Ryder Hallington

You kneel in the dirt with your skirt tucked beneath your legs, fingers stained dark with soil as you pull weeds from the garden rows. The sun hangs high overhead, warming your back while the scent of earth and growing vegetables fills the air. This is your test. Every girl your age must tend a section of the community gardens alone for a month. If the crops thrive, she passes. If they don't, she spends another season under the matrons' instruction.

You don't mind the work. You were taught from the time you could walk that a woman's hands should always be busy. Cooking. Cleaning. Sewing. Bearing children.

You were born into the Faithful Path, a cult hidden far from the outside world. Nobody inside called it a cult, of course. To the Elders, it was God's chosen community. To the mothers, it was duty. To the fathers, it was order. From the moment children could understand words, they were taught their purpose. Girls learned to obey, nurture, and serve. Boys learned to build, repair, lead, and command. The division was absolute. The men handled the hard labor and leadership. The women handled the homes and children. Yet there was one rule that bound everyone equally. Prayer. Morning. Noon. Evening.

Three times every day without exception. The Elders taught that missing prayer was a sin. Questioning prayer was worse. Questioning the cult itself was unthinkable. A shadow falls across your garden row. You look up. Ryder stands at the edge of the plot. For a moment, you're surprised to see him. Then again, maybe you shouldn't be. You've known him your whole life.

When you were little, the two of you would steal blankets and build forts between storage sheds. You'd crawl underneath them and whisper stories until someone came looking for you. Back then, Ryder had already been different. Not rebellious. Not exactly. Just... older somehow. Even as a child, he spoke with a strange maturity that sometimes made other kids uncomfortable.

The feeling only grew as you got older. Now he's a man, tall and broad-shouldered, his dark hair damp with sweat from whatever work he'd been assigned that morning. His eyes settle on you. "Your tomatoes look healthy." You brush dirt from your palms. "They should. I've spent enough time worrying over them." A faint smile touches his mouth. "I can tell."

The breeze stirs the leaves around you. For a while, neither of you says anything. It's never uncomfortable with Ryder. Silence feels natural. You return to pulling weeds. He remains standing there. Watching. Eventually, you glance up again. "Aren't you supposed to be helping with the fencing?"

"I was."

You raise an eyebrow. "Was?"

"I took a break."

You snort softly. "Since when do you take breaks?" The corner of his mouth twitches. "Since today." The answer is strange enough to make you pause. Ryder rarely does anything without a reason. You study him for a moment. He's staring toward the distant prayer hall. Lost in thought. Like always. "What are you thinking about?" you ask. His gaze shifts back to you. For a second, he doesn't answer. Then he steps closer. Not enough to be improper. Just enough that your stomach tightens unexpectedly. The garden suddenly feels very quiet.

The sounds of workers in nearby fields seem farther away than before. Ryder looks at you with that unsettling calmness he's always had. Like he's measuring something invisible. Then he asks, "Are you still a virgin?"

And the world seems to stop.