"Yes, I have heard much of the northern monastery. How comforting to know a holy place resides so near the pagan land, to purify it. I hear it has paintings like no other. Such beauty. Such intense devotion to the Amity's cause. I would like nothing more than to visit there myself, but they do not welcome pilgrims as of late. Strange, I must admit." — from a letter penned by Father Bertram, dated thirty years ago

~~~

Briar was terrible at chopping firewood.

The ax was too heavy for her to wield well, and her seared hand made it nearly impossible to grip the handle properly. She cringed every time she brought the ax down only to get the rusted head stuck in the wood, or to have missed the mark and sent the wood skittering. She nearly put the ax into her own foot on many occasions.

She thought her swordplay practice would give her an edge, but it turned out using an ax to chop wood was much different than swinging a sword.

The others chopping wood with her offered no advice, acting like she wasn't even there. Briar admired the way they swung their axes above their heads with ease, finding their marks and splitting the sizable rounds on the first try. Briar felt like she was all clumsiness and flailing elbows and she hated it.

Though she wished for another job, she knew Jack wouldn't give her one since he seemed intent on working her to the bone. She also didn't want to appear even weaker to him by asking. The weight of Jack's stern, expectant gaze and her own sheer stubbornness kept her going, but after three days she still hadn't gotten much better at it. She woke up every morning like a hundred year old woman, too stiff and sore to swing her legs out of bed. Even with Sybil's salve, her burns were healing slowly, and now both hands had water-filled blisters from the rubbing of the ax handle. She pushed through it, though, accepting that constant pain was an inevitable part of her life now.

It wasn't just her fellow woodcutters who didn't speak to her— no one in Darkholm, other than Sybil, made any effort to get to know her. If Briar tried to break the ice and speak first, she was met by eye rolls and silent, threatening glares. Eventually she stopped trying altogether and kept her mouth shut.

A few times as she was gathering wood, her talisman slipped out from under her dress and she noticed people eying it. Hastily, she would tuck it back in, keeping her gaze down as to not invite the trouble Jack warned her about.

One man continued to look at her differently than the others— the mysterious painter. Whenever she felt a chilling at the back of her neck, she would glance over her shoulder and spot him staring at her. Every time, his expression held the same puzzlement. Once she started toward him to introduce herself, but he promptly took his painting supplies and ducked inside his cabin.

One morning, while Briar was carefully wrapping her blistered hands for another day of woodcutting, a painting of a young woman caught her gaze. Hanging in a corner that didn't get much light, it had escaped her notice before. It was painted in the style of old religious illustrations, with vivid colors and ornate borders. The woman's loose brown curls blew to one side, her eyes shut, her mouth like a rosebud. Her arms were crossed over her chest, holding a lump of clay in one hand and three yellow yarrow flowers in the other. The sun rose behind her, giving her a halo, portraying her as saint-like.

"Is that you, Sybil?" Briar asked, pointing, as the likeness was similar except for Sybil's bad eye.

Sybil looked up from the tonic she was mixing. When her eye fell on the painting, she smiled sadly. "No. My sister, Cerridwen."

Briar hesitated before venturing the question carefully. "You said she passed away?"

Sybil nodded.

"I'm sorry."

"It's alright. It was a long time ago. It's good for her to be spoken of and remembered."

Briar smiled. "Tell me about her."

"She was wild and stubborn. She loved forming things from clay. She made all of these." Sybil gestured to the clay bowls, plates, and mugs lining her shelves. "She made them for everyone else, too. I think she used it to distract herself. She never let herself grieve her old life. She was always keeping busy, trying her best to be happy."

"She was beautiful," Briar murmured, lifting her eyes to the painting again. "Who painted the portrait?"

"Sven," Sybil said. "You've probably seen him painting outside his house. He was a religious illuminator before he was tainted."

Briar raised a brow. "For the Amity?"

Sybil nodded. "He lived at the Olorian monastery not far from here. Before I was here, the magic of the ward frayed and the werewolves escaped on a blood moon." She gave Briar an apprehensive glance. "We shift on blood moons like new moons, but we go a bit... berserk. It's harder to control ourselves."

"Oh," Briar said hollowly, wondering when the next blood moon would be.

"That blood moon, when the werewolves got past the warden, they headed for the monastery. Sven was the only survivor."

"Is painting his job here? I never see him doing anything else."

"Yes," Sybil said. "The wizard takes his paintings and sells them in the towns. They sell well, apparently."

