A week passed in silence after the king's decree. Then, on a morning swept clean by the wind, an eagle pierced the skies above the Fire Shrine. Its wings cast a fleeting shadow across the tiled roofs as it descended in a wide spiral. A message was tied to its leg in red string, the seal of House Baishen pressed in gold wax. When Daoming broke the seal and read the words, he closed his eyes for a long moment.
The boy will soon be of age and is required to return to the capital for the Churning.
He folded the letter and placed it within his sleeve.
Before long, the tower stairs echoed with footsteps. Not one or two, but nearly ten pairs at once, the most that had ascended together in over a decade. At their head walked Daoming, once a lowly senior priest, now a high priest of the shrine. The bald crown of his head bore fifteen red stones etched into the skin, each one carved with sacred script. Where once he had walked in silence, ignored by his betters, now silence followed in his wake.
Behind him by a single step was Haiyun, his disciple. Though younger and of lower rank, Haiyun had grown in power and pride. His eyes darted nervously along the narrow stairway.
"Master," Haiyun whispered, low enough that the others could not hear. "Are you sure this is wise? He is still a cursed child. What if we become infected?"
"Do not be a fool," Daoming said, his voice flat. "Curses are not infections. We are not plagued by stories."
Haiyun hesitated. "But the way he looks…"
"I raised him myself. If any curse lingered, I would have long since been claimed."
Haiyun said no more. He bowed his head in shame, and they climbed the final steps.
Before them stood a thick wooden door bound in iron, aged by fifteen years of smoke and silence. Daoming reached into his sleeve and drew a grey key, then slid it into the lock. The tumblers clicked, and the door creaked open.
"Wait here," he said to the others. "I will call when he is ready."
They bowed.
Daoming entered alone.
The scent of dust and incense hung in the air, mingling with old parchment and the faint scent of burned sandalwood. Books lay scattered across the floor. Scrolls formed small towers in corners. Lamps flickered in high sconces, throwing long shadows between the shelves. It was not just a room. It was a world built from silence and solitude.
"Qigai," Daoming called, walking past the shelves.
He walked between aisles with slow steps, peering around corners. Then he saw him, curled at the base of a bookshelf, fast asleep with a leather-bound book across his chest. The boy's body was twisted slightly, his back hunched and uneven. A wooden mask hid his face, painted in dull white and red streaks, chipped at the edges from years of wear.
Daoming smiled faintly. He folded his arms, then crouched beside him and gently tapped the mask in a soft rhythm with his fingernail.
"Wakey, wakey, child."
Qigai stirred. He blinked beneath the mask, registering the sound before jerking away from the touch. Then he stopped.
"Daoming?" His voice cracked with disbelief.
"Yes, Kiddo."
The boy rose slowly, his joints stiff from sleep. Then, without hesitation, he threw his arms around Daoming, clutching him like something precious. Tears welled in his single seeing eye.
"I missed you," he whispered.
Daoming patted his back gently. "I missed you too. But I have something for you. A surprise."
Qigai pulled back. "A surprise?"
"Do you remember what I told you when you were younger? That when you turned fifteen, you would leave this place. That you would meet your parents. That you would finally be free?"
Qigai nodded slowly, uncertain. "And?"
Daoming placed his hands on the boy's shoulders and looked him in the eye.
"You are fifteen, Qigai. The time has come."
The words did not land gently. They struck like thunder in the hollow chest of someone who had waited years for a day he thought would never come. Qigai stood frozen.
"I thought I had more time," he said softly.
"A letter came for you," Daoming continued. "From your father. He has summoned you to the capital."
"My father wants to see me?" The hope in his voice was childlike, pure.
Daoming hesitated before answering. "Yes. But there is something you must understand."
He stood and turned away, facing the dark rows of books.
"When you were born, the kings of the ten kingdoms gathered. A council was held to decide your fate. It was decreed that you would live here, hidden, until your fifteenth year. Upon that day, you would return and face the Churning."
Qigai slowly reached for his staff, leaning on it for support as he stood.
"And if I fail?"
"If you do not receive the flame, then the god has spoken. And you will be sacrificed."
Qigai's breath caught. "So he summons me to die?"
"No," Daoming said firmly. "I do not believe that. The king wishes you dead plus I believe God will bless you. I believe your fire waits within you."
Qigai laughed softly beneath his mask. "Then why has God never spoken to me?"
"Because you must speak first. Pray, Qigai. Pray with truth and fire in your heart."
Qigai placed a hand over his chest and nodded.
"You are right. God does not abandon those who believe."
Daoming smiled and extended a hand.
"Come. Let us leave this place."
They walked together to the door. On the other side stood ten priests in ceremonial robes. As the door opened, their heads turned toward him as one.
Qigai flinched beneath their gaze. It was the first time he had seen other humans this close. And he knew, with every inch of his crooked spine and scaled skin, that they saw him not as a person, but a thing.
A mask covered his face, but it did not cover the truth. One leg was shorter than the other. One eye was blind and clouded. His skin bore strange marks that looked like old scales or burns. In every book he had read, no one looked like him. Not even the monsters.
He repeated words in his head like a chant.
It is alright. They do not know me. Their stares cannot hurt me.
He turned once to look at the library. His home for fifteen years. The only home he had ever known.
"I will miss you," he whispered.
And then, he stepped forward into the light.