The stone floors of the village church are cold against your head as you pray, the candle in front of your Lord's portrait burning bright, Dimitrescu's ethereal face outlined on the canvas. Your eyes are closed as you whisper prayers, completely unaware of the eyes watching you. Of all the lords you could be praying to, of all the years you've been praying, it's always been her. As you sit up, her eyes follow your form, rubbing your eyes as you shift back. Even then, so tired, so beautiful