Jack walked by, flurries of tiny dry snowflakes whirling around him. He gave Briar a hard, impatient stare through the window to tell her she was dawdling too long.

Sighing, Briar drained her coffee and flipped her hood up, the brown fur on its edge tickling her face. She pulled on her mittens. "Well, here goes nothing again."

"Jack is impressed with your work ethic, you know," Sybil said, smiling. "He'd never tell you, but you surprised him."

Triumph swelling in her chest, Briar couldn't help but grin. "Good."

Briar worked even harder that day, until her breath was ragged and her wool layers stained through with sweat despite the biting cold. It was also the first day she felt like she was alright at chopping wood. She was less sore, able to bring the ax down harder, her muscles finally getting used to the work.

At sundown, Briar watched half the town head to the long house like every night to drink away the hardships of the day. She'd never joined them, but tonight her throat was parched and her fingers numb and she was especially bone-weary. The cold evening wind carried the threat of new snow. It blew through Briar's sweaty garments and made her shiver.

As she stacked the remainder of her firewood, she saw Sven leave his house. Stuffing his paint-stained hands in his pockets, he slowly headed up the snow-dusted path to the drinking hall.

Briar began to stack the damp wood faster.

She was absolutely going to the long house tonight.

Once the last piece was stacked, she shrugged on her overdress, tied the bone needle in place, and then pulled on her mittens. Then, blowing into her hands, she trudged up the path with determination.

The dusk sky was a cold cerulean canvas for the jagged snowy peaks, dotted with evergreens and partially lost in a mist of snow. By the time she was heading back all would be lost in an inky blackness, and she once again silently thanked her mother for the talisman ensuring her courage.

Two torches burned on either side of the heavy door. Grasping the horseshoe handle, Briar leaned all her weight on it and pushed herself in.

A long open fire crackled in the middle of the room surrounded by benches and stools, as well as a smaller fire at the far end. Though smoke escaped through holes in the roof, much of it hovered inside, giving the room a filmy haze and a sharp woody scent.

People drank deep from clay tankards, slouching forward in their seats and laughing at each other. Everyone always seemed so severe and forlorn to Briar, so it was pleasant to see them make merry.

A few eyes flicked to her in annoyance, but for the most part she was ignored entirely. That was fine by Briar. She was only here to speak with Sven.

She spotted him alone, sitting on a stool by the small fire in the back.

This is my chance, Briar thought as she poured a bit of mead into a clay cup and headed toward him.

Sven sat with one leg tucked under his stool and the other stretched out, his long fingers entwined around his drink. He stared so intently into the fire that he didn't notice Briar's presence until she pulled up a stool next to him.

"Hello," she said.

He startled, setting his icy blue eyes on her. After staring stunned for a moment, he darted his eyes away, clearing his throat roughly. "Hello," Sven returned. His voice was uncommonly raspy, as if his throat was full of rocks.

"My name is Briar," she said.

"Sven."

"I heard you're a painter."

He gave a nod, his wiry body tense, his eyes hyper-focused on the burning logs.

"And you used to be an illuminator for the Amity, at one of the monasteries?"

Another nod, his jaw gritted hard.

"Uncommon for a northman to become one of their acolytes."

He only nodded.

Silence stretched between them. As she waited for him to say something, she studied him. The firelight licked at his hardened face, the lines in his forehead and around his eyes deepening with late middle age. Roping scar tissue made a path through one eyebrow and down his faded tattoo. She wondered how many other scars were covered by his clothes— probably many, if he was the lone survivor of a werewolf massacre.

Something about him still whispered to her recollection, though there was no way she could have met him before. He'd lived in Darkholm her whole life. 

When the stretching silence became too uncomfortable, Briar finally said,  "Do we know each other somehow?"

He looked at her then, surprised. "I don't think so." He winced after he spoke, swallowing laboriously, as though speaking pained him.

Briar nodded slowly. "I was just wondering why you keep looking at me the way you do."

"Like what?" he asked, but ducked his head almost sheepishly.

"Like you recognize me but can't quite place me."

Sven didn't answer right away, instead taking a long drink, cringing as the ale went down. "You remind me of someone I used to know," he said at last, wiping a drip of ale from his beard. "That's all. I apologize for staring.

"It's alright," Briar said with a good-natured shrug. "Who do I remind you of?"

