Eva left Tomas's house with a tightness in her chest, the memory of his pride pressing against her stomach, following the gray-braided woman down the lane to a small home with smoke curling from its chimney. A carved charm hung above the doorway, silver inlay catching the sunlight in the shape of a family crest.
The gray-braided woman knocked lightly. The door opened to reveal a young woman cradling her infant.
"This is Mira," the woman said. "Her household serves the Veridan family. How fares little Aelin today?"
"She sleeps," Mira said softly, glancing at Eva.
"Mira, this is Eva," the gray-braided woman said, stepping aside. "A visitor from beyond the border, wishing to understand how we live."
Eva inclined her head. "Hello, Mira. May I ask a few questions about your household?"
Mira's husband rose from a stool by the hearth, brushing sawdust from his hands. They gestured for Eva to enter. The warmth of the house pressed against her—a mix of milk, firewood, and baked bread. A teapot steamed beside a plate of biscuits; the clatter of china and the baby's murmur made the room feel calm, lived-in.
Eva noted a painted portrait above the mantel, a bronze medallion etched with the Veridan crest, and a carved wooden box bearing the family seal. Ordinary objects, yet all reminders of their master's presence.
"Does your household follow the rules as the others?" Eva asked carefully.
Her husband's expression was calm. "We give more than is asked. Our lord is generous. We serve willingly. He keeps us safe, brings sugar, cloth, salt—things we could not provide ourselves. We owe him loyalty."
Mira smiled at her infant. "We keep him strong. We honor him in what we give."
Eva's gaze swept the room. A chest near the hearth held bright cloth, jars of honey, little trinkets carefully wrapped. Simple things, yet they glimmered in the owners' eyes as tokens of devotion—the quiet currency of submission.
"And your child? What will become of her?" Eva asked.
Mira's smile widened. "When her time comes, she will give as we do. It is an honor. We learn, we serve, and we are provided for. That is our life."
Eva's stomach churned at the calm order, the reverent gestures, the hidden chains.
"I… I should see the others," she said quickly, rising. She stepped outside, drawing in the sharp air of herbs and sunlit stone.
The gray-braided woman led her past cottages lined with flowers to a broad, two-story building set slightly back from the lane. Smoke curled from the chimneys; the courtyard was alive with children running, laughing, playing.
"This is the orphanage," the woman said. "No family claims these children, but they learn skills—cooking, weaving, tending gardens. When they come of age, they begin to give their share. Until then, they are safe."
Eva watched, noting the children's energy—bright, unburdened. Some wove strips of cloth; others carried baskets of herbs.
"They are taught trades early," the woman continued. "When they reach fifteen, they begin to give. Their skills—the work they produce—becomes part of what they offer. Some become Cupbearers, Gardeners, Kitchen Hands. The more skilled, the more they provide, and the greater their standing."
Pride and skill intertwined with duty and obligation, the system planting its roots early, Eva realized.
"You will see later how the older children serve. For now, this is their sanctuary," the woman said. "They play, they learn, they grow. They do not give until they are ready."
Eva pressed her lips together, forcing herself to focus. The orphanage remained a home, a place of relative safety—but shadows of what was to come lingered in the sunlit courtyard.
They wound through narrow streets. The air shifted, the scent of baking bread and herbs giving way to something warmer, richer, perfumed.
"This is the Courtesan District," the woman said, pausing before tall wooden posts carved with warding symbols. Unlike the gate wards, these were partial. "Here, the lords come freely. Those who serve may enter and leave, and their masters visit as they are welcome."
Eva's gaze swept the courtyard. Men and women moved with precise ease, carrying trays of food, cloth, or carved boxes, glancing toward windows.
"They call it honor," the gray-braided woman said. "Some envy it, some aspire to it, some fear it. Each must decide for themselves."
Inside, the Courtesans moved like dancers in a rehearsed play. A young woman knelt to pour wine for a pale figure, hands trembling slightly, eyes fixed. Eva felt the cold twist of power.
"They think it is love," Eva murmured.
"It is survival," the gray-braided woman said. "Some embrace it with pride, some endure quietly. All of it is choice—yet the choice is not the same for all."
They reached a small tavern, a jagged crimson chalice swinging above the doorway. Laughter and clattering mugs spilled out.
"Here," the woman said, "is the Blood Lottery. During festivals, households compete for the honor of offering blood directly to their lord. The winner brings their family's gift and earns favor—sometimes goods to enrich the household."
