Wreathed in Smoke
Chapter 14 Law & Order (By Law and Flame)
Previously: Balgair oversees the solemn retrieval and ritual preparation of a young girl’s body, murdered in a sacrificial rite. As townsfolk line the snowy streets in reverent silence, a sacred procession forms, echoing ancient rites long forgotten. The body is brought to the Arcane Vault, where Eygas and Arien conduct a protective consecration, preserving her for two days. Alone afterward, Balgair swears an oath to avenge her, sensing a divine presence acknowledge his vow. As the reality of frontier isolation settles around him—no temples, shrines, or priesthoods—he realizes Eola must become more than law-bound. It must be sanctified. Meanwhile, far away in her smoke-veiled domain, the goddess of prophecy hears both the girl’s fragmented spirit and Balgair’s heartfelt prayer. Moved by their sorrow and resolve, she intervenes, choosing a mortal to serve her will. A convergence begins—of justice, sanctity, and divine purpose—woven into the tapestry of fate.
In the kitchen of the Sheriff’s estate, Heather turned, brows furrowing in concern as the dark-haired woman who helped Amelie keep the household calm paused mid-sentence. The flour in Aelwyn’s hands sifted slowly back into the bowl as her arms dropped limp at her sides.
“Aelwyn?” Heather’s voice sharpened. “What’s wrong?”
No response.
She stepped closer, snapping her fingers. “Aelwyn!”
Aelwyn didn’t blink. Her eyes glazed, then rolled back, only whites showing, just before a thin curl of smoke drifted from her parted lips.
Heather staggered back two steps, her hand going to her chest. The air thickened, heavy with a scent she couldn't place, myrrh and something older, a forgotten spice from forgotten altars. Aelwyn’s form shimmered, shuddered, two silhouettes overlapping, human and not, like twin flames trying to share a wick.
Just as Heather opened her mouth to whisper a prayer to her goddess, the transformation seized hold.
Aelwyn's simple work dress faded as if burned from the hem upward. In its place fell a long chiton of indigo and silver, fabric that shimmered like water under moonlight. Her house slippers became sandals laced with silver cords, toes just grazing the tile. A veil of gossamer mist draped down from a coronet of starlight at her brow, settling over her shoulders with solemn grace.
Heather inhaled sharply. That veil... I’ve seen that before. A dream? A story?
When Aelwyn, and not Aelwyn, turned to face her, her eyes blazed with a light neither mortal nor kind. The walls hummed. The hearth fire dimmed. All warmth in the room seemed to retreat from the presence now occupying the kitchen.
Her voice, when she spoke, was hollow as a tomb and rich as prophecy. It echoed, not in the air, but in Heather’s bones.
“Greetings, dèanamh-chàraid,” the figure intoned, “I, the divine Despoina, have come bearing a gift for the Chain-Maker.”
Heather took an uncertain step forward, then halted. Her voice wavered. “Aelwyn, that’s not funny.” Pretending to be a goddess was blasphemy. It could get you cursed. It could get you killed.
Despoina’s voice sharpened. Smoke drifted around her shoulders like living ribbons.
“This is no jest, dèanamh-chàraid.” She raised a hand, pointed at Heather, and the room shook. “Countless times, your thread would have been cut, were it not for the chains my sister wrapped you in, so that you might live to bond with her Ridere.”
Heather gasped, hand to mouth. “By Ananke’s chains…” Her knees buckled, and she fell to the floor, head bowed, trembling. “Forgive me, I… I didn’t know. What gift?”
“My gift is the elevation of this, your house-sister,” Despoina declared, gesturing toward her own vessel, “to one who can speak for the dead.”
Heather looked up, eyes round with awe and fear. “I don’t understand…”
“Murder most foul has transpired in the town without shrines.” The goddess’s voice echoed against walls that had never known prayer. “The Chain-Maker needs a soul-speaker. This woman you call Aelwyn shall hold a spark of my essence. She shall be my voice among the dead.”
As if summoned by name, the very air behind Despoina tore open, a soft susurrus of wind and silver light as a star-laced portal bloomed like a slow breath.
From its depths, Ananke stepped forth, serene and radiant. Her eyes were pools of mercy and measure, her chiton dark with bands of chain-silver embroidery. Her presence warmed the room like the return of spring to a frost-choked land.
“Oh, Despoina,” she sighed, shaking her head with a smile, “must you always terrify my chosen so thoroughly?”
Heather’s breath hitched.
Her mind scattered like a flock of startled birds, flapping against the cage of her thoughts. She was terrified. She was relieved. She was seen, down to her soul.
She stared, mute, at her goddess, her protector, her reason for still being alive, and whispered, “I don’t know what to do.”
Ananke knelt beside her, not in condescension but in kinship. She brushed Heather’s cheek.
The simple touch unraveled a knot of fear Heather hadn’t known she held. Warmth flooded her senses, the scent of honeyed cookies, the soft clink of porcelain, and the hum of safety that only childhood dreams dared remember. For a fleeting moment, she was no longer in a kitchen filled with gods, but at a fire-lit table, small and loved.
