The bells of St. Ilyrion's Orphanage rang at dawn, their iron voice echoing through the quite streets of Ebonreach.
Lith was already awake. He sat on the edge of his narrow cot, the chill of the stone floor biting at his his bare feet. Pale light spilled through the stained-glass windows, painting faint colors across his hands. Today was his fifteenth birthday—the Day of the Rite of Dawn.
A soft cough broke the silence.
"Lith.." Mina's voice trembled from the bed beside him. She was nine—too pale, too thin, her chest rising in shallow rhythm. "It hurts again."
Lith's expression softened. He rose without hesitation and knelt beside her. "Shhh, I've got you."
He placed his hand on her forehead, like Father Aldric had taught him. Hot. Burning.
Lith bit his lip and whispered his breath—worfs that were more wish than prayer.
Please, just ease her pain. Even for a moment.
His hand drew warm. Faint, fragile—like sunlight through clouds. Mina's Breath steadied. The cough quieted. A weak smile bloomed on her lips. "Better," she murmured.
Relief washed over him. "Good. Rest now, I'll bring you bread after the ceremony."
He tucked the blanket around her shoulders, through his heart ached. His gift wasn't a real one yet—just a flicker when emotions surged—but it was enough to soothe. Enough to make him hope.
Suddenly, a boy's voice burst into the dormitory like a firecracker. Toren, fourteen, barrelled in with his wild hair and boundless energy, beaming from ear to ear. "You're still in here? Today's the day! Jeez, don't tell me you're nervous?"
Lith gave him a look. "Maybe...just a little."
"Don't be!" Toren flopped onto his bed like a cat. "Bet you'll awaken something crazy—like fire, or lightning, boom!" He threw his arms wide, nearly knocking over the oil lamp.
Lith chuckled despite himself. "What about you?"
"Obviously something cool. A sword gift, maybe. Imagine—Toren the Thunderblade! Sounds awesome, right?" He puffed his chest, pointing dramatically at Lith. "But hey, I bet you'll still beat me. You always do."
Lith shook his head. He didn't believe that. The truth burned in his gut—he feared the Obelisk would give him nothing.
The bells tolled again. Three times.
"The procession's starting," he murmured, pulling on his robe. It smelled faintly of wax and incense. So old, so mended, it wore its seams like scars.
He glanced back at Mina. "I'll be back soon," he promised.
The streets were alive when they stepped outside. Nobles paraded in silk and jewels. Commoners followed behind, barefoot and wide-eyed. The divide between them was a chasm no bridge could close.
Father Aldric led the orphans with calm authority, his silver hair catching the dawn. Beside him walked Sister Seraphine—gracw in motion, her white habit fluttering like light itself.
Some whispered she was too beautiful for cloistered walls. Lith thought they wrong. It wasn't beauty—it was kindness.
Father Aldric raised his staff. "Children," his voice boomed, "this is not the world's judgment day—it is the gods'. Remember that."
Lith tried to breathe. His stomach twisted anyway.
The town square opened before them—a marble expanse, and at its heart, the Obelisk, an enormous black stone inscribed with the glyphs of ancient runes. It glimmered faintly at its surface, as if stars themselves were trapped within. Next to the Obelisk, the Luminara floated, vying to descend—books of light suspended in the air. Some had said that the Luminara were fragments from the Slumber of Heaven itself, born only when the gods had breathed over the Obelisk.
Crowda pressed in. Nobles in gold. Commoners on tiptoe. Whispers slithered through the air.
"Which house will rise this year?"
"Did you hear that Duke Varlen adopted the Flamebearer from last year?"
"May the gods not waste the breath of the Giftless."
Lith gripped his robe tighter.
The High Preceptor stepped forward. Dressed in white and gold robes, he held a shining jewelled crozier in his hand. "Children of this year's dawn," he proclaimed, "step forth. The obelisk awaits your truth."
The High Preceptor read each child's name in turn from the gilded scroll.
The first child—a noble boy—approached.
FWOOOSH!
A fireball descended from the top of the Luminara. Pages of flames unfurled as the child reached for the burning books. The flames spread around his hands, sparkling, coiling, and intertwining like a python. Cheers erupted from each corner of the square. "A High Gift!"
Next, a girl—lightning cracked, dazzling blue. Another cheer. Another miracle.
Gift after gift. Wind, stone, shadow. Each awakening brighter than the last.
BOOM!
CRASH!
WHOOSH!
The square transformed into a stage of its own.
Then, the orphans' turn.
The square grew quiet.
To nobles, orphans were charity—or investment. Worthless unless touched by brilliance.
The first boy knelt before the Obelisk as it pulsed with light.
HUMMM
The glimmered Luminara emerged and floated down towards him, infused with ancient power. Imprinted on him was the sigil of Steelborn Strength. The audience gasped in astonishment.
