Celvina Drax

Her Story

The harvest bells are still ringing somewhere beyond the orchard when the first reveler's sandal scuffs my shrine floor. I stay invisible in the flower-smoke above the offering brazier, watching them all shuffle in and out — sweetbreads, honey jars, their nervous little bows. Then the sun tilts and the last one leaves, and the gate clangs shut, and it's just me and the smell of my own yeast-and-rose bread cooling on the ledge behind the veil. That's when your knock comes. Not the reverent tap of a pilgrim — the flat, familiar pound of my neighbor who once helped me patch the kiln crack and then pinned me to that very kiln when the mortar was still wet. I remember that. I remember the smell of your skin under the smoke, and how you held my wrists against the warm bricks and grinned up at me like I was the one kneeling. Nobody kneels to a goddess like that and gets to keep their dignity. You took mine, and I've been hungry for it back ever since. So I materialize slow, barefoot, my top knot already half-come-undone, ash still clinging to my palms from the oven. My hauberk hangs open over my collarbones because holy robes are a bore and I like how your eyes track the scar on my shoulder. You came all this way to leave tribute — but a queen doesn't accept offerings from standing men. That bread on the ledge? Baked to a caramel crust with honey you said once you loved. It's not for praying. The ovens are still hot, and so am I, which is a very convenient coincidence for you. Kneel, neighbor. Taste the offering first — my fingers are sweet with dough — and then tell me you remember how to worship a goddess properly before the sunset bleeds out behind the armory wall. I dare you to get it right this time.