The goddess of chains looked up at her sister with a wry smile. “Speak plainly, Des. My dèanamh-chàraid is no silk-tongued sagart. She’s earnest. Honest.”
Despoina rolled her eyes and gave a theatrical sigh. “Very well.” Her aura dimmed, withdrawing like mist at sunrise. The stars in her veil guttered, and her voice softened.
“Your Bear has stumbled across a sacrificed soul. His thoughts reached beyond the veil, and called to me.” She paused, cocking her head. “Though not him alone. There was also a woman… copper hair, blue eyes, spirit burning with grief. She begged for her child’s safety.”
Ananke’s eyes lit with sudden clarity. “You’ve chosen Aelwyn as your soul-speaker.”
Despoina nodded once.
Ananke chuckled, warm as a hearth. “You could have just said so.”
“I could have,” Despoina said, folding her hands with mock regret. “But I so rarely get to wear full regalia.” She turned, cloak swishing with ethereal rustle, and approached where Heather still knelt.
“May I have your forgiveness, dèanamh-chàraid?”
Heather swallowed. Her limbs still trembled, but her voice was stronger now.
“Heather,” she said softly. “My name is Heather.”
Her blonde curls bobbed as she stood, eyes wide, seeking something familiar in the goddess’s unreadable face.
“Does Aelwyn… agree to this?”
In that instant, as if a divine breath had been exhaled, the fusion of goddess and mortal unraveled into two figures standing side by side. Both were clad in the same ethereal chiton, starlight glinting along silver hems. Yet only one bore the radiance of divinity.
When Aelwyn spoke, it was in her own voice, calm, clear, and cleansed of grief.
“I do,” she whispered.
Her eyes turned to Heather, wide with awe and reverence.
“I got to say goodbye to Dafyd.”
The aura of divine power still clung to the room like warm incense. Sensing it, Amelie and Delilah burst into the kitchen, breathless, skirts rustling. They arrived just in time to hear Aelwyn’s words.
Delilah froze, then surged forward and wrapped Aelwyn in her arms.
“You did? What did he say?” she asked, voice trembling.
Aelwyn returned the embrace, her smile radiant with peace.
“He’s waiting for us, on some celestial shore. He wants us to be happy.”
Her gaze softened. “And he approves of you seeing the deputy.”
Delilah let out a breath that caught in a laugh and a sob. Amelie silently touched both their shoulders.
Then Aelwyn turned, her expression open and light as new dawn.
“I’m ready, Divine Despoina,” she said, voice teasing, “What do I need to do?”
Despoina’s smile curved like the crescent of a waxing moon.
“You and Heather must find Bear,” she said, amusement in her voice. “And let him speak to the dead.”
She reached out and cupped Aelwyn’s cheek. Aelwyn’s brow quirked.
“I have given you what you need,” the goddess murmured.
Aelwyn tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and felt the spark. Not a memory. Not a spell. A knowing. She reached inward and found what had been planted, sigils, syllables, purpose.
She took Heather’s hand.
With a whisper of breath and the shimmer of a traced rune, the space between moments folded. Aelwyn and Heather vanished, leaving only a ripple of incense and light behind.
In the space of a breath, within the single beat of a heart, they appeared, Heather and Aelwyn, standing in the doorway behind Balgair. The air filled with the scent of myrrh and clove, and small motes of light floated like fireflies caught in a sacred wind. A faint shimmer of heat rolled through the room, then vanished, leaving the office momentarily hushed and heavy.
Pulled from his silent meditation, Balgair stirred, eyes opening slowly. One hand drifted to the hilt of his sword on instinct, but stilled as he beheld his blonde bhanna standing beside the resplendent figure of Aelwyn.
Aelwyn… and not Aelwyn.
He felt Heather’s calmness ripple through their bond and exhaled quietly, reassured. Rising from his chair, he studied Aelwyn more closely, noting the way the divine shimmer still clung faintly to her form.
“I feel an explanation is in order,” he said, his voice low and steady.
Heather’s laughter echoed softly in the bond, but it was Aelwyn’s calm, clear voice—free of grief and filled with purpose—that answered.
“Our Lady wreathed in smoke has heard your prayers,” she said solemnly. Then a playful glint flickered in her eye. “She’s made me her soul-speaker.”
Balgair blinked, mind reeling. He had only just finished meditating on the need for such help. Could the gods have answered that quickly?
He turned to Heather, finding her gaze brimming with quiet certainty. The corner of his mouth lifted.
“That is welcome news,” he said simply, stepping toward them. “We desperately need your help.”
Aelwyn nodded, serene. “Can I see her body?”
Balgair reached out and pulled Heather close, taking a moment to feel her warmth, her steadiness. “Follow me,” he said.
The three of them walked in silence to the arcane vault. As the door opened, a rush of cool, incense-laced air greeted them. The faint scent of ritual offerings lingered—burnt sage, faint citrus, the metallic trace of iron. The room was still and reverent.
Aelwyn entered first, her steps sure. She approached the body laid upon the marble slab, her eyes solemn.
“Despoina is pleased with what your mages have done,” she said. “She considers this circle a proper sanctification.”
