The bells that tolled were a death march, a heralding cry to the soul that was to be lost at the pyre. Siria knew what ill fate lay in store as soon as that smoldering torch, crackling and growling sparks of orange flame, were to brush against the wood throne - and she dared them still. Her jaw was set in a tight grit; those teeth, straight and bared in her mouth, showing off a snarl of disdain as the reaper drew ever so closer. She waited with bated breath, no longer focusing on those blackbirds lazily drifting high above in the expanse of blue sky.<br/><br/>The final hour was near.<br/><br/>She struggled with the thoughts of confidence, of sheer hatred for the men that had dragged her from her home, stripping her of her gowns to parade her through the streets like some beast to be gawked at. It was humiliating - insufferable. The hot tears that trickled down her pallid cheeks were a cocktail of emotions - rage, fear, desperation - but nothing close to mourning. They would not see that weakness in her. The crowd could hurl their repulsive insults with sick paranoia, but she would continue to hold her head high. That was, however, until the church bells ceased their disorienting knell, leaving a strange hush to fall upon the gathered throng of villagers as the emptiness was replaced by the clattering of armor. Of swords. Of a horse stamping its iron hooves against the ground in impatience. Grieshaffen may have been far flung from the holy enclosure of the church and the pope’s influence, but everyone knew what the silver crosses meant.<br/><br/>They were the men of divine retribution, swift and forceful in their way as they carried out the ultimate hand of vengeance. The devil’s offspring were their foes, the silver weapons they bore in their hands the means to the demons’ true end. The Silver Cross was the only force that stood a chance at decimating the population of bloodthirsty carnivores that ravaged the lands. And to suddenly receive a carriage transporting these soldiers to God knew where… it was natural the villagers would be awed.<br/><br/>From Siria’s bound perch on the pyre, she could watch from the other side of the crowd as they filed out, one by one in a well trained line. But these men, she noticed, were no older than boys; sparse in the hair on their upper lips, a youth in their bones that had still yet to fill out. They were too young to be genuine killers, and yet, too old to be adolescents. Their blades seemed unsteady in their hands, as if they were unsure of their skill, but the Silver Cross needed bodies to fill the ranks. Train them early and they shall be yours to mold - if they lived that long of course. It was a cruel fact many did not survive well past their early twenties, and Siria considered them all straight out of the Capital until the last male soldier emerged.<br/><br/>Her bleary eyes, worn from the tears and the acrid pang of the torch’s smoke, snapped to the much taller form.<br/><br/>He was a striking image compared to the young members, but what stole her nervous gaze was not his appearance; well built and maintained from years of service. It was the sigil imprinted on his chest; a homage to some blasphemous action to fell him from the good graces of the church. The crowd collectively seized up at the sight of the overturned cross, and remained silent in their disgust even as the lone soldier addressed the fray and proceeded to stroll unburdened through the filthy mass of peasants. He was a shining beacon, a light of hope - that ray of understanding Siria desperately needed. That order he spoke could not have been more of a blessing to her ears.<br/><br/>Could he be the savior that would surrender her from her bindings? Free her from the unjustly accusations against her name? That relief was like a flower blooming inside her aching chest, and for a moment, she had hope. Siria nearly managed to work her jaw to produce a plea of appreciation before the hulking commander of the rural cobblestone town stepped in to make his justifications clear, and that flower withered along with her voice.<br/><br/>The gold of the commander’s armor appeared like rust against the glint of the Silver Cross. There were rumors the silver adornments and blades were blessed by holy water and forged in the graces of the Lord; shining with the essence of the heaven kissed stars. Siria had never believed in far fetched rumors, but with this man standing down the cruel captain of the city, she’d believe anything to survive.