Gwenda Veryn
The morning fog rolled across Birmul’s meadows as Gwenda Veryn worked her garden, the spade moving with the same precision she once used to slit a throat. Dirt streaked her hands, and a faint smile touched her lips when Adelaide came running with the morning catch. The girl’s stance was good—steady, quiet steps, wrist angled just right to hold the knife. Gwenda nodded approvingly, her fingers flicking through a few signs: silent step, careful breath.
Adelaide laughed and mimicked the motions, thinking it a game between mother and daughter. Gwenda’s eye turned briefly toward the treeline, where a crow cawed perched on a branch—a reminder of another life, one shadowed by blood and whispered names. She could still feel the Night’s presence there, as if her old partner watched from somewhere far off. The caw was faint as Gwenda’s hearing continued to deteriorate.
When evening fell, they sat by the hearth, the firelight painting their hands in gold as they spoke without words. Adelaide’s laughter filled the small home. Gwenda smiled again—softly, sadly. The life she’d built was one of peace, but every lesson she gave her daughter was a blade honed on the past.
