Jason Weiser

No matter what she did, Doña stood rooted, trying to feel anything as the city closed in on her.

A few dozen empty pews separated Doña from the men arguing at the altar.

The church was warm, and Doña felt like she could lay down and sleep there.

Sleep forever.

She had avenged Pedro, and the cruel joke was that not only did nothing matter now, but apparently, nothing had ever mattered.

His love, his death, her vengeance.

She was still here, alone.

You're lucky to be here, the old man breathed.

He's going to let you stay in the sanctuary.

The old man had gotten to her first, as she stood over the bodies of the assassins.

Fixated on her cloak, her father's cloak, he pulled her away and through a labyrinth valleys until they arrived at a church.

I didn't ask for your help or his, Doña said.

staring forward.

Then don't wear the crest.

We won't let one of our own go to trial.

Some things are bigger than you, the man said.

She looked down.

Some coat of arms her father had worn.

Part of some order.

They weren't helping her.