<br/><br/>He may have been imprinted with the blasphemous upside down cross of a sinner, a designation he was an outcast, but to Siria he was anything but an iscariot. No. He was a saint; salvation. Tightly wound between plates of armor and arguing with the cantankerous mountain of a guard, the stranger bargained for her life. The back and forth banter held Siria’s utmost attention, the fear - the anguish - present in her sole functioning eye as she prayed to the God she did not believe in there would be a white flag of surrender. And that hope was near exhausted when the brute of a captain tore the matchstick of fire away from the designated executioner and closed the distance between her and death. He may have been the pinpoint of her disdain, but there was credit in his determination.<br/><br/>Siria tossed her head back, a twist of the neck to avert her sensitive nose to the plumes of charred black smoke that licked hungrily at the pyre beneath her bound ankles. One spark, one pop of an ember, and she would join the ghosting of those burned at the stake. The coarse bindings dug raw into her mangled wrists, refusing to budge even as she started the game of struggling once more. Let him see she was not going to lie down so easily, let him see she-<br/><br/><i>“Three days.”</i><br/><br/>Her heart leapt painfully into her throat, her gaze sliding over to peer behind the commander’s plated shoulder and over to the origin of the decree. That outcast, that traitor to the cross, was adamant in his stance, and that seemed to nullify the reaper’s taste for blood for a moment. The crowd was just as surprised as Siria was to hear of the bargain that was struck between the two stubborn men, but not for the same reasons. They wanted death, souls burned to pay for the sins of the demons that stalked the lands in their ravenous wake. What was better than a convicted daughter of the devil and a traitor to the church both burning in failure? Whereas they desired to satiate a lust for blood, Siria, however, thought the outcast had just made himself a deal with the king of death. Three days to prove her innocence - it was suicidal. How would that evidence even be presented?<br/><br/>It was much too late to take back that contract, however. The sinister captain of the guard had already unsheathed the end of his steel sword; an ornate piece of work passed down between successors, but nothing as grand as the twisted hilt of the Silver outcast’s own professional rapier. The ropes that had bound her to her funeral pyre slackened, and immediately the strength in her body gave out. She was unceremoniously shoved into the traitor’s arms, shaking from relief and the ebb of anger that slowly drained from her blood; leaving her weak and exhausted. With her beaten face pressed into his chest, Siria could finally focus on something that was not the brush of death - like the man who held her defensively from the silent crowd. He was tall, smelling of leather and the sweet tint of polish, a mix of oil and animal fat from what Siria could faintly pick up. It was a grounding scent, far more pleasant then the biting smell of fire smoke that had almost claimed her that day.<br/><br/>In the white shroud of her underskirts, she was small in his grasp, a thin waif wracked with nerves, and her ruffled head of pale blonde hair only shifted upwards once most of the lingering soldiers and crowd had dispersed. Her makeshift savior uttered a quiet trail of Latin at their passing, a proverb, and Siria was left to familiarize herself with this outcast.<br/><br/>He seemed hardened with experience, much older then many of the boys he had been traveling with. There was a fracture of concern in his gaze as he wrapped his white cloak about her slender shoulders and prodded her with a gentle inquiry.<br/><br/>The prospect of walking had not dawned on her, and when her shaken brain finally snapped to the condition her body was in, the pain of raw skin throbbed through her nerves. Her wrists had taken most of the thrashing, the pale flesh rubbed red; torn at the seams into something like a bloody rash. An ugly bracelet encircled the thin joints - an aching reminder of the strength she had used to try and pull herself free from her bindings. But she could stand, and, therefore, she could shoulder her own weight. The woman nodded once in acknowledgement to the soldier’s question, and took care to draw the cape further around her quivering form. Now that the adrenaline had seeped from her bones, it left her cold and tired.<br/><br/>“Follow me, please…” Siria’s voice trailed out, worn thin from screaming. “My home will suffice.”<br/><br/>She ushered the man of the Silver Cross to heed her words. Her small cramped dwelling, locked between cobblestone and wood and situated at the edge of the town, was the safest location she knew. Out in public, the population would recall her face; the guards heckling her if she were to pass their steely eyed gaze. The captain probably had her humble abode on watch at this very moment, but Siria did not care. It was sanctuary, and the only place that would currently accept her. She did not know what he wanted to do with the youths of the Cross, standing aside that carriage with a lack of order. It wasn’t her responsibility, however. Siria had only eyes for returning home to where she could properly thank the man for saving her life - and then reprimand him for damning himself to death.