Eleven long years had passed since the day two elderly nuns stumbled upon a barely alive girl, lying among the jagged rocks, cast ashore by the merciless, raging sea.
Yet even now, Medea dreaded approaching the water. The mere sound of the restless ocean, the crash of waves against the cliffs, was enough to summon vivid memories of that horrific day when a treacherous storm sank the ship and dragged her entire family into the abyss, sparing only her for reasons unknown.
Medea was the sole survivor, washed up with the wreckage onto this desolate, rocky shore, where high in the mountains loomed an ancient monastery, its walls concealing a secretive order of monks and nuns for centuries.
Clad in unassuming gray robes, these pious and gentle women appeared ordinary, but in truth, they were the guardians of a sacred, life-giving flame—a source of creation, a power beyond comprehension, hidden meticulously from the world and its people.
With this flame, imbued with a unique magical essence, the nuns healed the broken girl. This act became a sign, a prophecy that one day they were destined to welcome another sister-spark into their order.
Back then, Medea, an eight-year-old with nowhere else to turn, had no other choice. She stayed in the monastery, accepting its strict code of life.
Over the years, she rarely encountered anyone beyond the monastery walls. The nuns were her only companions. The monastery itself was far removed even from the sparse peasant settlements, nestled against a rocky slope, hidden among the trees. The nuns led a humble, frugal existence, content with little, fiercely protecting their great sanctuary. Yet they were generous with their knowledge. They taught Medea about the world beyond—about lords who ruled and common folk who toiled, about creatures lurking in the shadows, about the forces of good and evil. They tirelessly instructed her in secret signs and the arts of healing.
These secret signs, believed to accompany all living beings, held special significance. Medea learned to recognize and interpret them, understanding them as messages from higher spirits to those dwelling in this wondrous world.
She listened intently, absorbing their teachings with gratitude and obedience, weaving her mind into the mysteries the diligent sisters spoke of so often. In time, Medea learned much about the enigma of the soul, the workings of the human body, methods to cure ailments, the properties of stones and plants, and, above all, the nature of fire.
Occasionally, the monastery took in young women endowed with a rare gift. In the ignorant world, such individuals were branded as witches. Fear and hatred drove people to burn the accused at the stake, but the nuns of the order nurtured these gifts, believing these girls were touched by the hand of the Creator. They passed down their ancient, secret wisdom, and after a few years, a healer imbued with power would venture into the world.
In Medea, such a gift never awakened. Yet the signs guided the nuns to share their knowledge with her as well. Despite her wealth of learning, at nineteen, she yearned for more, especially when gazing from the high monastery walls at the forest-covered mountains and the dark line of the horizon. She dreamed of seeing with her own eyes what lay beyond the dense woods—what principalities stretched out there, what kind of people lived in them, what brought them joy or sorrow. Despite the strict solitude of recent years, she vividly remembered her native village, her strong father, and how her mother loved to dance. These memories of a different life tugged painfully at her heart, fueling her longing to one day escape these somber, mystery-laden walls.
…But she never imagined it would happen so soon.
She was roused in the dead of night. The Elder Mother, pale as death, thrust a sack into her hands and whispered with trembling lips:
“Save yourself, and save our knowledge, our faith, and above all, the sacred flame! In this sack are scrolls inscribed with the secret script of our order and a lamp bearing the last ember. To keep the fire from falling into the hands of evil, we have released the rest of the sanctuary. From this spark, you can kindle a new hearth and pass our teachings to future followers. You must seek out and protect those marked by the gift. From now on, you are the last refuge of our order, our final warrior, and your duty is to revive our knowledge when the time comes. You may not bear the magical gift, my child, but there is a spark of divine light in your soul. You are chosen, Medea! Go now. My most urgent command to you is to survive and stay hidden!”
“But what will happen to you, Mother, and to the sisters? What’s going on?” Medea stammered, frightened by the Elder Mother’s appearance, but even more unnerved by what followed:
“Our end is near. Death itself comes for us, a harbinger of darkness we can no longer resist. Vizier Khodrok, wielding dark sorcery and coveting our sacred flame, seeks to rule this world. We are bound to stop him, as the signs have shown us. Farewell, Medea, and may the Holy Avvin protect you!” With these words, the Elder Mother pushed Medea into a hidden passage.
