The village sleeps beneath a cold sky, the air thick with the scent of damp earth and woodsmoke. A child sits alone, arms wrapped around her knees, watching the last of the fire burn down to embers. The distant murmur of her family in the house behind her has faded to nothing.

  She should go inside. But she doesn’t. Not yet.

  The wind shifts, carrying the scent of something unfamiliar. Not woodsmoke, not livestock, not rain. Something else. A presence.

  Then—a voice.

  “You shouldn’t sit out here alone, little one.”

  She doesn’t startle. She just blinks, slow, steady, like she already knew someone was there. Her fingers curl in the dirt, but she doesn’t reach for a rock.

  “I’m not afraid.”

  A pause. Then—a chuckle. Low, amused, like someone humoring a child’s bravado.

  “Of course you’re not.”

  She looks up.

  And there, just beyond the fire’s dying glow, stands a man who shouldn’t be here.

  She squinted through the dim light, trying to make sense of him. He isn't dressed like the men from her village. Not in wool, not in rough-stitched linen.

  The fire catches on his clothes—smooth, dark, perfect. Not a knight’s armor, not a noble’s finery. Something else. Something wrong.

  She frowns. “You’re not from here.”

  He steps forward, slow and deliberate, just enough for her to see the faintest smile at the corner of his mouth. Sharp, unreadable.

  “No.” A beat. Then—“Neither are you.”

  She tilts her head. “I live here.”

  Another soft chuckle. He doesn’t argue.

  She doesn’t flinch when he steps closer. Doesn’t pull away when he crouches, hands resting lightly on his knees, watching her the way someone watches a bird that hasn’t decided whether to fly away.

  Then, without asking, he lifts her.

  Not roughly. Not like a stranger taking a child. Like a father might. Like a brother would. Effortless, as if she weighs nothing at all.

  She doesn’t fight it. Just exhales, arms slack at her sides, as he carries her across the firelit clearing to a fallen log, where he lowers himself down and settles her beside him.

  For a long moment, he says nothing. Just sits there, legs stretched out, gazing at the trees, the sky. As if he belongs here. As if he doesn’t.

  Then—softly, almost like a sigh—

  "Let me tell you a story.”

  She doesn’t ask. She just waits.

  The fire crackles, throwing long shadows across the ground. His voice is quiet, almost distant, as if the story is something half-remembered, something old.

  “Once, far from here, there was a land ruled by warriors.”

  Her fingers curl against the bark of the log. She listens.

  “Not men—women. Strong as any soldier, faster than any rider, fearless as wolves. They lived for war, and war made them legends.”

  She shifts, turning toward him, curiosity flickering behind her eyes.

  “They fought kings and gods alike. No one could stop them.” A pause. “But legends don’t last forever.”

  His gaze flickers down to her, watching, waiting.

  She doesn’t challenge him. Just watches, her breath slow, steady, waiting for him to continue.

  He exhales, tilting his head back, watching the sky like the story is written there.

  “They called them the Daughters of Ares.”

  Something shifts in her face—not recognition, but the weight of meaning. A name like that carries something with it. Power. Blood. Fate.

  His voice is softer now, almost thoughtful. “I met their queen once.”

  That catches her. She turns fully toward him now, eyes narrowing, searching his face for some sign of truth.

  He just smiles. Not mocking, not cruel. Just knowing.

  “She was a child like you when I met her.” A beat. “And you remind me of her.”

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  She interrupts, blunt and unshaken. “Why are you telling me this?”

  No hesitation. No awe. Just a girl sitting beside a man who shouldn’t be here, wearing clothes that shouldn’t exist.

  She leans forward now, small fingers gripping the fabric of his sleeve, rubbing it between her thumb and forefinger. Too smooth. Too perfect.

  Her eyes flick up, sharp and demanding. “Who are you?”

  He smiles, slow and knowing, like he expected this. “Does it matter?”

  She scowls. “Yes.”

  A low chuckle. Then—“I’m just a traveler.”

  She doesn’t let go. “Travelers don’t dress like this.”

  For the first time, he tilts his head, considering her. Not as a child, but as something else. Something waiting to become.

  “No,” he agrees. “They don’t.”

  She studies him, searching his face like she might find the answer hidden there.

  Then she shrugs. “That’s okay if you don’t know who you are.”

  Simple Honest No cruelty, no mockery—just a child stating something plainly.

  For the first time, he stills.

  Then—he laughs.

  Not a sharp, bitter laugh. Not something hollow. A real one. Full, unrestrained, like something had caught him off guard.

  It lingers, soft and amused, before fading into the night. He exhales, shaking his head.

  “You’re dangerous, little one.”

  And with that—he continues.

  “The queen I told you about—she was just a girl when I met her. Like you. Small, stubborn, certain the world would bend before her.”

  She tilts her head, watching him. “What happened to her?”

  His fingers drum lazily against his knee, his gaze drifting toward the fire. The flames flicker, their light catching on the smooth fabric of his suit—untouched by dirt, by time, by anything.

  Then, softly—“Like all great legends, hers came to an end.”

  She doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t look away. She just breathes in deep, lets the words settle.

