Hooves pounded in the distance.

She waited beside the round well. The bucket’s rope frayed, threads split and curling. Her komboskini hung at her waist, its dark wool looped in even knots along the cord. Each knot held a prayer.

Her thumb and forefinger pressed tight around one, pleading for strength. Then a scream rang out from within the convent, high and brittle. One of the older sisters.

She flinched. The knot slipped from her grip. Her breath hitched.

The horse came into view—tall, white, its mane pale as bone. It galloped to a halt at the garden’s edge. The rider swung down in one smooth motion and stepped into the cloister. Dust clung to his boots. Crusts of dried blood marked the ridges of his dark skin.

He wore green and white silks. Mail shifted beneath the fabric, and the scales along his arms shimmered in the light. His bronze helmet gleamed. From its crown rose a single white plume, long as the tail of her komboskini.

Behind him, his soldiers burst through the convent doors. Wood splintered. Shouts rose in ragged bursts. Footsteps struck stone in quick succession, boots slamming like war drums.

He moved forward, loose-hipped and unhurried. His boots landed heavy along the garden path, shaded by peach and olive trees. He raised his chin, not in curiosity, but in ownership. As if the trees had already bent toward him. As if the well had drawn water for no one else.

In the dust, overripe olives burst beside fallen peaches. Ants swarmed their split flesh. A spoiled sweetness thickened in the heat like wine gone sour.

He paused, watching his soldiers work. His black eyes moved over the garden, slow and flat, appraising. Like a butcher counting what he would take.

His gaze slid past her, then paused. For a breath, she thought she was hidden. That the Lord had veiled her in shadow.

But his eyes found hers. The air thinned, sharp and dry, cracking her lips. She touched the coif covering her hair and neck. A hand fell to a knot, she gripped one. Her fingers tightened around it. Her mouth formed the Lord’s prayer, though no sound escaped.

The shouting faded beyond the trees. Stillness followed.

Then claws scraped against the stone. A dog limped across the stone, edging closer to the well.

Mottled and thin, his fur hung in clumps. Ribs rose sharp beneath his sagging frame. White threaded his muzzle, and one ear drooped, torn nearly in half. He sat crooked, tongue dragging, sides rising and falling with each labored breath.

She stepped to the well. The pulley groaned as she lowered the bucket. Water sloshed when she raised it. She knelt, cupped her hands, and offered them to him. He drank fast, his nose pressing into her palms. Water spilled between her fingers. When he finished, he curled beside her feet, wheezing.

The arrow in his side had snapped near the wound. The iron head remained buried deep in his ribs. She reached for it. He whimpered, baring his teeth, but didn’t move. She whispered to him and laid her hand on his head. His trembling eased. His breath came slower.

She stared at the broken shaft. Her stomach tightened. Fear twisted into a dull ache in her chest. She crossed herself.

He lay still beside her. She knew he would not rise again. And yet he waited, as she did. Not for mercy. Not for salvation. Only for the end.

She held his paw like a child’s hand and hummed a hymn. His ribs rose and fell, slower with each breath. When they stilled, she kept humming.