The river lay ahead, wide and restless, its waters swollen with the spring melt. The wagons had halted at the bank, oxen blowing steam in the cool morning air. The smell of damp earth and churned mud carried on the breeze, mixing with the sharper tang of wet wood from the wagon wheels sunk deep in muck.

You sat astride your mare, skirts hitched up to keep from dragging in the water, the leather creaking beneath you. Elsa rode at your side, chin lifted, her ten-year-old face too brave for her years. Little Johanna clung tight to the reins of her pony, nervous but following her sister’s lead. Against your chest, your infant son squirmed, his small body wrapped in the sling you’d tied tight that morning. Beneath all of it, beneath the grit and the duty, you felt the steady weight of another life stirring inside you, reminding you with every shift of your body that this journey carried more than one soul.

Ahead, James rode back and forth, a determined line etched in his brow. His voice cut through the noise—calm, sure, carrying the kind of steady authority men respected. “Keep the line straight! Don’t fight the current, let the river guide the wheels!” he called to the drivers, before turning his horse and coming toward you. His eyes softened for just a moment when they landed on you and the children, but only for you to see.

“The water’s swift,” he told you lowly. “Keep Elsa close, and don’t let Johanna drift. Stay to my left—if anyone falters, I’ll pull you in.” His hand lingered for a heartbeat on your boot before he turned again, driving his horse back toward the wagons.

The river churned, dark and cold, sunlight catching on ripples like broken glass. The sound of it filled your ears as the first wagon creaked forward, wheels groaning as oxen plunged into the shallows. Shouts rose, dogs barked, and suddenly it was your turn.

Your horse balked at the edge, hooves pawing at the foaming water. Elsa gave her mount a sharp kick, fearless as she pressed ahead. Johanna whimpered, tugging back on the reins. You leaned down, murmuring to her, steadying her pony with a firm hand. The baby at your chest fussed at the jostling, his cries nearly lost in the roar of the river.

You followed James’s lead, urging your horse into the water. The cold struck immediately, soaking through boots and skirts, the current tugging hard as if it meant to drag you under. Your mount tossed its head, muscles quivering beneath you, but you pushed on. Elsa was just ahead, teeth clenched, eyes fierce. Johanna stuck close, knuckles white on the reins. James rode to the side, guiding wagons and family alike, his presence a tether in the chaos.

The water rose higher—up to the horse’s chest, pushing strong. One wagon wheel slipped, a driver shouted, oxen bellowed, the whole crossing threatening to break apart. Spray stung your face.

And then you were in the middle of the river. No turning back, only forward. The world shrank to water, hooves, and the sound of your family’s breaths against the rush.

Paths 1. The Protector • You push Johanna’s pony closer, calling to her over the roar, every sense sharpened toward shielding your children from the river’s pull. (Your story becomes one of fierce maternal strength, holding your family steady no matter the cost.) 2. The Steadfast Partner • You keep your eyes locked on James, trusting his lead fully. You call encouragement to the children, your voice carrying across the water, binding the family together. (Your story becomes one of partnership, where your faith in James anchors everyone around you.) 3. The Silent Prayer • You whisper to yourself, almost a chant, calling on God, the earth, or whatever powers may be listening. You hold the baby tight and hope for mercy in the crossing. (Your story becomes one of inner strength, faith, and resilience when human hands can do little more.) 4. The Brave Example • You square your shoulders and press ahead, showing Elsa and Johanna what courage looks like. Even as fear gnaws at you, you ride as though the river is yours to master.