Vicus Passicus, the hidden village among the Hernican Mountains, rises deep within a gorge accessible only through a narrow rock throat.
The path leading to it winds between steep cliffs, with sections of ancient staircases carved into the stone centuries before the Republic. On either side of the pass stand two poorly crafted towers, made of wood and unhewn stone, yet firm in their purpose as watchtowers.
As one advances, the remnants of the old world emerge from the shadows: rudimentary shrines dedicated to the gods of old, some intact and others desecrated, marked with symbols and mutilations inflicted by hands devoted to the new faith. Near one of them, a group of villagers from both the town and the valley work with mallets and shovels under the direction of a priest, destroying the images of a forgotten deity. Their faces display fervor, but also fear, as if stripping the place of its past might awaken something that should have remained asleep.
Among the hills surrounding the pass, the vegetation is sparse but tall enough to offer shelter to anyone who knows how to move stealthily. Here and there, bushes and rocks provide natural hiding spots for watchful eyes.
It is in this setting that Lucia Hernica moves forward, guiding her flock with the skill of one who knows every stone along the path. Lucia, fifteen years old, has dark brown hair and eyes of the same hue, bright with the spark of curiosity and determination. Her skin, slightly bronzed by the sun, speaks of a life spent in the Hernican Mountains, working as a peasant alongside her family. Her simple clothing, dyed in the tones of the earth, blends seamlessly with the mountainous landscape. Around her neck hangs a small wooden amulet carved with the figure of Ceres, a gift from her grandmother. She is not superstitious, but the amulet gives her a sense of connection to her roots and the strength of those who came before her.
As she moves with her sheep, her gaze drifts toward the desecrated shrines and the group of villagers tearing them down. A hint of displeasure flickers across her face, but she says nothing. She simply continues forward, guiding her flock toward the narrow gorge, unaware that in the shadows, someone is watching her.
Lucia walked along the dusty path with the quiet confidence of one who knows every stone and bend in the road. Her sheep bleated occasionally, but the sound was drowned out by the hammering and murmuring of the men dismantling the ancient sanctuary.
Though she kept her eyes fixed ahead, she felt the stares piercing her like invisible arrows. The workers paused in their tasks for a moment, some resting their arms on their tools, others muttering something between muffled laughs. A young man, bare-chested and covered in dust, ran a hand through his sweaty hair and smiled at his companion as she passed. An older man, his face weathered and his beard gray, shook his head and returned to his work with a resigned gesture.
Lucia pretended not to notice. She knew well that beauty attracted attention and that her presence in a place dominated by men was like a fresh breeze in the middle of a long day of labor. She was not vain, but neither was she naive; in a village like hers, the world moved as much by glances and silences as by words.
Near the stone altar, the priest Dario of Frascati watched her with sharp eyes, his fingers interlaced over the front of his dark tunic. He said nothing, but in the slight tilt of his head, a hidden thought could be glimpsed—an unspoken evaluation.
He was not a man of crude impulses, but of calculated plans. At his side, his assistant, Segismundo de Lariano, paused momentarily upon noticing Lucía's presence. Unlike the priest, his gaze did not hold the coldness of someone calculating possibilities, but rather a sincere curiosity—almost awe. His features, markedly barbaric yet refined by his noble lineage, lit up for an instant with something akin to admiration.
Lucía pressed forward without quickening her pace, her head held high, but her heart alert. She was not afraid, yet she felt an uncomfortable sensation of being judged—not just as a shepherd girl, but as something more. Something she did not yet fully understand.
Behind her, the work continued. But the men's words grew softer, their murmurs heavier. And in the shadow of the toppled idols, Priest Darío narrowed his eyes, as if he had seen something in that brief scene that no one else had noticed.
When Darío de Frascati's eyes fell upon the young shepherd, a chill ran down his spine. It was not the icy mountain wind, nor the twilight that painted the sky red. It was something else—something deeper, murkier. The purity of that maiden, her light yet confident stride, the natural way she ignored the lecherous stares of the men... Everything about her stoked the demons the priest had spent years trying to silence beneath the mantle of faith.
He clenched his teeth and entwined his fingers tightly around his crucifix. No, it was not desire that he felt. It was indignation—revulsion at the arrogance of sin.
—How dare a mere girl walk with such confidence? —he thought bitterly.—How can she defy God's will with her mere existence?
His thoughts grew more venomous with every beat of his tormented heart. Without taking his eyes off the girl, he turned to Segismundo de Lariano, his assistant.
—It is time to bring order to these mountains —he murmured, his tone grave and solemn—. Idolatry still lingers in these cliffs, and we cannot allow it to corrupt more souls. We leave at once.
Segismundo blinked, surprised.
—Before nightfall, my lord?
—Half a day's march on foot —Darío responded harshly—. If we do not delay, we will reach Vicus Passicus before nightfall.
The young monk did not argue further. Though devoted to his faith, he felt a shiver at the intensity in the priest's voice. Something in the way he watched the girl unsettled him, but he dared not question it.
