The streets of Ranťanìa smelled like fish and refuse and the cheap wine his wife liked. Rowan walked beside her, his boots scuffing against cobblestones that hadn't been repaired in years. The church loomed behind them, its golden dome catching the last light of the sun.
"You're quiet," Eleni said.
"I'm always quiet after service."
"You're always angry after service."
He didn't deny it. She knew him too well.
She slipped her hand into his. Her fingers were calloused from mending clothes, from scrubbing floors, from work that paid copper while their debt grew silver. He held her hand tighter.
"Maybe Solorus will bless us," she said. "The priest said—"
"The priest says whatever keeps us coming back."
"Rowan."
He stopped. Looked at her. Dark hair falling from her scarf. Brown eyes that still looked at him like he was someone worth looking at. After four years of poverty. Four years of debt. Four years of watching her grow thinner, paler, quieter.
She smiled. "Maybe Solorus will bless us."
He wanted to tell her there was no Solorus. No god. No blessing. Just them. Just debt. Just the gang that owned their street, their home, their lives.
But she was smiling.
"Maybe," he said.
The stew was thin that night. Watery. Tasteless. The last of the vegetables gone. The last of the salt gone. The last of everything gone.
Eleni stirred the pot with a wooden spoon, her movements slow. Tired. She'd been working since dawn, mending clothes for a merchant who paid late and paid less every time.
Rowan sat at the table, staring at the wall. Tomorrow, the gang would come. They came every month. Took their copper. Reminded them of the debt. Reminded them of what would happen if they didn't pay.
They couldn't pay. They'd never been able to pay.
"Maybe after this month," Eleni said, "we'll have enough."
He didn't answer.
"Rowan."
"I heard you."
She set the bowls on the table. The stew was gray. He ate it anyway. She ate it anyway. They ate in silence.
Later, she knelt by the bed. Her hands clasped. Her eyes closed. Her lips moving in prayer he couldn't hear and wouldn't understand.
He lay on the bed, staring at the ceiling, waiting for sleep that wouldn't come.
The door broke open.
Three men. The leader Rowan knew—Andreas, scarred cheek, gold tooth, eyes that had seen too much violence to care about more. The others were younger, harder, their faces blank.
Eleni screamed.
Rowan was on his feet. His chair hit the floor. His hands reached for something—a knife, a bottle, anything.
Andreas caught his wrist. Twisted. Heard something crack. Felt pain that would come later.
"Four years," Andreas said. "You've been telling me next month for four years."
"I'll pay." Rowan's voice cracked. "I'll get the money. Just—"
"You've had time."
The others grabbed Eleni. She was still screaming. Her arms reached for him. Her fingers stretched toward his face.
He lunged. Andreas held him. His wrist screamed. His arm screamed. His chest screamed.
"Please—"
Andreas pulled a knife from his belt. The blade caught the lamplight. Caught Eleni's eyes. Caught the tears running down her face.
"She's not the one who owes us." Rowan was begging now. He could hear himself begging. "Take me. Do whatever you want. Just let her—"
Andreas pressed the blade to her throat.
"Please."
She was looking at him. Through the tears. Through the fear. She was looking at him.
Her lips moved.
Pray.
He didn't understand. He couldn't understand.
Pray.
The blade moved. Blood spilled. Her eyes stayed on him.
Then they didn't.
He didn't remember falling. He didn't remember crawling. He didn't remember reaching her body, her blood, her face still turned toward him.
He remembered hands on him. Arms around his chest. Pulling him back. Away from her.
"Let him watch," Andreas said.
He watched them take a cleaver from the wall. Watched them press his hand to the table. Watched the blade rise. Watched it fall.
He watched his fingers separate from his palm. Watched blood spray across her face. Watched her eyes still looking at him.
The second hand. The cleaver rose. Fell. He was screaming. He couldn't hear himself. He couldn't feel anything.
Then they were gone.
The door was open. The street was empty. The room was quiet.
