Everyone in Ulm knew: when Ilari come to a village, they do not leave empty-handed.

Sometimes, they take gold.

Sometimes, something far more precious.

The morning was cold and damp when Jereh Hamad returned from his early fishing.

His palms were cracked from nets and salt, his fingers still wet from the water; Evan, eleven years old, skipped beside him with a basket of fish whose gills still twitched. A good haul, Jereh thought: enough for the market, enough for a week, perhaps even enough for salt and flour.

Then he saw the faces.

A group of villagers stood before the cottage; whispers, eyes fixed on the door. Some traced the three-point blessing over their throats; others squinted as though waiting for the house itself to spit out a curse.

“Stay here,” Jereh told Evan, though he knew the boy wouldn’t.

Old Maryn, who lost one hand in a fishing accident many years ago, caught him by the sleeve. “Jereh… he came.”

“Who?”

“Ilar.” Maryn’s eyes were too wide. “He walked out of your house last night. Wings like sails; couldn’t mistake them.”

Jereh’s blood turned to ice. They hadn’t come for taxes. They had come for blood.

He shoved Maryn aside and strode in. The door slammed against the wall.

Mirna stood by the hearth; Lily sat on the straw mattress, clutching something that glimmered; something that did not belong in this house. Nor in this village.

“Where is he?” The words came out like a curse.

“He’s gone,” Mirna said calmly.

“Who was it?”

“Eirran V’Asanii. Prince of Astochia.”

The name fell like a hammer. The Fifth House. Antarrila. The Uprising. Burned homes, earth soaked in blood.

“What did he want?”

“He came for her.”

The words struck him like a blow. Evan's mouth hung open on the threshold.

“Why would the Fifth House want her?”

Mirna folded her arms. “Because she’s his.”

The words hung in the air like smoke from a poisonous herb.

Lily’s eyes: too large, too dark, brimmed with fear, and something else: yearning?

“Explain,” Jereh demanded.

Mirna chose carefully: Lily’s birth mother - yes; the prison - no. The money each year -yes; the blood-stained birth - no. “He offered to take Lily to Astochia. Said we could come with her. All of us.”

“You believe him?” Jereh’s throat tightened.

“I don’t know. He said he’d return in a month for an answer.”

“What did you tell him?” he asked Lily.

“Nothing,” she whispered.

“Smart,” Jereh muttered, rubbing his face with salt-stiff hands. “Selavetia got nothing from the Ilari but blood and tears, and he thinks we’ll hand him a child? Our child?”

“Jereh...”

“No!” His fist crashed against the table; Lily flinched. “You know what they do with children like her? They send them to the mines. Or sell them to fine houses in Win’Tarra. If they’re ‘lucky,’ they end up as servants. And if not…”

“He said I could learn. To read,” Lily said softly.

That cut him. To read - a word as dangerous as a blade. Knowledge was the Ilari’s lock and weapon.

“He lies.” Jereh knelt before her. “The Ilari give nothing without a price. And the price is always more than you can pay.”

“Why would he lie?” Lily looked down at the rattle in her hand.

“What is that?” Jereh gasped.

The silver rattle with hawks gleamed in the light.

“Throw it away.”

“No!”

“Throw it, or I will!” He lunged toward her; Lily sprang back, clutching it to her chest.

“Enough,” Mirna stepped between them, arms spread like wings over a chick.

Silence quivered. Evan stood on the threshold, eyes wide.

“If the Fifth House is interested, it’s not a good thing,” Jereh said grimly. “It never is.”

“I know,” Mirna answered, lowering her arms. “But what can we do? Fight an Ilar? And a highborn one at that?”

He already knew the answer.

No.

The news spread through Ulm by evening. Nobody came to their door; children were hustled inside; Maryn crossed the road rather than pass their cottage.

“What have we done?” Mirna whispered.

“Nothing. He came,” Jereh said.

The villagers gathered at the elder’s house.

“Why are they angry?” Lily asked.

“They’re afraid,” Jereh told her. “When the Ilari come, something always leaves with them.”

“You mean… me?”

Silence.

“Why did he come for me?” Lily asked.

Mirna and Jereh exchanged a look. “That’s something only he can say,” Mirna answered.

“Is it because of my mother?” Lily whispered.

“In part,” Mirna murmured.

“Someone’s coming!” Evan gasped.

The elder appeared on the threshold with his sons. “The village has spoken."

“I hear you,” Jereh said.

“The coming of his kind brings danger,” the elder muttered. “He’ll return in a month. Why has he come?”

The room went silent. Evan’s hand squeezed Lily’s.

“For the girl,” Jereh said.

The elder nodded, fear shadowing his face. “If he takes the child, what then? Our sons? Our wives?”

“He won’t ask for anything else,” Mirna snapped.

“How do you know?” one of the sons blurted. “The Fifth House comes for blood or for quotas!”

“This isn’t about that,” Jereh said, dangerously quiet.

“We don’t want trouble,” the elder said. “If the Ilar wants the child, let him take her and go. But… let him not return.”

“Hand her over — just like that?” Jereh flushed with fury.

“God forbid,” the elder crossed himself. “But if she is his… if it is blood…”

“No blood!” Jereh slammed the wall. “She’s ours!”

The elder looked at Lily and then quickly away. “Ask her, Jereh. What did he promise?”

All eyes turned to Lily. She felt small, like a fish gasping on dry land.

“He said… in Astochia I could learn to read. That I wouldn’t be hungry.”