  Then—“I want to be like her someday.”

  She says it without hesitation. Without doubt.

  His fingers stop drumming. He looks at her now, fully, his amusement quieting into something else.

  “Do you know what that means?”

  She doesn’t hesitate. Doesn’t blink.

  “Yes. And nothing will change it.”

  The fire crackles between them, filling the space where he should have spoken. But he just watches her, his face unreadable.

  Then, almost too quiet to hear—“Yes.” A beat. “But I wish I could.”

  Something flickers in her eyes—not doubt, not fear. Understanding. Too much for someone so small.

  She stands, brushing dust from her dress. “I don’t think you should.”

  Then she turns, bare feet kicking up the dirt, and runs.

  He doesn’t stop her.

  He Just sits there, smiling—yet unbearably sad.

  Because she knows him. And yet, she doesn’t.

  ------------------------------------------------------

  The girl grew.

  She learned to fight, at first with wooden sticks in quiet fields, then with steel on blood-wet ground.

  She learned to lead. Not from books, not from noble tutors, but in the fire-lit chaos of war, where men twice her age looked to her for commands.

  She learned to win. Again and again, the banners rose, the trumpets called, and the enemy fell before her.

  She learned to lose.

  Not all at once. Not yet. But in small ways. A soldier cut down before she could reach him. A city that would not open its gates. A whisper of doubt from the same lips that once called her a miracle.

  She did not break.

  Not when the victories slowed. Not when the tides turned. Not when they came for her.

  Not even when they put her in chains.

  --------------------------------------------------

  Now, the banners are gone. The sky is hidden. The world is small, cold, stone.

  And then—a sound.

  Not the guards. Not the priest.

  A shift in the air. A weight beside her.

  She doesn’t look up.

  “I thought you might come.”

  A pause. Then—a voice.

  “I always do.”

  She exhales, slow and measured. “Are you here to tell me another story?”

  He leans against the wall beside her, arms folded, his suit still untouched by the damp, the filth, the weight of the world pressing in.

  “No.” A breath. “I think you already know how this one ends.”

  She doesn’t answer right away. Just exhales, slow and steady, like someone settling into the end of a long road.

  Then, without hesitation, she leans her head against him.

  His body is warm, steady, real—but untouched by the cold of the cell, by the filth of the world pressing in.

  “I know you’re sad about it,” she murmurs. “But my fate was mine to choose. You know this.”

  His arms stay folded, his face unreadable. But he doesn’t move away.

  Doesn’t speak.

  Because she’s right.

  The silence lingers, stretching thin between them. Then, finally, he speaks.

  “Just this once, I wish I could break my rules.”

  It’s quiet, almost a whisper. Not a plea—just truth.

  “You do not deserve your fate.”

  She closes her eyes for a moment, just breathing. Then—softly, without hesitation—

  “We both know the things that will come for you if you do will not be kind.”

  She shifts slightly, pressing her head against his shoulder. Not seeking comfort—offering it.

  “I picked my path.” A pause. “And you picked yours.”

  He doesn’t answer. He doesn’t need to.

  She exhales, tilting her head up, searching his face in the dim torchlight. “Will they remember me?”

  His eyes flicker, something unreadable in them.

  “Will you?”

  A heartbeat. Then—softer, but not uncertain—

  “Did I live up to the Daughters of Ares?”

  For the first time, he doesn’t smile.

  His throat tightens, his jaw clenches—but it doesn’t stop the first tear from slipping down his cheek.

  “Yes, little one.” His voice is hoarse, breaking under the weight of it. “You did.”

  She watches him, unshaken, as another tear follows. Not for her fate. Not for her suffering. But for the fact that she will not see what comes after.

  His breath shudders, his hands curling into fists. “And eventually…” He swallows, blinking hard. “Not only will I remember you—the world will and your god will.”

  She doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t break. Just listens.

  “You will be celebrated as a saint.”

  A long pause. Then, softer—"You have surpassed them, in a way."

  He drags a hand down his face, as if trying to hide the evidence of his grief.

  But she sees it.

  And for once, he does not care.

  She laughs. Soft, small, but real.

  Not forced. Not bitter. Light.

  “Good.” She leans back against the wall, exhaling like someone settling into a bed after a long, long day. “I can go knowing I’ve succeeded in my dream and pleased my god.”

  He watches her for a moment. Then—he laughs too.

  Not mocking. Not sad. Just warm, tired, something close to admiration.

  He pushes himself off the wall, straightening his suit, brushing imaginary dust from the sleeve.

  “I should be going now.”

  She doesn’t protest.

  “They will come soon.”

  She nods. She knows.

  “And I have others to visit.”

  He steps toward the shadows, fading into the dim torchlight, moving like he was never solid to begin with.

  She doesn’t watch him leave. Just tilts her head back against the wall, eyes closed, smiling.

  And she whispered.

  "Vailis ai za noa vaen, ai noa elka ze za noa zira va elka ze."

  -----------------------------------------

  Dedication

  To Joan of Arc,

  A true warrior queen who was executed by fire for politics,

  By cowardly men who never held a sword.

  May they burn for eternity for their crimes.