<br/><br/>It was eerily quiet as she led him along the stone roads and through the narrow alleys between buildings. In the daylight the beasts were put at bay, rarely hunting in the sun, but who knew what lurked through the shadows, hungering for a taste of flesh? It did not startle her in the slightest, those worries; that fear. It was preferable to take the less traveled roads anyway, least she run into an upset villager or a guard who could think an early celebration of death was in order. Her bare feet were muffled in the mud, the muck lining the paved walkways that squelched underfoot and chilled against her skin. Compared to her silence, however, the tapping of her unknown savior’s boots was the only sound between them. The clattering of metal, leather and the hilt of that immaculate rapier that had probably shed the blood of the devil before.<br/><br/>The walk did not last long, and for good reason. Her strength was failing her, and by the time her humble abode came into view she was near ready to collapse. It was smaller than most houses situated within Grieshaffen, located on the outskirts where the road faded away into a dirt trail and nothing stretched on for miles expect rows of fields; grain and wheat, swaying gently in the early breeze that masked behind their golden beauty lurking dangers. Beasts prowled the rows, hidden away beneath the long stalks that rustled like the sea, and the villagers frequently feared traversing through the crops. Their worries were justified, however, for many an unwary name was lost. It was the main reason why the fields stayed overgrown, running amok along the dirt road that led away from the nearest civilization. Burning the rows would just be a waste of potential food.<br/><br/>“Come inside.” Siria murmured after mounting the single step outside the entryway, pushing the door open with her shoulder so it was able to swing wide open. “The guard may be watching, but they would not do anything with you around.” It was a vague comment, but she had noticed the flash of a sword, the glint of armor in the corner of her eye before entering her home. They were there, keeping watch on the two victims who made a bet with the captain. With the Silver Cross’ authority looming nearby, however, there was nothing they wanted to attempt.<br/><br/>“Make yourself comfortable.” Her voice sounded tight, threadbare inside the rather empty nature of the dwelling. It was clean, unnaturally so. There was a drab and simple oak table in the center of the room, accompanied by two matching chairs and a set of misshapen bowls. One candle hung in the center of the ceiling’s sloped foundation, layered with old soot and dried ropes of fatty wax. The windows that looked out to the main road and the fields of wheat were uncanny in the way not a speck of dust lingered on the sills; no spider to weave a cobweb in the corner to make its home. At the back of the cramped house was the hearth, blackened with stains of smoke and still bearing an iron wrought kettle hanging over a charred pile of wood. It looked recently used.<br/><br/>All over the one room abode, an observant eye could pick out where the owner spent most of her time. The darkened grate; the cast iron perch that hung from its claws dried meat and herbs. There was the straw mattress in the corner, the sheepskin used for warm laid haphazardly over one side. It was the simple house of a peasant, a low-class commoner, and yet there was the eerie design that she kept it unnaturally clean. A nagging thought, perhaps, compared to many other structures around the dreary city-town.<br/><br/>“Can I get you anything to drink? To eat? I can’t show my gratitude enough, that you would step in like that.” Siria began after a long pause, finally allowing herself a seat at the drab table once she knew the soldier had settled himself. She may still have been in her underskirts, immodest and lacking her normal gown, but she was more intent on broaching the subject that weighed heavily on her mind. The deal the outcast had made was a heavy blotch at the forefront of her brain. “I’m just a commoner. I really do not understand why you would stake your life for my ill dues. There is not much evidence to turn over.”<br/><br/>Siria rubbed idly at her raw wrists, trying to keep the pain from showing on her bruised features. Her one good eye, a hazy orb of blue sky, flickered across the soldier’s masculine features. “You are damming yourself to death, and though I appreciate the deal you’ve made, three days is not enough time.” Her fingers knitted together as she rested her sore extremities onto the old table, fixing him with an unrelenting stare. “It is almost foolish to bet life on a crime you cannot prove innocent.”