Slipping the lamp around her neck, Medea crawled through the underground tunnel.
By dawn, having left the monastery far behind, the girl found herself in the mountains near the sea, deliberately heading in the opposite direction of Khodrok. Thoughts of the nuns’ fate tormented her with every step. Finally, unable to resist the urge, she hid in a crevice and poured a bit of the sacred flame from the lamp onto her palm. The nuns revered this fire as a living divine entity. Neither wind nor earth could extinguish it, nor could water douse its glow—only the followers of the order, who knew the incantations and the sealing word, could quench it.
This blazing sanctuary held a power far older than the world around it, for the flame itself was its creator.
Caressing her hand with its bright glow, the fire caused no pain. Medea whispered the Elder Mother’s name—and the flame turned cold. It did the same for every name she spoke.
“So, they’re all gone,” she murmured with deep sorrow, looking around in despair. “Where can I find refuge now? How can I protect the sanctuary from the darkness, from whoever will hunt my trail?”
As if in answer to her questions, she heard the creak of wagon wheels. Startled, Medea hurried toward the road that wound along the coast, curving around cliffs covered in sturdy pines and rusty moss. On this old, broken path, she spotted three covered wagons moving slowly in a line.
“Hey!” she called out to the first driver. “Where are you headed?”
But he didn’t even turn his head. As she hesitated, nearly missing the last wagon, she locked eyes with its driver.
“Where’s a young lass like you headed in such wild, desolate parts?” the bearded man asked kindly.
“Same place as you. I just need to get out of here. Please, sir, take me with you. I won’t be a burden. Though I’ve got no coin to spare.”
“Alright, I’ve got room. Had to sell off three sacks of wheat to some villagers—turned out they were moldy. Lost a bit there, I did. Finn and Ritz wouldn’t take you; their mares are barely pulling as it is,” the understanding driver rumbled, not even slowing down. Medea grabbed the back of the wagon on the run, and several hands quickly pulled her aboard.
“These are my boys, grown big as oxen,” the driver continued to chatter. “Tate and Kidd. Took ‘em with me to the Khodrok fair. They’re shaping up to be good help.”
She glanced curiously at the two lads sitting in the wagon. Telling who was Tate and who was Kidd was no easy task—they looked as alike as two peas in a pod.
“And I’m Peter. We’re heading back to our village, Dodgy, in the duchy of Faras. Know where that is?”
“Not a clue,” Medea replied loudly, shaking her head. “I’m from far-off lands, Thuringia. Our ship wrecked at sea, and I’m the only one who made it. My name’s Medea.” She wisely shared only part of the truth, unwilling to let a single soul know about the monastery or its legacy.
“Well, bless my soul,” Peter sighed, glancing back at her. “And not a single kin left?”
Medea shook her head again.
“Hard to be an orphan, it is. But be glad you’re alive. You’re still young, got time to live, have kids of your own. Ain’t so bad. No need to fear us—we’re merchants, we won’t do you wrong.”
For some reason, Medea wasn’t afraid, though she remained reserved and distant. After eleven long years, she’d forgotten how to speak with men. These merchants were the first people she could talk to freely, without the sisters’ watchful eyes.
Tate and Kidd turned out to be just kids, constantly fooling around and teasing each other, earning sharp scoldings from their father now and then. Even on long journeys, people clung to their ways. Medea watched their unfamiliar life from the sidelines, unsure how to act or what to do next. At night, the three wagons gathered around a single fire, and the bearded merchants, chatting leisurely, paid little mind to the quiet girl.
“Faras it is, then,” Medea thought, hoping to blend in and disappear among people, so those who brought death to the Holy Mothers wouldn’t track her down. Her—the sole keeper of the Sacred Flame.
From the merchants’ talk, Medea gathered that life in their duchy was far from sweet, summed up in three words: rain, poor harvests, and taxes, which Duke Danat kept raising to bolster his army. Only Peter, the kindest of the grim bunch, kept telling her to eat without shame and marveled at how little she ate, pointing to his sturdy sons as an example.
“Ah, lass, you’re a pretty one, but all that beauty’s wasted with how thin you are!” he sighed. “When we get home, I’ll show you to my wife. Who knows, she might fatten you up.”
