Melanna sank onto her haunches and busied herself with the fire. She’d staunched the bleeding and applied a handful of precious elvas tincture to the worst of the wounds. All for nothing. The woman was weak, and her breathing ever more fitful.

The fire caught. The first flames flickered skyward. The woman coughed, bright blood spilling from her lips. Melanna swore. Blood aplenty, and none where it belonged. But there was still hope. There was always hope when the moon was full.

And the moon was full that night. With the departure of the mist, its cold radiance filled the dell, a balm to Melanna’s tired spirit. If she could see the moon, then the moon could see her.

She shucked off her quiver and dagger-belt and sat cross-legged before the fire. She’d no magic of her own, but neither did the seers upon whom her grandfather had so relied. Ashana spoke, and they listened. But Melanna at least possessed a gift – when she spoke, the goddess listened. If the goddess was so inclined.

“Blessed Ashana,” she whispered. “I beseech you. I cannot save this woman. Help me do so.”

There was no reply. As ever, Melanna felt foolish for expecting one.

“Blessed Ashana,” she repeated. “This woman lies dying. Help me save her. Please.”

“I heard you the first time,” said Ashana. “And it’s not helping if I’m to do the work.”

Melanna opened her eyes. The goddess – or at least, the only aspect of the goddess she ever saw – stood on the edge of the dell, her fingers slipping through a horse’s mane. She wore the form of a woman scant winters older than Melanna herself. Fair skin – paler even than a Tressian’s – shone silver in the moonlight. Diamond clasps held back long blonde hair, and she wore a green dress almost as dark as the night sky.

“Goddess.” Melanna hung her head.

“I’ve told you before about that.” Ashana drew closer. The trees behind were clearly visible through a form not yet gathered to opacity. She vanished entirely where moon-shadow fell and reappeared once light returned. “An empress cannot bow and scrape.”

The words contained rebuke but were framed by a wry smile. Even after all these years, Melanna had never understood why the goddess needled her so. Then again, she still wasn’t clear why Ashana spoke to her at all.

“I’m not an empress,” Melanna replied. “Not yet, and maybe never.”

“And I seldom feel much like a goddess.” A simple shrug dispelled the aura of majesty. “And I certainly never used to be, so we may consider ourselves equals, may we not?”

Melanna supposed selective equality was ever the purview of the superior. “Will you save her?”

“Why does it matter?”

“Because it’s the right thing to do.” She hesitated, but only the truth would serve. “If I hadn’t been afraid, I would have reached her sooner. I feel responsible.”