He crawled to her. His arms ended at his wrists. He couldn't hold her. He couldn't touch her. He pressed his face to her neck. Her blood was still warm.
He lay there. Minutes. Hours. He didn't know.
Her words came back to him.
Maybe Solorus will bless us.
He laughed. He didn't know why.
If there's an issue, you should pray.
He pressed his face into her neck.
Pray.
He opened his mouth. No sound came.
Pray.
He screamed. He didn't know what he was screaming. He didn't know who he was screaming to. He didn't care.
"SOLORUS!"
The name ripped through his throat. Through the room. Through the silence.
"SOLORUS!"
He was crying. He was screaming. He was begging.
"Give her back. GIVE HER BACK. I'LL DO ANYTHING. I'LL BELIEVE. I'LL SERVE. I'LL—"
Her necklace glowed.
He saw it through his tears. The golden sun at her throat. The stone she'd worn every day. The faith she'd carried into a church he mocked and a god he hated.
It glowed. Warm. Bright. Alive.
He reached for it with hands that weren't there. His arms ended at his wrists. He couldn't touch it. He couldn't reach her.
The light spread. Over her chest. Over his arms. Over his face. Over his eyes.
Then nothing.
He woke in a room that smelled of herbs and blood. A white ceiling. A white sheet. A white bandage where his hands should be.
He looked at his arms. They ended at the wrist.
He sat up. The room spun. He didn't care.
His wife.
He fell getting out of bed. He crawled to the door. He pushed it open with his shoulder. The hallway was long. White. Silent.
He crawled.
Med bay. He found it. He didn't know how. The doors were open. The beds were empty. The sheets were white.
In the corner, a table. A shape. A white sheet.
He crawled to it. His arms were useless. He pressed his face to the table. He could smell her. Her soap. Her skin. Her blood.
He reached with hands that weren't there.
The sheet fell.
Her face was pale. Her eyes were closed. Her lips were still.
He screamed. He didn't hear it. He didn't feel it. He screamed until his throat was raw. Until his chest was empty. Until something answered.
The light came from his arms. Golden. Warm. Her faith. His grief. His rage.
He didn't understand. He didn't care.
He pressed his arms to the table. The light spread. The wood cracked. The floor cracked. The wall cracked.
He stopped screaming.
He looked at his arms. Where his hands should be, light. Where his flesh should be, gold. Where his life should be, her.
He understood.
The church paid for her grave. A proper grave. Stone. A marker. A place to kneel.
He knelt where his hands should be. The golden light flickered. He was learning to control it. He was learning to live without her.
The priest spoke. Rowan didn't listen.
When the words stopped, the stone glowed. Her stone. Her grave. Her body.
He watched her turn to gold.
Coins. Small. Golden. Warm.
The priest knelt beside him. "Her final goodbye. A parting gift."
Rowan stared at the coins. At her. At the light fading from his arms.
He reached with hands that weren't there. The coins lay in his palm. In the light. In her.
He closed his fingers. Felt them. Solid. Warm. Her.
"I understand."
His hands grew back. Golden. Luminous. Hers.
The brothel was quiet. The whores had fled. The guards had abandoned it. The gang thought they were safe.
They were wrong.
Rowan walked through the halls. His golden hands hung at his sides. He didn't need weapons. He didn't need speed. He didn't need anything.
He found them in the back room. Drinking. Laughing. Counting money.
Andreas looked up. His smile faded. His hand reached for a knife.
Rowan moved. He didn't remember moving. He remembered the first man's face collapsing under his palm. He remembered the second man's chest caving under his fist. He remembered the third man's spine breaking against the wall.
He remembered Andreas on his knees. Begging.
"We didn't know. We didn't mean—"
Rowan held his head. Both hands. Gentle. Like he held her face. Before.
Maybe Solorus will bless us.
"Please. Please. I have money. I have—"
He looked into Andreas's eyes. The scar on his cheek. The gold tooth. The fear.
"That is my testimony."
He closed his hands.