The morning Serai steps into the main hall, barefoot and rubbing sleep from his eyes, he stops. He yawns, glancing at his niece, Rochelle, as she bugs a disgruntled delivery boy about ladybirds and lambing season.

“Uncle Serai!” She squeals, running up to him. His tired body misses a beat, before scooping her up in his arms.

“Hey, beetle. Where’s your mother? What’s all this?” He asks, gesturing to the large wrapped parcels scattered around the hall.

Rochelle points out the window, to the sun-speckled courtyard where Mimi is meditating at the shrine’s pond.

Serai sighs, placing the little girl down, circling back around to the kitchen to pick up a hunk of bread and honey, nodding to Laurel and Irena as they help Brother Finch with breakfast. He wipes his hands on his linen sleep-clothes, and heads outside.

“Mimi,” he calls, holding out a bowl of pine nuts and berries. “Morning.”

His sister looks up slowly. “Serai. I was meditating.”

“I know, I’m sorry. But, hey, what’s with the delivery? The Sanctum is all stocked, and we aren’t due any more farm equipment for ages. That stuff seems heavy duty.”

Mimi rises, stretching slightly. “They’re drums.”

“We need replacements? We never use the ceremonial instruments.”

“Not for worship. For us.”

“What?”

“War drums.”

“War drums?” Serai didn’t so much question as much as shout. “Mimi, you are an armed guard, not a militia. The Herdsmen do not offend. You do not announce. You protect. We serve. We heal.”

“The Herdsmen keep you safe. If that is through fear, or preemptive attacks, it is for a reason.”

“Mimi, we could use that money, on more beds, on more healers—“

“If you didn’t have us to fight, there would be more casualties than you could treat with any amount of money. It’s not an easy choice—“

“It is for you,” he spat out. “Does Irena know?”

“Yes. She had no objections.”

“No objections to her wife charging into battle?”

“No. Because she understands the importance of a strong defense.”

That evening, Serai is roused from his work by the bells ringing from the courtyard. Yes, he remembers. It is the Day of The Wheel. He rises with all the ceremony of a man who has scarcely noticed the fortnight go by. He carries himself with as much grace as he can, carrying his leather anointment bag, meeting Brother Finch and Mimi in front of the fountain and its cracked statue of Dia Brigantia. They greet, and make their way to the pastures, Finch holding onto his hand as he leads him through the mud and muck. Serai steps forwards into the field, sky dimming to a deep, bruised purple above him, and whispers a prayer. Then, he scans the field.

Immediately, he spots his chosen one: an old ram, curled in on himself by the far fence. He is ailing, but he is large, and he will sustain the parish for a week or two at least. Serai nears the animal, placing his hand upon its nose. The ram breathes back in response. Serai takes Finch's hand, placing it upon the same spot.

"This one?" He asks, turning his face to Serai.

"This one," Serai nods.

Finch moves his hands to the animal's neck, placing a length of rope around it. Serai takes the other end. Together, they lead him back to the courtyard, where Mimi stands, sword at her side. Irena stands behind her, head bowed. Finch stands before the ram, whispering a prayer over it:

May the wheel continue to turn;

Spokes of life and spokes of death

Let neither be joyous,

Let neither be mournful,

May you carry us far as we have carried you

By Brigantia's light.

He rises, and gestures to Serai, who kneels beside the creature, anointing it with rosemary oil and lavender. He find's the animal's heart, and uncaps the bottle in the bag, smearing a little of the mixture across the ram's skin. It only exhales in return, then bleats softly. Its wool begins to glow a soft, gentle golden, emanating a warmth that Serai can feel through his gloves. The ram closes it's eyes, sedated.

Mimi rises, sword glinting in the last of the moonlight, though it remains cloaked in grey and black, the remnants of last week's storm. The ram is silent: its flesh is not. Blood still pools from its neck where Mimi has cut into the animal, staining the cobbles at their feet. Serai presses his hand to the sheep's heart once more. It has stilled. The three of them raise the corpse into the waiting fountain, letting Dia Brigantia's waters cleanse them.

The wheel has turned once more.