The silence that followed Selena’s outburst was dense and heavy, like the air before a storm that refuses to break. It was finally broken by a deep, weary sigh from Anya. The sister of charity, whose face was normally a map of smiling wrinkles, looked at her with a seriousness that chilled the little warmth remaining in the room.

  —Selena— she said, and her voice, though low, possessed an iron firmness that brook no argument —do not say those things again in front of any other person— She paused deliberately, letting the weight of the unspoken consequence seep into the dining hall and settle in the hearts of every woman present. —Outside of this refuge, outside these walls that strive to be a haven... those words would surely not be taken as well as they are here. And the price for taking them poorly... you already know what it is.

  The gazes of the other women, which had been filled with curiosity or fear, turned downward toward empty cups, toward calloused hands. It was a warning for her own good, but also a brutal reminder of the limits of their world. Compassion had borders, and social heresy lay far beyond them.

  Then, with a visible effort, as if lifting an enormous weight by sheer will alone, Anya changed the subject. She steered the course of the conversation with the forced delicacy of one diverting a river with their bare hands.

  —Yesterday...— she began, forcing a lighter tone that failed to reach her eyes, which remained somber, —I saw the most beautiful anurhy in the world at the market, near the spice stalls. Do you know? He was quite pot-bellied— She made a gesture with her hands, tracing a round belly in the air. —With skin as shiny as if it were polished every day with oil, and eyes so calm, so black and deep... you could tell he was very well cared for.

  It was a lifeline thrown into turbulent waters. From there, the ground was familiar and safe. One by one, like frightened birds returning to a branch, the women shared anecdotes. Stories of gentle anurhys that let children pet them, of mischievous ones that stole fruit from the stalls, of one woman who kept one as a pet until it died of old age.

  Little by little, the atmosphere lost the electric tension sparked by Selena’s words. Laughter returned timid at first, then a bit more relaxed. The topics returned to the normalcy of small misery and small joys: the price of bread, the neighbor’s son who fell, the scent of approaching rain.

  But in Selena’s chest, just beneath her sternum where rage had burned before, a cold, heavy knot remained. The feeling hadn't gone away. It had transformed into a somber certainty, into a clear and painful understanding of the invisible walls surrounding her and how dangerous it was to try and scale them.

  Anya brought the communal time to an end with a sharp clap, a sound that signaled the end of their break. They all stood up, gathering their cups in silence, and followed her in a weary line toward the small chapel adjoining the dormitory. It was an even smaller space, with bare adobe walls and only a single image of Aelthra carved in dark wood simpler than the one in the temple, her arms extended in a gesture of welcome rather than offering.

  Upon arriving, Anya stood before the image, crossed her hands over her apron, and began the evening prayer. Her voice regained some of its calm, though it carried a hint of fatigue. The other women murmured the responses, a litany learned by heart. Selena merely moved her lips without sound, feeling more lost than anything else. The words slid her off, strange and empty. It was the first time she had heard them, and she found no comfort in them only the echo of a faith that wasn't hers, in a world that was alien to her.

  When Anya finished with a final, —May the Flow carry us into peaceful dreams and return us renewed to the new cycle— she turned and said with a small, genuinely exhausted smile, —Goodnight to you all. May Aelthra watch over your dreams.

  The silent procession continued to the communal dormitory. The room, already steeped in twilight, was lit only by the silvery glints of moonlight filtering through narrow high windows and the flickering, smoky yellow light of a couple of tallow lamps hanging from hooks on the beams. The dancing light cast shifting shadows against the bare walls.

  Stolen story; please report.

  There were no beds. The pallets —simple sacks stuffed with straw— were placed directly on the dirt floor in two rows along the room. Behind each one, carved into the adobe wall itself, were small hollows or niches, crude but functional.