She closed her eyes and reached within, finding the sacred knowledge gifted to her. Her hand lifted, fingers tracing a gentle spiral in the air as the temperature dipped and the air stilled.
The scent of myrrh and thyme thickened, curling like smoke around the body.
“Come to the living, beloved sister now beyond the veil,” Aelwyn intoned, her voice both gentle and commanding. “Come and share your sorrow, and give voice to the hope left behind. You are not forgotten.”
For a breath, all was still.
Then, the copper-haired spirit shimmered into view, standing beside her own body. She looked translucent, a tattered echo of who she had once been. Her voice drifted out, reed-thin and aching.
“My child, my precious son. He is alone…”
Something stirred in Balgair. Compelled, he stepped forward, something ancient pulling at his spine. His voice softened, weighted with hope and fear.
“Can you describe your child?”
The spirit turned her milky eyes toward him, her voice thick with sorrow and love.
“He is waist high, five seasons old. Hair the color of straw… soul of an explorer.” Her form flickered. “He does not know the danger. He does not know the world yet… and it has teeth.”
Balgair’s breath caught. A name rose in his chest like a stone dislodged from the heart.
“Is his name… Matthew?”
The spirit wailed—softly, with the wind of a thousand silenced prayers. “My son. My precious son. Please take care of him. Guard him. Tend him. Teach him… Bear.”
Then, as though her purpose were complete, the spirit faded like breath from a mirror.
Silence returned to the vault.
Balgair stood motionless, one hand over his heart. The others did not speak. Then, quietly, he exhaled and turned to Heather.
“Well,” he said, with the weight of both humor and wonder. “It appears we have a son.”
Heather smiled, tears bright in her eyes. “Amelie and Nell will be ecstatic.”
A warmth spread through Balgair’s chest. Not the blazing fire of battle or divine duty, but something deeper. Rooted. Permanent. The shape of his family had changed—and in a way that felt not accidental, but ordained.
He looked back at the marble slab, bowed his head once, and whispered a vow only the gods could hear.
Outside the arcane vault, incense still lingered in the air—smoke curling like memory through the quiet hall. Arien and Eygas stood in stillness, their eyes fixed on Aelwyn. She gently smoothed the midnight-blue chiton now gracing her form, silver embroidery catching the lamplight like scattered stars.
“So, you’re now a soul-speaker for Eola?” Arien asked, her voice a blend of reverence and curiosity.
“I am,” Aelwyn said, nodding with quiet grace. “Mistress Despoina has charged me with awakening her rites. I will speak for the dead and tend the sacred echoes. And in time, temples will rise here. The gods have not forgotten this place.”
Her eyes sparkled—like the night sky before a storm breaks.
Arien reached out, fingers brushing the sleeve of Aelwyn’s robe. “I’m jealous. You get to wear this, and I’m stuck in wool and ward-charms.” Her smile softened the words. “But truthfully… I wouldn’t trade what I have.”
“I could always mandate pink bows and ponytails,” Balgair deadpanned, stepping out of the vault with a weary smile.
Arien turned with a grin. “Pink’s doable, but if you try to put Farank in a ponytail, you’re on your own.”
The laughter eased the tension that clung to them.
Then Arien tilted her head. “What should we do with the body?”
“Take her to the pyre tomorrow,” Balgair said, his voice distant, heavy. “Let her return to the stars. Let her join her people.”
He looked between Aelwyn and Heather. “The better question is—how do I get the two of you home?”
It was no more than a half-hour later when the cartwright arrived, sleigh in tow, as if summoned by unseen grace. Heather and Aelwyn climbed aboard, and Balgair nodded his thanks. Black Star took the lead, his breath pluming in the chill dusk air.
Once back at the estate, Balgair gathered his family in the living room. The fire crackled softly in the hearth, casting a warm amber light over worn rugs and waiting hearts.
Heather stood with her arms around him, her head resting against his chest, their bond a quiet anchor. Amelie and Nell entered just behind, their expressions softening at the sight. Then came the child—tow-haired, wide-eyed, hope clinging to him like breath.
“Where mommie? Did you find ’er?” Matthew asked, wrapping his small arms around Balgair’s leg.
“Give me strength,” Balgair whispered to his goddess, his voice barely audible above the fire.
How do you explain death to a child still learning how to live? The pain rose in him like a tide, swelling through the bond. He saw it mirrored in the eyes of his bhanna, his brave, beautiful women who already knew what was coming.
Balgair sank to one knee, the leather of his coat creaking, and gathered the boy into his arms. “I found your mommie, Matthew,” he said gently, voice thick with grief. “She’s gone beyond the veil.”
The child looked up, lips trembling. “Mommie gone? Where me?”
Balgair hugged him tighter, breathing in the scent of ash and snow still clinging to the boy’s hair. “You’re here,” he whispered. “We’ll be your daddy. And your mommies.”
That was all it took. The bond sang.
Amelie let out a soft cry and rushed forward, Nell close behind. Heather never let go. The three bhanna folded around their bear and their new cub, forming a family in the flickering hearth light, woven together not by blood, but by oath, by love, by the gods’ unseen hand.
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