Darío turned toward a group of Ostrogothic soldiers, battle-hardened men whose chainmail gleamed in the evening light.
—Prepare the mounts. We leave immediately.
The soldiers nodded with discipline, while a few slaves hurried to saddle the horses. The priest observed the scene with cold detachment. His mission was just, he told himself.
It was not desire.It was not obsession.It was divine will.
And if God willed it, paganism and disobedience would be eradicated that very night.
Here is the text in English with dialogues using the em dash:
They reached the shepherdess shortly after. The young woman, noticing their presence, tried to ignore them and kept walking with the same carefree lightness. But Darío de Frascati was not willing to allow such disdain.
—Stop! —he ordered sharply.
The shepherdess turned slowly, with the serene expression of one who does not fear men. Darío watched her with a mixture of contempt and something deeper, darker.
—When you stand before men of noble lineage and servants of the one true God, you must show the proper respect —he declared, expecting to see in her face the reflection of the fear he so enjoyed provoking.
But the young woman did not bow her head or curtsy. Instead, she began to speak in a dialect of archaic Latin, a language that still endured in the mountains, filled with guttural sounds and strange cadences. Darío frowned, irritated. Before he could rebuke her, Segismundo de Lariano, with his usual kindness, intervened.
—She speaks the language of the valleys —he said softly—. Allow me to translate.
He addressed the young woman more gently, responding to her in clear, measured Latin, explaining the priest's words with a conciliatory tone. But the girl was no ignorant peasant. She knew very well how to speak the valley dialects and understood the Latin of the clergy. Her attitude did not stem from incomprehension but from silent resistance.
Darío noticed. He pressed his lips together, his dark eyes fixed on her, scrutinizing her expression.
—I will not waste more time on this obstinacy —he murmured with disdain.
Then, he turned his mount and continued on his way, certain that his true work had yet to begin.
Before Darío could give the order to move on, the young shepherdess smiled. It was not a mocking or defiant smile but a serene, almost ethereal expression, as if the world's troubles could not touch her. Then, with the grace of someone trained in the highest protocols, she executed a flawless curtsy, worthy of the most illustrious court. Every movement was measured, every inclination exact, as if decorum and nobility had been woven into her very blood.
A shiver ran down Darío's spine. For a moment, his mind went blank.
The last rays of the sun sculpted her silhouette against the vastness of the mountain, highlighting every shade of her fair skin, bathed in a golden glow. Her hair, a chestnut shade with coppery highlights, cascaded in soft waves over her shoulders, moving with the light afternoon breeze. Her features were delicate but not fragile: high cheekbones, a straight nose, and full lips that seemed to hold a secret that would never be revealed.
Her eyes, an uncertain color between amber and honey, reflected the day's last light with an almost supernatural gleam. She was the most beautiful being his eyes had ever beheld. Not with the vulgar beauty of common women, but with a perfection that bordered on the divine.
There was something in her beyond mere flesh, an impossible harmony that defied all logic, all faith. And in that perfection, Darío felt the abyss open beneath his feet.
Rage erupted from his chest like a muted roar.
How dare she?
How could a mere mortal possess such beauty, comparable to the very Mother of God? Outrageous! Blasphemous!
His hands clenched around the reins of his horse. His breathing grew heavy, and the wooden cross hanging from his neck seemed to burn against his skin.
God's judgment had to fall upon her, upon everything she represented.
But not now.
Without a word, he turned his mount abruptly and spurred his horse forward. The cold mountain air was not enough to quell the storm within him.
The village emerged among the hills like an extension of the land itself, embraced by a wall of adobe, wood, and brick, its uneven appearance betraying centuries of makeshift repairs. The mountain rains and winds had worn down its walls, leaving visible veins of dried mud and planks darkened by moisture.
Here and there, wild vines climbed unchecked, intertwining with the structure as if nature sought to reclaim what was hers.
The air was fresh, imbued with the scent of wet grass and wood smoke. Beyond the wall, small farms and homesteads dotted the countryside, their thatched roofs and rustic stables sheltering horses and cattle. In the distance, the lowing of livestock blended with the shepherds' songs and the whistling wind sweeping across the fields.
As they entered the village, the locals halted their tasks. Men and women bowed respectfully, their gazes full of reverence toward Darío de Frascati. To them, he was not just a priest; he was an emissary of divine will, a man who carried both judgment and blessing.
But he ignored them. Not a word, not a gesture. His eyes remained fixed on the road, his expression stone-like, impenetrable.
It was Segismundo who allowed himself to smile. With his innate kindness, he inclined his head in greeting, returning the bows with genuine courtesy. His warm, calm words mixed with the villagers' questions and the murmurs of children running curiously around the procession.
But Darío advanced without flinching, as if the village were nothing more than a passing shadow on his path.
To him, these people were merely sheep in need of guidance—or perhaps purifying fire.