The priest’s gaze locked onto them the moment they entered after getting permission.

  His eyes, small, beady, and far too unkind, flickered over Lys with the detached interest of a man inspecting livestock. But when they landed on Elara, something darker slithered into his expression. His tongue darted out, wetting his lower lip, just for a second though. But it was not too quick to be accidental.

  Elara didn’t flinch. Didn’t pull away. She simply stood there, her spine straight, her worn dress clinging to the curves, while the priest’s gaze traced so hungrily over them. Lys’s stomach twisted.

  ‘She doesn’t mind? Why?‘ The realization settled like a stone in his gut. ‘Is she like this because she’s used to this? Or does she enjoy it?’

  “Priest John,” Elara said, her voice steady, though her fingers tightened around Lys’s arm. “Lys seems fine, but can you check up on his condition a little? Just to be sure.”

  The priest, John, leaned forward, his chair creaking under his weight. His eyes raked over Lys, lingering on the fresh scars peeking from beneath the torn fabric of his shirt.

  “Is he now?” His voice was a greasy purr. “Funny. I just saw him yesterday. He was dying for sure. People don’t survive that kind of fever, not to mention the injuries from the wolves. You sure this isn’t some trick of the Gaiya Forest? Some ‘thing’ wearing his face?”

  Lys’s jaw clenched. His gaze locked on the priest’s face. The man’s words were like a physical weight on his chest, crawling over him like maggots.

  Elara’s grip on Lys’s arm didn’t waver. “The gods spared him,” she said, her tone leaving no room for argument. “Here, You can see for yourself. There are no signs of him turning into an undead. No stench of death, too. Isn’t he clear then?”

  John exhaled through his nose, a sound that was almost a chuckle. He stood, his robes brushing against the floor as he chanted something, his fingers twitching like he was itching to touch the floor.

  Then he stopped in front of Lys, he was close enough that Lys could smell the sour tang of wine on his breath.

  “Strange,” John murmured, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “A weak man like him doesn’t just come back from the doors of death like that.” His gaze flicked to Elara, his lips curling into something that wasn’t quite a smile. “Unless someone helped him.”

  Elara’s breath stopped, just for a second though, but her face remained smooth. “Yes, thats what I’m saying. Don’t you see, the gods helped him.”

  John’s laugh was a wet, phlegmy thing. “Right. The gods.” He reached out, his sausage-like fingers hovering just above Lys’s chest, testing the mana inside him. “Well. If the gods say he’s clean, who am I to argue?”

  His hand dropped after he didn’t find anything weird in his mana-core, but his eyes lingered, sliding over Lys’s body like he was already imagining peeling the skin back. “You’re lucky, boy. Most men don’t get a second chance like this.”

  Lys didn’t answer. He couldn’t. His throat was too tight, his mind too busy processing the way Elara’s body had tensed when John stepped closer, not in fear, but in anticipation of something. Like she’d known this would happen. Like she’d prepared for it mentally.

  John finally stepped back, waving a dismissive hand. “Go on, then. But if he starts sprouting extra limbs or speaking in tongues, don’t deal with him on your own; come straight to me.”

  Elara didn’t wait for another word. She turned on her heel, tugging Lys with her, Mira falling into step beside them. The priest’s gaze burned into their backs as they left, heavy and lingering as they got out of the chapel, making Lys doubt the fact that all men were only interested in powerful women.

  You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.

  ***

  The walk to their home was silent.

  The village streets were nearly empty now, the last of the daylight bleeding into the dirt. The few villagers still out cast sidelong glances their way, their expressions were unreadable to Lys.

  A woman washing clothes in a wooden trough paused to stare at him, her knuckles white around the fabric.

  Elara’s home was a lopsided hut near the edge of the village, its walls were patched with mud and straw, its roof sagging under the weight of years. The door hung crooked on its hinges, the wood warped by rain and time. Inside, the air was stale, thick with the scent of dried herbs and old smoke. A single bed sat in one corner, its thin mattress was lumpy with use. A hearth, cold and blackened, crouched in the corner of the room, its ashes long dead. A table, scarred and wobbling, stood near the window, a window that was little more than a hole in the wall, covered by a threadbare scrap of cloth.