Medea only nodded, offering a shy smile, silently thanking the powers that be for sending her such simple, kind-hearted folk. She knew the flame’s power was guiding her somewhere, so she surrendered to its sacred will.
For much of the journey, Medea gazed at the landscapes slipping by—the gray, winding road, patches of fields, and the edges of shaggy forests. Now she had to learn this vast world through her own experience, knowing she must hide her knowledge from others, never revealing the sanctuary. Without the healer’s gift, her sole duty was to preserve the order’s legacy.
With the merchants, through forests and marshy lands, Medea rattled along in the wagon for two full weeks, exhausted by the long, bumpy road, until one dreary morning, Peter exclaimed with joy:
“There’s home! I see Dodgy!”
The boys leapt from the wagon, racing off with wild, joyful shouts, cutting across the fields. Medea wouldn’t have minded stretching her legs, but she feared being misunderstood. So, gritting her teeth, she counted her sighs until they stopped.
Unlike Peter, his wife—a stout woman—wasn’t nearly as warm. Whether it was the weather or the guest that soured her mood, she gave Medea a cold, unwelcoming stare.
At dinner, to which she invited Medea with great reluctance, she bluntly declared:
“We’ve no need for extra mouths right now. Barely feeding ourselves as it is. We manage our work just fine, so we won’t be hiring you as help. Nor will anyone in Dodgy—folks are broke, some worse off than us. You’d best head to the castle. It’s not far, in Minas, the duchy’s capital. I hear they need maids there.”
“I wasn’t planning to stay in your village,” Medea lied, though for days she’d had no idea where to go next. “I’m grateful for the ride, the warmth, and the food. I won’t overstay my welcome—I’ll leave right now.”
“On foot? Where to?” Peter fussed, ignoring his wife’s sharp glares. “Ritz is taking flour to the duke’s kitchen soon. Go with him. No sense wearing out your feet for nothing.”
Nodding in thanks, Medea gave a timid smile, sensing that the longer she lingered in the wife’s sight, the more resentment brewed toward her husband.
The kind merchant walked her to the mill, where Ritz, his neighbor, was loading a wagon. At Peter’s request, the miller mumbled something approvingly into his beard.
“Safe travels, Medea,” Peter waved to her.
“There’s something I wanted to say,” she turned back before climbing onto the wagon. “Your village floods because you’ve cut down the forest on the western slopes.”
“How do you know that?” Peter asked, raising his eyebrows in surprise.
“I just do,” Medea smiled. “The ancients said, ‘plant a seed before you raise an axe.’ Mother Nature doesn’t forgive disrespect. May the saints watch over you, Peter, for your kindness.”
Minas, another settlement near the duke’s castle, painted a similarly bleak picture as the rest of the duchy—muddy roads, relentless drizzle soaking shabby hovels, wet livestock under old shelters, and joyless faces. A heavy gloom hung in the air, invisibly weighing down all life.
Only the massive castle stood out against this gray backdrop, its spired towers piercing the oppressive sky. From afar, the duke’s stronghold seemed impossibly vast and ancient. Medea had never seen such a magnificent structure in person; every stone spoke of past grandeur and the ambition of noble lords and kings. Despite the rain, she looked up in awe at the spires and intricate frescoes on the walls. “They must have consulted seers to choose the day for laying the first stone,” she thought. The castle captivated her.
“That way,” Ritz nodded vaguely before hefting a sack and disappearing around a corner.
Behind the door she trudged toward, a short, bald man hunched over papers. At first, he seemed almost comical, until his small, cunning eyes flicked up at her, and Medea’s palms turned icy. Through her frequent communion with the flame, her hands had grown sensitive, and the chill in them warned her—this man was dangerous, his heart empty.
“What do you want?” he barked.
“I’m looking for work. I heard the castle needs maids.”
“You’ll do,” he replied without hesitation. “I’m the castle steward, name’s Kress. You’ll do as you’re told. If you manage, you’ll earn five silvers a week. Mess up or damage anything, I’ll dock your pay. Stealing, fighting, or disrespecting the duchy’s laws could land you in the pit. Understood? Now go to the kitchen and help Gwen. What’s your name?”
“Medea,” she answered thoughtfully. But the indifferent steward, no longer looking at her, pointed to the door.