She could feel Lyra’s eyes on her long after the sorceress had disappeared. The phantom gaze tracked the tense lines of her back, the defiant clench of her ass, the vulnerable backs of her knees. It felt less like voyeurism and more like a gardener observing a stubborn, transplanted seedling.
The tree line thinned. The sounds changed—the distant clang of a blacksmith’s hammer, the squawk of chickens, human voices. The village path, hard-packed and gritty, bit into her soles. She paused at the edge, her breath coming fast. The chapel spire was a hundred yards away, past the central well and the market stalls.
She stepped onto the path.
A child carrying a basket froze, his mouth forming a perfect ‘O’. A woman drawing water from the well dropped her bucket, the crash echoing like a thunderclap. Silence pooled outward from Aurora, a wave of stunned disbelief.
Her face was molten. Her ears rang. She locked her eyes on the chapel door and walked. She did not run. A Valerius did not run. Her posture was a rod of iron, shoulders back, chin high, even as her naked skin crawled under the avalanche of stares. She focused on the mechanics of movement. Heel, toe. Heel, toe. The sword’s pommel was slick in her hand.
Whispers broke out, then loud, incredulous talk.
“—that’s the paladin! The one from the capital—”
“By the gods, she’s starkers—”
“Is it a ritual?”
A pair of town guards, looking both alarmed and titillated, moved to intercept her. She stopped, meeting their eyes. “I am on a sacred quest,” she announced, her voice miraculously steady, ringing with authority. “The conjured plague requires a consecrated reagent. Stand aside.”
They faltered, confused by the dissonance—the regal bearing, the flawless diction, the complete and total nudity. They stepped back.
The chapel was closer now. But between her and the door was a line. A queue of villagers waiting for the weekly blessing of their homes with holy water and a dab of consecrated wine. Five people. An old man, two farmers, a matron with a scowling face, and a young apprentice gawking openly.
Aurora walked to the end of the line.
The matron in front of her turned, looked her up and down with sheer disgust, and turned back around with a huff. The old man coughed, his eyes firmly on the sky. The apprentice’s neck was craned at an impossible angle.
She stood there. In line. Naked. Sword held point-down like a walking stick. Her free hand trembled as she kept it pressed low. The sun felt like a spotlight. Every itch, every bead of sweat was a public event. Her mind screamed. This was worse than any battlefield. There was no enemy to fight, just the relentless, crushing weight of normality applied to an impossible situation. She was a spectacle. A joke. Her proud identity as Aurora Valerius, bulwark of justice, was being stripped away faster than her armor had been.
Yet her spine stayed straight. Her chin never lowered. The blush on her cheeks and chest burned with the fire of a thousand shames, but her eyes were fixed on the chapel door with the unwavering focus of a soldier completing a mission. Inside, a war raged between the paladin’s arrogance and the woman’s shame. The arrogance insisted this was a trial, a testament to her devotion. The shame whispered that she was just a fool, tricked and paraded.
She took another step forward in the line. The apprentice, finally, looked away, his own face red. The chapel door inched closer.