He pursed his lips together, getting a far off look. "A woman who didn't deserve the horrible things that came to her." He blinked, shaking his head. "It doesn't matter."

"Ah," Briar took a long sip of her mead. It was honey-sweet but strong enough to burn the back of her throat. When he didn't offer any more information on the woman, she said, "What was it like living in a monastery?"

A haunted look cast a shadow over his face. "It was a dark place. I'd rather not talk about it."

"You don't have to."

Sven sighed. "Talking at all is. . . difficult for me."  His voice came in and out as he spoke, haltingly, breaking into pain-filled whispers and then back again. Briar had never heard anything like it before. "When I was attacked, it left me with a damaged voice." He pulled his flaxen beard back like a curtain, revealing the scarring of his throat. The skin looked scrambled, like eggs in a pan, the scars slick in the firelight. "I don't show  this to warrant pity, only to explain why I choose not to speak much." He let his beard fall back like a protective curtain.

Wide-eyed, Briar breathed, "I'm sorry." She had so many questions to ask him, the first being what he thought of living with the people responsible for hurting him, but she bit her tongue. "I won't bother you any longer, then," Briar said, "but before I go. . ." She quickly reached into the pouch at her hip and brought out the wooden figure carved by the Amity. "I've never been religious myself, but I recently picked up this prayer icon from one of the sisters." She held the icon in her palm, holding it out to show him. "Saint Orla. I've been praying to her for help. I'm not sure if she hears me, but even just having the icon has brought me comfort."

Briar smiled at the icon, then lifted her eyes to Sven.

He stared down at it, stricken, like he was staring at a ghost.

He got to his feet abruptly. "Excuse me."

"Oh, of course," Briar stammered, but he was already gone. The groan and thud of the door resounded a moment later.

Briar's brows knitted as she peered down at the tiny carved figure with the dab of gold on her chest. What about the innocent thing could have caused a reaction like that? Maybe there was something sinister she didn't know about Saint Orla— he likely knew more about the saints than she did. Or maybe it simply reminded him of his dark time at the monastery, whatever that meant.

She tucked the icon back into her pouch and downed the rest of her mead until her head swam pleasantly and her belly felt warmer than it had in days. She remembered how her mother visited the holy places, and wondered if Sven had met her. Could her mother have been the one she reminded him of? The timelines didn't add up though. Tula hadn't entertained religion until Briar was four or five. Though perhaps that account was wrong. But if her mother was the woman he spoke of, why not just say so outright? Why be ambiguous about it?

Briar shook her head. She might never learn the answers because she was determined not to pester Sven again. It wasn't fair to put him through pain simply because she was curious.

The fire's warmth began to make her sleepy. She got to her feet, returned her empty cup, and headed out into the cold night.

If only she'd noticed the man slipping out after her.

Briar pursed her lips and blew out, watching her breath spew icy fog before her as she walked back up the road. She craned her neck to look up at the darkening sky. The stars were coming out now, glittering like tiny flecks of polished ice.

What a privilege to finally admire the night, Briar thought.

A sweaty hand clamped over her mouth.

A man's voice spoke hot and slurred in her ear. "Let's have a little chat, you and me."

Briar's heart hammered as she was yanked into the deep shadows, struggling against him in vain. She tried to elbow him, to bite his hand, but his grip was too hard to budge her jaw or her arms.

Whatever she did, she wouldn't cry out for help. Not here. She was in this alone. She would fight her own battles and be beholden to no one.

Briar's mittened fingers brushed against the hilt of her knife, but she couldn't get a firm grip on it.

The man shoved Briar against a tree. The moon was waning, but enough silver light beamed down to see his face— it was Joran, one of her fellow woodcutters. The one who seemed to hate her the most.

He let go of his hold over her mouth, but kept both of her arms pinned to her sides so she still couldn't budge. She could feel his nails digging in even through all her layers. "Let go of me, you bastard," she spat.

"Not until I put you in your rightful place," he said.

"And what place is that?"

"As low as the dirt." He leaned in so close Briar nearly choked on the stench of his fevered breath. "I don't like you," he continued. "None of us do. Sitting in there, drinking our mead, pretending like you're one of us. You're not. You're nobility, the scum of the earth, and you always will be."

"If I was still nobility I wouldn't be up here," Briar said. "I'm a werewolf now, cursed, same as you. I thought that was obvious, but maybe you're not very bright."