  —Kaela and Selena, you take the pallets at the back— Anya instructed in her practical voice, pointing toward the darkest corner where the moonlight barely reached. —Cora, you’ll have to sleep next to Enara. She whistles a bit at night; don't hold it against her, it’s just her old chest— Her tone was matter-of-fact, like someone commenting on the weather. —You may all leave your belongings in the hollows behind your pallets, but remember: take everything with you in the morning.

  One by one, the women went to their assigned spots. Selena walked to the corner, feeling the cold floor through the soles of her sandals. Without exchanging a word, she placed her meager belongings in the wall niche: a bag, an extra scrap of cloth, little else. Then, they wrapped themselves in the coarse but clean blankets Anya had provided and lay down.

  Once the last woman had settled, Anya walked through the room and, with a soft breath, blew out the two tallow lamps. Darkness fell like a heavy shroud, broken only by the threads of moonlight peeking through the windows, painting silver lines on the dirt floor.

  Selena closed her eyes, forcing herself to stay still. The dominant sound was the raspy, labored whistling of Enara, the washerwoman’s breath from across the room. A hoarse, constant rhythm. As the minutes passed, other sounds joined in: Anya’s calmer, deeper breathing, an occasional sigh, the slight rustle of straw as someone moved.

  But Selena’s eyes were open again, fixed on the impenetrable darkness of the beam-and-thatch ceiling. She wasn't thinking of anything specific. Her mind was blank, exhausted by the day's onslaught. However, the feeling in her chest —that mixture of rage, injustice, and displacement— had not eased. It was a dull weight, an uncomfortable truth that, even if she couldn't remember why, it resonated so deeply, she could not ignore. Not like the others, who seemed to have locked it in a drawer following Anya’s warning and the memory of the pot-bellied anurhy.

  Her body was beginning to feel heavy, her eyelids closing in spite of herself, when she felt it.

  A palpable weight, soft but firm, on her shoulder. And then, the warmth of a breath very close to her ear. So close that the hair on the back of her neck stood up. Before fear could crystallize, a voice whispered a thread of sound so fine it was almost lost in Enara’s whistling:

  —I feel the same way.

  Selena held her breath. The voice was young, roughened by work, but charged with an intense conviction.

  —No noble— the whisper continued, each word a glowing ember in the dark, —should be worth more than us. Not when our blood is just as red. Not when we feel the same fear. I know it, Selena.

  Selena turned her head slowly, barely a millimeter. In the gloom, so close she could feel the girl's breath, she discerned a round face with full cheeks and almond-shaped eyes that caught a faint reflection of the moon. It was the teenager who had said she could no longer continue her trade, the one whom no one had asked why.

  Their gazes met in the darkness. There was no smile on the girl's face, only a fierce intensity a recognition of dangerous complicity. Then, as silently as she had come, the girl withdrew. The weight vanished from Selena's shoulder; the warmth of her breath faded. Selena heard the faint rustle of straw as she settled into the neighboring mattress. And then, nothing.

  There, in the oppressive darkness of the communal dormitory, in the heart of a cruel and feudal world that had just shown her its claws, that teenager had broken the same taboo she had. But her audacity was infinitely greater. Because Selena was a stranger, a newcomer who could attribute her outburst to ignorance, to the pain of loss, or to momentary madness. But this girl had always belonged here. She had known the rules since the cradle. She knew exactly the price of insolence. And yet, she had whispered her solidarity.

  Kaela, Selena thought, and this time —for the first time since arriving at the refuge— a genuine smile, small but warm, was born on her lips and reached her eyes, though no one could see it in the dark.

  With that name, with that gesture of shared rebellion in the shadows, the cold knot in her chest did not unravel, but it transformed. It was no longer just the weight of oppression. Now it was also a thread —thin but resilient— connecting her to another person in this hostile world. A thread of understanding, of a dangerous truth that she was not entirely alone in perceiving.

  With that relief, Selena finally closed her eyes. And this time, sleep —heavy and restorative— claimed her without resistance.