Garima woke up to a sharp pull in her stomach. Hunger. The kind she couldn't ignore.
Her stomach twisted painfully, gnawing past the ache in her ribs, past the heaviness in her limbs.
For a moment she lay still. Her breathing hurt. A slow spreading soreness had settled into her muscles and bones. Her shoulders throbbed where they had taken the worst damage. Her arms were so numb that even lifting them felt like work.
Her stomach twisted again.
Garima exhaled. "Fine." She pushed herself up.
The world tilted. Her vision blurred at the edge— dark for a second too long. She closed her eyes until it steadied. She was hungry and low on glucose. Her body was recovering poorly.
Slowly she lifted her legs off the bed. Her feet touched the ground. She stood slowly. Balancing carefully on numb, shaky legs.
Before she could even take a step, she noticed Ava curled up in the dim morning light. Beside her bed. On a thin pallet made of spare cloth, one arm stretched towards Garima's bed.
Garima looked at her for a moment. The shrine's priests and priestesses had their own quarters. A bed with clean linens. Not comfortable as a memory foam mattress but still better than the floor.
Garima couldn't understand the emotion brewing within her.
Garima stepped past her quietly.
Outside, the corridor was dim. The shrine ran oil lamps after dark— not magic. Not the soft glow of the stored energy like the cities used. But actual oil pressed from the seeds grown in the shrine's own fields with other vegetables and fruits in the backyard. Despite having priests and priestesses capable of producing light through energy flow, the shrine still relied on ordinary oil after dark. Garima had learned this from a priest named Filly who talked far too much. The lamps burned bright in the evening but dimmed as the night wore on. She muttered a quiet curse under her breath.
She almost stumbled due to low visibility. Dylan, Zihan and Riley sat outside her door. Asleep. She could have stepped on Riley.
Dylan had bent forward— elbows on his knees. Riley's head rested against his shoulder. Legs curled up. His hands hung loosely at his sides.
Zihan sat straighter, even at rest. Arms folded.
She had clearly asked them to leave. But they stayed.
Garima turned and walked.
The shrine kitchen sat towards the rear— past the priests and priestesses quarters. Closer to the backyard fields. The greens could be seen through the window.
It took longer than usual to get there. Every step reminded her body of yesterday. Muscles pulled wrong. The faint copper taste still lingered at the back of her throat.
She reached the kitchen. It was quiet and empty. Morning preparation hadn't started. The priests wouldn't arrive for another hour at least.
The kitchen was large by shrine standard— built to feed a full roster of priests. Large clay stoves lined the far wall with a residual coal bed. Storage shelves held large sacks of grains, bundles of herbs tied tight in rough twine, sealed claypots of preserved
vegetables.
The shrine wasn't wealthy. It was sufficient rather than abundant. The priests and priestesses cleaned and cooked. Practiced swords and healing. Grew and harvested vegetables— enough to function. Garima found this either admirable or inconvenient depending on the day.
Today was inconvenient. She moved slowly among the shelves, lifting lids. Checking pots. She missed late-night food deliveries immensely. She could order even at three in the morning. Sneaking it inside the house with her brother, careful not to wake their parents.
She found a loaf— dense, slightly stale. A pot of broth, thickened overnight. Probably from last night's supper.
She sat.
The first bite hurt. Her jaw ached. The inside of her cheek stung— small tears along the lining, from clenching or from impact or both. The soup carried a strong metallic taste.
She ignored it and kept eating. Slow at first. Then faster. Hunger hollowed everything else out— pain, doubt and exhaustion. There was only the need to fill her empty stomach.
Then she heard footsteps. Fast and uneven.
Garima didn't stop eating. Dylan appeared in the doorway slightly out of breath. Sleep marks still lined his face.
He took in the room— and the bowl in front of her. And relief crossed his face.
Then irritation.
"You're here" He said it like an accusation.
"There was food in your room. You didn't have to come here. You could have called Ava. Zihan. Me or even Riley."
Garima glanced up. Then back at her bowl.
"I didn't know. I didn't see. And you've already done enough"
"That's not the point"
He stepped inside. Looked at her— the careful way she was sitting, the way she hadn't moved her shoulder since she walked in.
"You shouldn't even be walking"
She dipped the bread into the broth.
Dylan pulled out the stool across from her and sat.
"Was it necessary?" He asked, quieter. "To push yourself like that?"
Garima didn't answer immediately.
"Just tell them," Dylan said. "About the vision. Like you did for the princess. You don't need to fight like this."
Garima shook her head.
"I have to save them"
"You don't even know them"
She looked at him then.
"I know you"
He stilled.
"That's different," he said.
"Is it?" She looked back at her bowl "I might know them later. The same way I know you now." And she paused. "I don't want to regret it. Not saving someone's parent, sibling or lover. When I could"
Dylan's jaw tightened. He looked like a puppy. Sad and angry.
Garima watched him for a moment.
Then—
"You are adorable when you're like this"
He frowned "I am serious"
"So am I."
She studied him. The furrowed brow. The dejected look. The way he had run down a dim corridor at this hour. He had moved before thinking. Caring for her without showing. Aggressively.
"You remind me of my brother," she said.
"You mentioned it once. You had a brother?" he asked.
"I have a brother." Present tense. She said it carefully.
He blinked "But in the tablet, the record said—"
"Can you keep it a secret?" She said with a small smile. "Between us."
He looked at her for a long time. Then nodded.
"...okay."
Garima reached out and ruffled his hair.
Dylan went still.
Then flushed a remarkable shade of red.
Garima laughed—
—and flinched.
Pain lanced across her ribs. She sucked in a breath, sharp and involuntary.
Dylan leaned forward instantly.
"You okay?"
"Fine," she said, taking steady breaths. "I am glad nothing broke"
Dylan snorted. "He went easy on you"
Garima chuckled, enduring the pain.
"So?" she asked. "How bad was I?"
Dylan didn't hesitate "Terrible."
Garima stared. Then she laughed again. Softer, more careful, one hand pressed lightly against her ribs.
Dylan smiled. It was a reluctant smile.
Garima pushed her bowl of broth towards him. And broke the piece of loaf in her hand. She asked more of her fight.
They sat in the quiet kitchen sharing cold food while everyone slept around them. He pointed things out between bites— about balance. Stance collapsing. Spins that looked more like dance than combat.
Garima defended her form whenever he criticized it. But he dismissed them without hesitation.
It was, she thought, like home. Almost.
At the doorway—
Zihan stood.
He had woken when Dylan left running. Followed quietly. And stopped at the entrance.
He watched Garima sitting upright despite everything. Eating. Laughing— careful, pained. Dylan beside her worried and still trying to make her laugh.
Zihan had grown up here. An orphan brought in by Priest Hill. He followed rules. He cared about others. But the Saintess continued to confuse him. Always doing things he didn't expect. At first it was a duty. But she had grown on him.
She was recovering. Laughing, even. That was enough.
He turned and walked away without a sound.
He didn't go where he was not needed.
And secrets—
They should remain secrets. They were not his to carry. Yet.