The training hall of the Hands was wide and circular, its stone floor covered in faintly glowing runes that dulled the force of blows. Sunlight filtered through high arched windows, illuminating drifting dust motes like tiny spirits.
Professor Daen stood at the centre, his crimson robe catching the light. The sigil of the Scarlet Matron burned faintly on his sleeve — a blooming flower made of blades.
"Combat," he said, voice sharp and measured, "is the heart of every prayer you make to the divine. You cannot speak to gods without offering them struggle." His eyes swept the gathered Hands. "Today, I will see how well you can offer it."
The students shifted uneasily. Some straightened proudly, eager for attention; others stared at the ground, clutching their sleeves.
Daen gestured toward the ring marked by the glowing runes. "No weapons. No divine invocation. Only your body, your will, and your faith."
Riel watched as pairs were called up one by one.
The first pair exchanged quick, respectful bows before lunging into motion, blows fast but hesitant, their fear of failure more visible than their technique. Daen's critique was cold but fair.
The next pair, both clearly from noble houses, treated the match as theatre — graceful dodges, unnecessary flourishes, the kind of fighting meant to impress rather than endure. Daen's expression hardened.
"Faith is not beauty," he said, his voice slicing through the hall. "It is endurance. Remember that."
When Riel's turn came, his opponent was a tall, broad-shouldered boy named Lysan — one of the self-proclaimed "soon-to-be Scions." His confidence radiated like heat.
"Try to keep up," Lysan said with a smirk, flexing his hands. "I don't want to hurt you too badly."
Riel didn't answer. His body felt heavy under so many eyes.
Daen raised his hand. "Begin."
Lysan struck first — a sharp jab, then a low kick that snapped against the floor. Riel shifted his stance, catching the jab on his forearm and twisting away from the sweep. The impact rattled his bones, but he stayed upright.
"Too slow!" Lysan barked, pressing forward with practiced precision.
Riel's focus narrowed. Remember the rhythm. He overextends after his second strike.
When the next punch came, Riel ducked low and drove a fist into Lysan's ribs. The sound was dull but satisfying. His opponent stumbled a step back, eyes flashing with surprise.
A murmur rose among the watching Hands.
"Oh? You've got some bite after all," Lysan sneered, wiping the corner of his mouth. "Let's see how long it lasts."
He lunged again, faster this time — a blur of fists and elbows. Riel blocked one, slipped under another, then slammed his shoulder forward, catching Lysan in the chest. The two locked for a heartbeat, struggling for ground. Sweat stung Riel's eyes.
Lysan twisted suddenly, hooking Riel's ankle with his heel and sending him off balance. Riel hit the floor hard, rolled, and pushed himself up in the same motion — just in time to block a kick that still drove the air from his lungs.
Pain flared bright in his side. His vision wavered. The noise of the crowd faded to a dull hum.
Not yet. Don't fall yet.
He countered with a hook that clipped Lysan's jaw, the impact snapping his head to the side. The other boy spat blood — then smiled. "Good. Now stay down."
The next hit came like thunder — an elbow to the shoulder that numbed Riel's entire arm. He dropped to one knee, gasping.
The air around him seemed to thicken, the world slowing to a crawl.
Lysan's shadow loomed above him, fist raised.
Riel's body screamed to move, to block, but something else moved first.
A pulse — cold and electric — ran through his veins. The mark beneath his eye burned, the sting almost unbearable. His hand lifted on its own, trembling, desperate—
And then light flickered into being.
Silver and black, like moonlight trapped in glass, coalesced in his palm. A dagger, long and thin, its crescent guard gleaming faintly with divine shimmer. The misericorde.
The air snapped with the sound of its arrival.
Lysan froze, eyes wide. The watching Hands fell silent.
Riel stared at the weapon, breath ragged, heart pounding. He hadn't called it. It had come to him — unbidden, alive.
Gasps erupted across the hall.
Lysan froze mid-swing, eyes wide. The blade had stopped an inch from his throat.
Riel blinked, horrified. "I— I didn't—"
Daen's voice thundered through the silence. "Enough!"
The dagger dissolved instantly into smoke, vanishing as if it had never been.
The professor's boots struck the floor hard as he approached. "You dared summon a weapon after I forbade it?" His voice was cold fury, not loud, but heavy with disappointment.
"I didn't mean to!" Riel stammered. "It—it just appeared!"
Daen's eyes flickered to the faint mark beneath Riel's eye, narrowing.
"Intent matters little," he said finally. "Control is the measure of a disciple. Lose it, and you endanger everyone around you."
Lysan scoffed, rubbing his neck. "He could've killed me. You saw it."
Others nodded or whispered.
Daen turned away. "Riel, you will stay after class. We will speak privately. The rest of you— continue."
As Riel stepped back from the ring, his heartbeat thundered in his ears. He touched the place beneath his eye; the mark burned faintly, like a silent pulse.