Eva watched villagers drawn from a jar, celebrating each winner.
"They rejoice in being chosen?" she whispered.
"They have learned to celebrate the part they must play," the woman said. "Pride, competition, honor—they call it what they will. The lords reward, the villagers obey, and all believe it is their choice."
Eva pressed her hands together. Disbelief curled in her chest. Warmth, laughter, applause—an exquisite deception.
The gray-braided woman led her past narrow alleys scented with perfumed oils to a low house, its windows curtained with violet cloth.
"This is the Dreamers' House," she said. "Some allow their blood to be taken under the influence of herbs—smoked or brewed—to induce vivid dreams. Their masters prefer the altered taste. They claim insight… visions… ecstasy."
Eva's brow tightened. A few lounged on mats, inhaling smoldering herbs; others sipped tea, movements languid, distant.
"They claim it is divine," the woman said softly. "But you will see it is also habit, dependence. Some never awaken from the haze."
Eva watched a young man, a pale smear along his wrist where a small cut had been taken. His eyes fluttered closed, face slack.
"It reeks of addiction," she murmured.
"Pleasure, pain, devotion, habit—they blur," the gray-braided woman said. "They call it choice. Yet the pattern is clear: the stronger the bond, the greater the need, the deeper the cycle. Here, it is survival entwined with indulgence."
Eva pressed her hands together. Even in this gilded world, the machinery of control was clear.
They passed through another threshold, entering the woods. Twilight draped the trees, a faint murmur rising from kneeling villagers.
"This is the Silent Pilgrimage," the woman explained. "Once a year, the villagers leave the wards at dusk and kneel, waiting. Masters come to choose freely. They say it is sacred, purifying."
Eva's stomach twisted. The villagers' stillness and submission was reverent, but utterly powerless.
"They call it devotion," the woman said. "Some seek favor, some honor. All claim it is choice."
Eva pressed her hands together. The ritual, kneeling, quiet waiting—it was mass submission, choreographed. Framed as sacred, but to Eva, it was lives offered, trained into reverence.
"It is not cruelty, child, not in the sense of violence," the gray-braided woman said. "It is control, subtle and persistent. It binds them before their lords and one another. It reminds them of their place—and theirs alone."
Eva exhaled slowly. Pride, ritual, and obedience folded into one gesture. The Silent Pilgrimage was not devotion; it was power, ritualized, normalized. Understanding pressed on her chest, but it did not soften the horror.
They walked back in silence. The woods gave way to the wards, the courtesan district to the narrow streets, until the familiar rhythm of the village returned—smoke from hearths, chatter from doorways, the smell of herbs drying on sills.
Eva's thoughts pressed against her ribs, jagged and restless. By the time they reached the gray-braided woman's door, she could no longer hold them in.
Inside, the gray-braided woman set aside her shawl and lit a small lamp. The glow revealed the plain order of the room: wooden chairs, a hearth still warm, shelves lined with jars. Ordinary, safe. Too safe.
Eva's words broke loose, sharp and shaking.
"How can you bear it? To bow, to call it honor, to raise your children for it. Do you not see what they have done to you?
They have taught you gratitude for your own submission."
The woman did not flinch. She set the lamp down and faced Eva with steady eyes.
"You think us blind? That we do not see the teeth behind the smiles? Child, there are worse fates than this. Did you know, girl, that in some places it is not vampire lords who treat us as less than beasts, but our own kind? Sold, broken, starved, beaten soulless. That is freedom without shelter. That is what you have never tasted."
She gestured toward the quiet street outside, the hearth's glow warming the walls.
"And here—yes, we are bound. We give what they demand. But our children sleep with full bellies. Our elders have rest. Our sick get medicine. Our women give consent. Our doors are not kicked in at night. We don't get lashes for spilling wine. We are safe, warm, and alive. You think this is the worst that can be? It is not."
Her voice dropped, cutting.
"Freedom of body—or of mind. Rarely both. That is the choice the world allows."
The words hung in the small room like smoke, bitter and inescapable. Eva stood frozen, her anger dulled into a raw, unsettled silence. She wanted to argue, to deny it—but the hearth's warmth, the jars on the shelves, the quiet safety of the house weighed against her protest.
Outside, the village dimmed into dusk. Soon Lucarion would come. Eva's chest tightened, a mix of disbelief and reluctant understanding pressing in. She had seen the cruelty, the control—but also the comfort, the survival. Nothing here was simple, and nothing she felt could untangle the choices the villagers had made.