Four hours of silence separated Petra and the paladin from the Happfield Chapel. The elderly priest had been kind enough, and urging enough to get the paladin to lead Petra to The Throne. And she was grateful for that. She had never been south of Bridgefort before. She was obviously out of her league when it came to interacting with the Church of the Will. But this had been a misery every step of the way.

  The paladin avoided eye contact, answered any questions Petra had in as few words as possible, and capped the exchange with her title to make sure they would go back to silence as soon as possible.

  “Is it normally this warm here?” she had asked minutes into the start of their hike.

  “Depending on the time of year, Winter’s Daughter,” Bleedingheart responded over his shoulder, eyes focused down.

  That conversation died there.

  “Where are you from?”

  “The Throne, Winter’s Daughter,” he said, clearly and succinctly.

  “Oh! So we are going to your home town?”

  “Yes, Winter’s Daughter.”

  Yet another conversation slain.

  The late morning sun was reaching its peak, and Petra’s temper was reaching a breaking point. She was used to walking in silence, not being able to be heard over the roaring winds of the Frozen Wastes. But she knew everyone there. Maybe not personally, but at least she knew their culture and their history.

  This little man in shining armor with the golden splotch fused into the center of his chest was a total mystery. An alien resident of a foreign world that Petra was more or less an invader to. It was no wonder he treated her the way he did. But that was little comfort for the goddess.

  “Winter’s Daughter, I believe we should rest for a moment,” he said suddenly, nodding to a small patch of emerald grass on the side of the road they walked.

  “Call me Petra!” she heard herself shout. Instantly, her mind crowded with the better responses she could have had. Something like “sounds good!” Or maybe “I would appreciate a rest, thank you.” Even “Of course, you’re the guide.” Those all would have been friendlier, more constructive responses.

  Sam looked as surprised as she was, suddenly seizing completely. “Excuse me. Petra.” He said softly. “I must say, though, I do not feel comfortable referring to you as less than your title.”

  “Oh!” Petra said. “Is that what it is? Etiquette?” She was genuinely asking, but did not mind the extra sting of sarcasm her frustration added to the question.

  “What what is?”

  “This stiff, boring silence. Are you being polite to me? I don’t give a damn!”

  “I’m sorry, Petra,” Sam replied, looking confused as he moved to the patch of grass. “What?”

  “You haven’t said a word past ‘yes, Winter’s Daughter. No, Winter’s Daughter,’ since we left! I’m not usually one for conversation, but at least let’s not just arrive at your Council as strangers.”

  “I’m not sure,” Sam remarked. “I feel it may be inappropriate to interact with divinity so personally. This is a professional interaction.”

  Petra’s eyes narrowed on the paladin. “Do you always talk like this?”

  “In professional environments, yes, Winter’s Daughter.”

  “Petra.”

  “My apologies, Petra.”

  Petra groaned as she sat on the grass, a light sprinkle of dew beginning to form in a circle around her. “You know what we say about you all? Metal men wear metal clothes!”

  “I do not follow.”

  “You have no personality, Bleedingheart.”

  “I apologize, Petra. Why are you being aggressive with this topic?”

  “Because I sure don’t want to travel days mumbling to myself and having two-sentence small talk with my guide.”

  Sam looked flustered. “But it is inappropriate to fraternize with gods.”

  “Stiff as a pike impaling a crone,” Petra remarked dismissively. “I understand. You have your stupid rules. Some stuffy old man will spank you for using my first name.”

  Petra noticed Sam wince at this. “Excuse me, Winter’s Daughter, but I ask you do not disrespect the honor of the Church of the Will.”

  “Petra,” she corrected.

  “My request stands.”

  “Yeah, yeah,” Petra grumbled, rolling her eyes.

  Sam stood up and laid a hand on his warhammer at his hip. A flash of golden light danced across it. Petra saw the gesture and guffawed.

  “So you won’t be my friend, but you’ll take arms against me? A little backwards, no?”

  “I cannot allow you to disrespect my faith.”

  “Oh, Bleedingheart,” Petra said with a wide smile. “You do have a personality. It’s just all tangled up and confused. It's the identity that you lack! You were all chatty and nice yesterday evening with the priest who was there to guide conversation, albeit a little on edge. But today, the rules are just too much.”

  The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.

  “This is uncalled for,” Sam began. “I am guiding you to The Throne as you demanded when you arrived. Your behavior is completely inappropriate for someone benefiting from the generosity of the Will.”

  Petra stood to challenge Sam. The brutal woman from the Northern Wastes was only an inch taller than Sam, but her musculature was notable, even under the hides and leathers she wore. Even in all of Sam’s armor, the Winter’s Daughter was more than enough to take him. “Do you forget your station, Paladin? I’m the goddess here. My will is the only one you should be paying attention to today.”

  The temperature of the air dropped significantly as she starred Sam down, leaving him trembling. He did his best to stand tall against her, but whether he was shivering from cold or from discomfort, he was certain she saw.

  After a moment of tension, Petra let out another laugh. “I am just teasing.”

  Sam roared and turned his back on the goddess, taking a few steps up the road before leaning against a tree.

  Suddenly sullen, Petra watched him. “Did I take it too far?” she called. He ignored her, of course. “It’s disrespectful to not answer when a goddess asks a question,” she chided in singsong.

  Sam’s head snapped back in her direction for an instant of furious glaring before turning back forward.