"You've never been the same as me," he growled, giving her a painful shake that knocked her head hard against the tree. "For years we've been fighting tooth and nail just to see another sunrise. Cast away by the rest of the world. Forgotten. Left to gnaw on bones and claw through the dirt. Left to starve. Toiling harder than anyone has ever toiled. The fates finally pitied us and sent us the wizard to make our lives better, and I'll be damned if I see the rewards of our toil being guzzled down by a spoiled princess who did nothing to earn it."

"I've been working hard, same as anyone," Briar said evenly.

Joran scoffed. "You've been chopping wood badly for a few days. I've been worked to the bone my entire life. And you get to partake the same as I do, all the while parading your high born finery for the rest of us to see?" He shook her so hard she felt dizzy. "Where is the fairness in that?"

"Parading my finery?" Briar repeated. "You really aren't bright, are you? I'm wearing Sybil's clothes, made from the same wool as your own."

"I'm not talking about your clothes," he said through gritted teeth.

"Then what are you talking about?"

He hooked his finger on the dainty chain around her neck and pulled the amethyst pendant out from under her dress.

Briar's breath hitched. Eyes widening in dismay, blood rushed to every cold part of her body, pounding in her ears, telling her— fight or flee, your life now hangs in the balance.

"Oh," Joran said, noticing her inner turmoil and giving a crooked smile. "This trinket is meaningful to you."

She thought of bringing her knee to his crotch so she had a moment to grab her knife, but his own legs were pressed against hers and he was twice as big as her. And strong. Her eyes implored him as she scrambled for some way to explain, to bargain. "You don't understand," she said, keeping her voice as even as she could. "This isn't some vain bauble. I need to be wearing this, for the good of everyone. It's a—"

He yanked it off. "Sounds like just the kind of lie you'd say to ensure you get to keep it."

"Please!" Briar cried, not hiding the edge of desperation in her voice anymore.

He lifted the talisman so it dangled in front of his face, the violet facets glinting in the moonlight. "I won't be taking it. I'm of the mind that no one in Darkholm should keep useless frivolities that put them above their neighbor." With a sneer, he wrenched Briar away from the tree, yanked both of her hands behind her back, and began pushed her down the hill toward the lake. "No, no. I will be getting rid of it."

"You can't!"

Joran only laughed as he pushed Briar over slick rocks, making her flail and trip.

He stopped at the jutting rocky shore of the lake. Gentle waves lapped over the toes of Briar's boots. "Let this be a lesson to you about putting on airs," he snarled in her ear.

Everything next happened quickly. The same moment that Briar was able to retrieve her knife, Joran balled up the necklace and tossed it, soaring, into the lake. In one swift motion, Briar brought her knife up and stabbed it into his hand that gripped her arm, letting loose a roar of rage.

Joran screamed, too, as he stared at the knife stuck all the way through the other side of his hand.

Briar yanked her knife out and kicked him in the groin as hard as she could. He staggered back, tripping hard onto his backside.

Old fear culminated with a hopeless grief like fire in Briar's chest, growing into a white-hot fury. "You stay away from me, do you hear me? Don't you dare touch me again."

Joran growled at her, barring his teeth like the half-wolf he was as he used his shirt to stop the crimson flow from his hand. "You'll pay for this, witch."

"Try something like that again and you'll be the one paying. I will not be man-handled. I'll gouge out your eyes. I could care less. A woman with nothing left to lose is a dangerous creature and you would do well to remember that."

With another spit of a curse, Joran got to his feet and staggered off, tripping on loose rocks.

A sob broke in Briar's throat as she turned to the black deep of the lake. A harsh wind skittered across the top of the water.

Taking a desperate step into the cold waves, she hissed through her teeth. Not only was it frigid, it was void of light, merging with the inky black of the night until she was sure it would swallow her up. There was no point looking for it now. She'd be driven to insanity without the talisman to ease her fear.

The only thing she could feasibly do was find a light and hang on until morning.

Unable to catch a full breath, Briar headed up the rocky hill towards Sybil's house. She didn't know what hole that awful man crawled back into, and she didn't care. She knew she was being watched, though, by dozens of eyes. After the screaming, the whole village had probably stepped outside to peer down from their porches. No one had come to help her, which was what she'd expected. Briar didn't look for their gazes. She trudged on, staring forward and unflinching, knife still brandished in her fist.

Let them know that a wild woman crouches inside me, waiting to bare her teeth.