“A lure,” one of the sons muttered. “A trap.”

“See?” the elder spread his hands. “She has a choice. Let her decide.”

“She’s eight years old!” Jereh’s face darkened. “How can she decide?”

“Better she than us,” the elder whispered. “Think of the village.”

They left, air heavy with unsaid words.

“Will they make us give her up?” Evan whispered.

Jereh didn’t answer.

“Sweetheart, do you want to go?” Mirna asked.

Lily looked at her aunt: afraid of my “yes,” or afraid of my “no”? “I don’t know,” she whispered. “I don’t understand why he wants me.”

“Because your mother mattered to him,” Mirna said. “And you are part of her.”

“Is that bad?”

“No. Just… complicated.”

A week later, a ship sailed into harbor.

It was unlike any other. Black oak carved with the flaming arrows of the Fifth House, an anchor gleaming like silver. The crew of men wore cloth that shimmered like water, boots unstained by mud.

“They look like they’re from the Win'Tarra itself,” Evan whispered.

“By order of His Excellency, Venn Eirran V’Asanii, Prince of Astochia,” the first man proclaimed, voice full and clear. “Gifts for the family Hamad, and the village of Ulm.”

Jereh folded his arms; Mirna’s hand tightened on Lily’s shoulder.

The first chest was opened.

Gold.

Not a handful of coins: an entire chest, hawks in flight stamped on every piece. A collective gasp. Hands twitched, then stilled.

“For the village of Ulm,” the man said. “A token of goodwill.”

“What price?” the elder asked, throat bobbing.

A smile without warmth. “No price. The Fifth House does not forget those faithful to it.”

Jereh’s lip barely curled. 

The second chest - smaller, black, polished, was brought forward. Mirna stifled a gasp as they opened the lid.

Vials. Twelve, faint green in color.

“For the Hamad family. Tincture of Astochian pine. For fevers, infections, sickness of the lungs.”

Mirna’s hand trembled. Lung fever had taken her sister. Half the village too.

“Why?” Jereh’s voice was raw.

“His Excellency wishes to show he cares.”

“Cares for whom?”

A pause. A glance at Lily.

“For all of you,” the man finished smoothly.

The third chest contained clothing. For a girl. Dresses in blue, grey, green; soft shoes, lined.

“For the child.”

“We cannot accept this,” Mirna said.

“You already have,” the man smiled.

And then, the last came a mirror.

Not the dull pewter fog of the village, but true glass, clear and straight. When they turned it, Lily saw herself: dark eyes too large for her oval face, hair too long and wild for her thin frame.

“So you can see yourself,” the man said.

The villagers were silent. Eyes turned to Jereh.

“We do not need your gifts,” he said at last.

“You may throw them in the sea,” the man replied. “But we will bring more in a month.”

“Why?” Mirna asked sharply.

The man shrugged. “Because he can.”

No threat. Just the knowledge that he could keep sending. And sending. Until they yielded.

When the ship departed, the villagers drifted away. The gold remained. No one touched it. But all eyes lingered.

“What shall we do?” Mirna whispered.

Jereh stared at his own reflection in the mirror: a man who knew he could not win. “I don’t know.”

Lily looked at her reflection: a girl who did not know who she was. Who am I, to be wanted like this? The mirror gave no answer.

The gold was distrubuted.

Villagers went to the elder one by one, each taking a single coin. They touched the gold with reverence and fear, as though holding a live snake. “Blessings upon you,” they whispered, making the three-point sign, but they did not look at Mirna or Jereh.

Blessings? From whom? Lily thought. The Ilari gave no blessings, only debts.

“Enough for one hundred coins each,” Evan whispered. “Three years of food.”

And three years of peace... Until the Fifth House demanded its price again.

From the hill the chapel bell tolled. It was a small stone building, a place where Diachon Miron, a servant of the Ilari priesthood preached faith to the villagers.

Now he was seated at the elder’s house, along with the villagers, including Jereh and Mirna.

“It isn’t right to keep that… thing among us,” said Vordan, a widower. “To draw their eye.”

“She is not a ‘thing,’” Mirna said. “She’s a child.”

“Peace,” Miron raised a hand. His voice was weary, yet heavy. “Do not quarrel over gifts.”

He glanced toward the window, where the gold still gleamed on the table.

“What do the Holy Books say?” Vordan asked. “Of half-bloods?”

“That they are children of sin,” Miron sighed.

“The Ilar did not come out of charity,” Vordan said. “He came for what is his.”

“She is mine,” Jereh said.

“Yours?” Vordan laughed bitterly. “Is your blood in her veins?”

Silence. Lily felt her throat tighten. Not theirs. That was how the word sounded.

“Enough,” Miron raised his hand again. “It is not our right to judge.”

“Whose, then?” Mirna asked.

“Ellevath’s. And the Ilari’s.”

“And you, Diachon?” Jereh demanded. “What would you do?”

Miron hesitated. “Gifts carry a price,” he said at last. “But so does resistance.”

It was not help. It was not condemnation. It was simply the truth.

That night Lily lay awake, staring at the moonlight pooling on the silver rattle she secretly took from beneath her mat.

“Will they make us give you up?” Evan whispered.

Lily did not answer.

“They won’t,” Jereh said from his bed, voice firm. “Never.”

The Ilar had left, but his shadow remained. It lingered in every coin, every glance, every prayer.

And in the eyes of the girl no one could no longer pretend not to see.