  With a groan, Petra moved to him. “I’m sorry. I was a little harsh. I really do want to get to know you. You are doing me a kindness by guiding me to The Throne. I usually like to appreciate the people that are kind to me, and knowing you would help.”

  “What do you want to know?” Sam grumbled.

  “Anything! Such as,” Petra thought for a moment. “What is your greatest goal!? If the forces of this universe were to show up right in front of you and ask what you wanted more than anything else, what would you tell them?”

  Sam was silent for a long moment. His eyes narrowed and widened and then narrowed again. Petra was becoming uncomfortable.

  “Too heavy?” she asked.

  Sam still did not reply.

  “What about defending the Church like you just did? You stood up to a goddess! Pretty impressive. Something to do with that?”

  Sam shook his head. “I don’t think so. The Church does not really honor me. I feel bad about it, but I do not know if I would use a wish to honor it.”

  “See?” Petra said excitedly. She beat her chest with her fist. “That is what I want to hear. This profound, heart of the heart kind of stuff.”

  Sam looked over his shoulder to her quizzically. “This is uncomfortable to think about though. You like having these thoughts in your free time? I tend to do my best to avoid topics like this.”

  “There’s plenty of discomfort up north, Bleedingheart. This is just the tip of the spear for us.” She laughed and patted his shoulder. “So not the Church? What about wealth?”

  “My family is wealthy already,” Sam remarked before catching himself. “But I suppose I sacrificed my name to the Church. So they are not really my family anymore.”

  “Um,” Petra looked around. “What about a nice set of shining armor? This suit is impressive, but you could use an upgrade, what with that gash in the chest piece.”

  Sam turned to her somberly. “Winter’s Daughter, this chest piece is my albatross. It is a symbol of my failure as a vanguard of honor for the Church of the Will. I have a scar on my flesh to match it. My name, Bleedingheart, was given in recognition for the wounds. So I wear this armor in shame. To wish it away would be a cheap escape.”

  Petra listened, her frown sinking the whole while. “This is not a fun game for you, Bleedingheart.”

  “I do not know what I would wish for, Petra. I have a lot that I want. Nothing that I deserve. Nothing that I need.”

  “Nothing you deserve?” she repeated. “You don’t earn wishes.”

  “I am in debt to many people. Father Pryce, Sergeant Boldbounty, my parents. They all should get wishes before I can even begin to think about them.”

  “Oh, I get it now.” Petra said, nodding. “You’re one of those kinds of people.”

  “What kind?”

  “The kind who do not live for themselves and end up starving to death when the winter lasts a week longer than expected and they weren’t prepared for it,” Petra nodded with sureness. “At least, that’s my experience with that kind of person.”

  Sam shrugged. “If my kindness toward others is the only thing that defines me, then I think I have done well by myself.”

  Petra nodded with understanding. “But Bleedingheart, you have to imagine people are like butter. You have the flatbread and you spread the butter on it. If you try to spread across too many flatbreads, no one can taste your butter.”

  Sam, lost in the analogy, frowned. “What?”

  “Clear goals,” Petra began. “We need clear goals. Goals set with wisdom, not whimsy. If you just go around making grand, knee-jerk reactions to peoples’ suffering, you end up like me.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You know I walked from Bridgefort, yes?” she asked.

  “You did? Why not just form your avatar in the March?”

  “Do you know of contracts?” Petra asked quietly.

  “In general?”

  “No, specifically as they concern deities,” Petra answered. “It is not something we advertise, but to make our avatars, we make a contract with the mortal realm. We arrive for a single purpose, and when that purpose is fulfilled, we go back to the realm of gods.

  “Many gods are just fine at contract writing. They can form their avatars with specifics and caveats all ready to go, making one avatar that can, in its contract, set a chain of events that get the god precisely what they want.

  “I’m utter shit at it.”

  “How so? What happened?”

  “I promised the mortal realm that I would save my people from their threats. Did not even think that there were more than two of those. It was a stupid contract to make. So I am stuck here until all of these ‘threats’ have been addressed.”

  “How is that even possible?”

  Petra sighed. “I doubt it is. And every day,” she began, gesturing to the center of her chest. “The faith they have in me? It’s wavering. They still adore me. They believe in me. But I know that this will not be forever. I’m no Talnorel. I don’t have the worship to sustain an avatar forever.

  “I imagine eventually my people will just forget about it. Maybe it will take a hundred years, maybe more. But their faith in me will waiver. And I’ll lose my powers.”

  “You learned all of this soul-searching business just after forming your avatar?” Sam asked, not trusting her bravado.

  “Probably not,” Petra answered. “I just call it like I see it. All the signs are clear right in front of me. You’re as stupid as I am! Can’t really speak to whether or not I learned my lesson. Because here I am chasing an Oracle’s Vision.”

  “What is that?”

  “It’s a vision that an oracle has, Bleedingheart,” Petra responded. “I understand you went to school to become a paladin. What do you learn there?”

  “I understand the words, Petra,” he said, laughing. “I’m just asking for context.”

  “I wish I had some,” Petra grunted. “She was one of the enemy slaver tribe oracles. Said she had seen the fall of civilization, then showed me, too. Just a big pile of dead gods.”

  Sam noticed Petra go quiet. Not just silent, but her whole demeanor and her pugilist aura all toned down as she remembered this oracle vision.

  “Hey, Petra, I think that’s enough heavy topics for now. You asked about the weather earlier? How warm it gets?”

  “I did,” Petra said, forcing a smile to lift her mood. “And you were very rude in your response, Bleedingheart.”

  “Please, call me Sam.”