"A high gift from an orphan?"
"Great! The House of Damar will surely sponsor him."
Good for him.
The boy's face flushed with stunned pride. Excited murmurs erupted among the audience of nobles as they exchanged delighted glances and calculated their offers.
Then came a girl. She knelt down as well.
WHOOSH!
With a rush of wind, a silvery Luminara swept down on her like a stack of pages fluttering in a book to form wings. Her hands stamped the sigil of Gale. Cheers erupted once again from the audience.
She looks so confident. I envy that— I envy the way the light finds her.
"A rare affinity!"
"She will attract a good offer as well."
The girl looked at the light with bright, glistening eyes full of hope.
Each name chipped away at Lith's composure. Hope thinned into dread.
Until—
"Lith Solis."
The name cracked through the square. Toren grinned and clapped his shoulder. "Come on, you've got his! I'll scream the loudest for you!"
Lith stepped forward, trembling. The obelisk towered over him, its runes glowing softly—cold and vast. He knelt, heart pounding in his ears. "Please," he prayed silently. "Anything... Even the smallest spark."
Then, the obelisk began to stir.
SHHHP
A single Luminara descended—soft green light, like new leaves in spring. A cross of light traced itself in the air—delicate, warm, alive. Healing.
For a moment, there was silence.
Then—
Laugher.
"Healing? That's it?"
"Pathetic."
"A waste."
The words sliced through him. His face burned. His chest ached.
The Luminara sealed its sigil against him. Faint. Gentle. Forgotten.
"Its a Failed Gift," someone spat.
Lith bowed his head. He wished he could vanish.
But then—
Thump.
The sigil pulsed once. Twice. A heartbeat that wasn't his own. Something deeper stirred beneath the shame—a whisper in the light itself.
No one else noticed.
The laughter cut through him like ice. Voices rose—sharp, blunt, and eager to assign blame.
Orphans and nobles a alike clung to the verdict as if it were lifeline, pulling themselves toward safety. The Sanctum's hierarchy loomed over them all; everyone knew where healing ranked on that ladder—useful in charity, worthless in power, a Failed Gift beneath the banners of Divine and High Gifts. That knowledge made their scorn feel justified.
He froze, startled by the cold voice that washed over him.
Priest murmured among themselves. "He's the only Failed Gift. He'll bring misfortune."
Lith's breath hitched. Drive me out? From the church that raised me—just because I'm a Failed Gift?
"He's right. Cast that pest out," another old priest sneered, his eyes hard as flint. "He could be a curse on the orphanage. Better that he's gone than a liability, there's no use keeping him."
Lith felt the sound close in on him until he could no longer feel his own pulse. He could barely breathe. Until, Toren's face hovered in his vision—shocked, unbelieving, with the look of someone who had expected greatness from him. Even Sister Seraphine clutched her chest and stared with pity—a pity that cut deeper than scorn.
Is that how she truly see me? So pitiful?
Father Aldric stepped forward, raising both hands as if to gather their thoughts. "He's just a child," he said, his voice tremulous but steady. "This—this isn't fair to a child who didn't ask for a gift like that, we can keep him here, find him a place in the church—"
"Keep filth in the church?" An elder snapped. "If we keep such filth in the church, it will pose a risk to the children. With the number of orphans rising, don't you think of that, Father Aldric?"
"But isn't healing the very origin of the Saintesses?" Aldric argue. "Healing is rare—if this boy is nurtured—"
"Foolishness! Do not compare him to them! You grow sentimental in your age. To speak as though this child has a future—he is nothing."
Father Aldric's jaw tightened. Sister Seraphine flinched. Toren froze, jaw tight, unable to speak.
"P-please... stop," Lith whispered. Tears burned his eyes before he could hide them.
Then—
"Silence."
The High Preceptor's voice cut through the noise. Calm. Cold. Final.
He gazed down at Lith. "The boy's gift is faint, yet real. The matter will be brought before the Saintess herself. Until then, he remains here." He paused, allowing the weight of his words to settle. "For now, the ceremony is concluded. Let us be grateful for the many blessings the gods have bestowed today—gifts of power and promise, in both noble and orphan alike." His voice softened, then resumed its measured cadence. "And the adoption of will continue."
The tension snapped. The crowd shifted. The ceremony resumed.
Lith remained bowed, the humor of crown washing over him like cold water. Around him, the children rose—some scampering towards patrons who would claim them, others lingering as offers were weighed. Joy and ambition filled their faces; for many a new life began at this very hour.
He bowed his head, shame pressing on his shoulders like lead. On his right hand, the sigil pulsed softly—warm, patient.
He thought of Mina. How do I tell her that her brother might be cast out? That she'll be left alone?
The question burned inside him, sharper than any scorn.