And in that brief, terrible moment, he felt something—
Not a voice.
Not a thought.
Just a presence, coiled and waiting.
When the lesson ended, Riel slipped away without waiting for Daen's summons. He couldn't bear the stares — the fear, the whispers that clung to him like smoke.
The Cradle was quiet at dusk. Lanterns floated over the marble walkways, their flames pale and silver beneath the moonlight. He found his way to the lake behind the main hall, a place of still water said to reflect the soul more clearly than any mirror.
He knelt at the edge.
The surface rippled faintly, disturbed only by the wind. His reflection stared back, tired and uncertain, that faint mark beneath his eye stark under the moon's glow.
Then it smiled.
Not his smile — something sharper, patient.
Riel froze. The reflection's eyes shimmered silver, and for a moment he saw shapes moving in the water — distant, warped silhouettes. Eyes. Wings. Things too vast to belong in this world, gliding beneath the lake's surface like shadows of forgotten gods.
He stumbled back, breath quickening, clutching his chest.
He stared back at the lake. The reflection had returned to normal.
"…What are you?" he whispered.
No answer came.
Only the faint sound of the divine hymns drifting from the Cradle in the distance.
He stared down at his hand. The memory of the dagger lingered there like a phantom burn.
He closed his eyes, reaching inward, trying to summon it again.
Nothing.
He exhaled sharply, frustration tightening in his chest. He clenched his fists until his knuckles went white. He needed to get this under control.
The feeling of that weapon—of its weight, its heat—had been both euphoric and terrifying. It had felt right, in a way that scared him. As if it hadn't come from outside, but from somewhere within.
His thoughts wandered to Elaine. Her steady voice. Her warmth. She was probably still at the temple, training or praying, her faith unshaken.
He hoped she was doing better than he was.
The Temple of Dreams was nothing like she'd imagined.
It stood atop silver cliffs that vanished into endless clouds, its marble towers glimmering faintly under the moon's gaze. At night, the whole temple seemed alive — the walls breathing, the air filled with the soft hum of divine resonance. Every corner felt as though it belonged to some other, gentler world.
Elaine stood in one of the temple's many courtyards, bow in hand. The moon hung high above her, a perfect disc of light. The training grounds shimmered with its reflection, pale stone tiles washed in silver.
Her arms ached. Sweat dripped down her brow as she drew another arrow. The silver string of her bow thrummed, faintly echoing the pulse of her heart.
"Steady your breath," her instructor said, a tall woman with eyes like polished steel. "The moon does not waver. Nor should you."
Elaine inhaled slowly. Exhaled.
The arrow flew — a streak of white light — striking just shy of the mark. The instructor gave a small nod. "Better. Again."
She didn't hesitate. Arrow after arrow, she kept shooting until her shoulders burned and her fingers trembled. Around her, other disciples trained; some shaping moonlight into spears or mirrors, others whispering soft prayers that made the air ripple.
Elaine still couldn't do any of that. Her connection to the goddess was faint, a flicker, a breath. She could feel it somewhere deep within, but it wouldn't come when she called.
Maybe it takes time, she told herself. Maybe I just have to try harder.
After hours, training came to an end. The disciples bowed to their instructor, then quietly dispersed toward their dorms or meditation chambers. Elaine lingered, alone beneath the moon.
She knelt, touching the ground where her last arrow had landed. The stone was cool beneath her palm, humming softly with the residue of her effort.
For a moment, she thought of the Cradle. Of Kaelith's grin. Of Riel's quiet, awkward smiles.
Two days. That's all it had been. Yet it already felt like a lifetime.
"I hope they're doing alright," she whispered. "Riel always looks so tired."
A breeze drifted through the courtyard, carrying the faint scent of blooming night lilies. Above her, the moon seemed to brighten — not by much, just enough to bathe her in gentler light.
She smiled, pulling her bowstring once more and loosing an arrow into the air. It soared, catching the moonlight until it vanished beyond the walls.
"Not bad," came a soft voice behind her.
Elaine turned to see Seren Valen, a senior disciple with pale hair and quiet eyes. He leaned casually against a column, arms folded.
"You've only been here two days," he said. "Most take weeks before they can even call the moon's blessing to guide their aim."
Elaine lowered her bow, a little embarrassed. "I'm still getting used to it. I just… don't want to waste this chance."
Seren nodded slowly. "Then don't. The Temple of Dreams remembers those who give everything — and forgets those who don't."
His tone wasn't unkind, but it carried weight.
After he left, Elaine gazed once more at the sky. The moon was high, the world quiet. She pressed a hand to her chest, as if she could feel something stirring deep within — faint, distant, but growing stronger.
A whisper brushed her thoughts.
Not words. Just presence.
And for a heartbeat, she thought she heard the echo of a heartbeat that wasn't her own — steady, determined, and very far away.