  Mira moved first, striking a flint to light the single oil lamp on the table. The flickering light cast long shadows across the walls.

  Elara exhaled, a sound that was almost a sigh, almost a sob. She turned to Lys, her hands reaching for him before she seemed to think better of it, letting them drop to her sides. “You’re home, honey, nobody is going to judge you from now.”

  Then she turned to Mira, "Honey, prepare something for Lys to eat, will you!" Her voice was soft but also firm. "I’ll take him to the well."

  Mira nodded and replied with, "Yes, Mom." Already moving toward the hearth where a pot of dried beans sat half-covered by a tattered cloth.

  Elara guided Lys toward the back of the hut, her hand warm against the small frame of his back. The door creaked as she pushed it open, the hinges groaning in protest. Beyond it, the world unfolded in a way that made Lys’s stomach clench.

  The well stood at the center of a small, fenced-off area, its stone rim worn smooth by years of use. A wooden bucket hung from a frayed rope, swaying slightly in the evening breeze. The ground beneath their feet was packed earth, cracked and dry, the scent of damp stone and stale water was filled in the air.

  There were no walls. No privacy. Just a flimsy fence of uneven planks, barely tall enough to hide a child, let alone an adult.

  Lys’s looked at his mother with shock. "Here?" he asked, his voice tighter than he intended.

  Elara didn’t seem to notice. "Yes, here," she said, already reaching for the hem of his shirt. "You need to wash. Your body smells like sweat and dirt."

  Lys hesitated, his fingers curling into fists at his sides. But then the memories of the original Lys washing here regularly with the help of his mother came to his mind. He couldn’t afford to act out of character.

  So he let her undress him.

  The air was cool against his skin, raising goosebumps along his arms as the last of his clothing pooled at his feet. He stood there, naked and exposed, the evening breeze whispering over his body like a warning. Elara didn’t hesitate. She reached for the bucket, hauling it up with practiced ease before tipping it over his head.

  The water was ice cold.

  It crashed over him in a torrent, stealing his breath, his skin prickling as the cold seeped into his bones. He gasped, his body tensing, but Elara didn’t stop. She poured another bucket, then another, her movements were efficient, almost clinical. The water sluiced down his chest, his back, pooling at his feet before soaking into the thirsty earth.

  Lys’s teeth chattered with the cold, but he didn’t complain.

  Around them, the village carried on. A woman’s voice called out from the house twenty feet away, her words muffled but clear, "Oi, bring more firewood!", followed by the distant thud of an axe biting into wood. A drunken woman’s laughter rang out from somewhere nearby, high and bright, untouched by the weight of the moment.

  No one looked their way. No one cared if he was naked or not.

  Lys’s shoulders relaxed, just slightly. Thinking maybe this was normal here in this world, for men to wash outdoors.

  His thoughts shattered as Elara’s fingers moved to the ties of her own dress.

  The fabric slipped from her shoulders, pooling at her feet in a heap of worn linen. She stood before him completely naked, unashamed, her body pale in the fading light. Lys’s breath caught. ‘What the hell is she doing?’

  "Mom!" The word tore from his throat before he could stop it.

  Elara paused, her brow furrowing as she turned to face him. "Huh, Why are you so shy today?" she asked, her voice laced with confusion. "You’ve never been like this before."

  Lys’s mind raced. "Umm, Aren’t you... embarrassed?" he managed to say this, his gaze darting anywhere but at her large, exposed boobs. "What if someone sees you like this?"

  Elara’s expression shifted, her confusion deepening into something akin to bewilderment. "So what if they do?" she said, as if the answer should have been obvious. "Everyone showers like this in the village." She reached for the bucket again, her movements unhurried.

  "Besides, it’s not like any man would be interested in poor women like us. I would have been a little glad if they did want to watch."

  Her words hovered over the air, as she undressed down to her birthsuit and filled the bucket.

  The water in the bucket sloshed as Elara poured it over herself, her skin glistening in the dying light. Lys stood frozen, his mind reeling, his body caught between the icy cold of the water and the words she said just now.