The dawn over Moonshard ridge lay thin and cold, a pale ribbon of light threaded between gullies of silver pines. In the little village at the mountain's foot, the branch sanctuary of the Moon Goddess smelled of incense, wet stone, and the faint tang of Aether drifting off from the Echo Stones in the inner hall. Children gathered like swallowed birds — small faces bright with hope or strung tight with fear — all waiting for the same hush: the hour of Resonance.
Bai Yinfeng stood at the end of the line with his hands jammed deep into the sleeves of a coat that had once been better. He was ten, slight of shoulder but with a grin that cut through early-morning gloom like a lantern. Around him crowded the other orphans from Lyria Home: Gao the freckled daredevil, Mei with hair too long for her age, and three others who monopolised the sanctuary's nervous laughter. Their palms sweated; their knees bounced; their breath came thin with the weight of wanting.
Bai only watched the steam rise off his breath and thought of one thing: fun. Resonance, for him, was not some dread fate. It was another ticket to mischief. If the world measured worth in bloodlines and banners, he would answer with jokes and pranks and the kind of stubborn cheer that refused to let shame settle on a hungry child.
At the dais, the attendant priest from the branch, Lao Ming, moved like a man who understood both ceremony and the frailty of small hopes. The old man's robes were patched on the inside with careful hands, his hair a peppered sweep, his eyes clear and steady. He had overseen more than a hundred awakenings. He knew how Aether tested a soul and how a child could become a legend — or a cautionary tale.
"Bai Yinfeng," Lao Ming intoned when the line dwindled and the moment came. His voice was not harsh; it was the sound of someone calling a name because names must be answered.
Bai stepped forward with the easy confidence of a child who had already decided the world would not frighten him today. "Present and accounted for, old mister," he said, tipping an imaginary hat. "Try not to turn me into a thunderstorm, yeah? I've got laundry to do."
A ripple of nervous laughter passed through the onlookers. Lao Ming allowed the corner of his mouth to lift. "Come then. Steady heart, young wind. Let the Aether speak."
The Ritual of Awakening in the branch was humble compared to the great temples: an Echo Crystal nested in an Aether bowl, the smooth face of the Moonstone, a circle of salt, and three candles that burned with an almost-blue flame. After the offerings were laid, Lao Ming guided Bai's palms to the Echo Crystal; his fingers were warm, and his encouragement softer than the ritual incantations.
"Close your eyes. Breathe as if you are smiling at the night itself," the old man coached. "The world listens."
Bai breathed. He imagined himself performing for a crowd — laughter, applause, the little jolt of surprise when a joke landed. He felt, absurdly, at ease. The crystal warmed beneath his hands, a cool that was not chill but a current that tickled under the skin. Around them, the air grew thin and bright; incense threads of Aether unfurled and took the morning like a veil.
It began as a whisper: the Echo Crystal searching, the Aether mapping the hollows of his spirit. Lao Ming's chant droned at the edge of hearing, a cradle for possibility. The light braided itself into a ring, then tightened, then blossomed into a pale, focused column before Bai's chest. He felt it test him like a fingertip on a pulse.
When the column swelled, the congregation inhaled as one. The light thickened, and for a heart-beat the world felt like a spoonful of starlight.
Then the light broke and, to the general surprise, something thin and creaking stepped out from within it: a skeleton. Not a rote specter of some martial epic, no grand halo or roiling flame; just ribs that clicked when it shifted, a skull that bobbed as if puzzled to be alive. It wore no armor, bore no crest, and gave off a faint, dry rustle like paper being softly rifled.
The murmur in the hall tilted toward a polite disappointment. Lao Ming's brows knitted; the man had seen phantasms of terror and marvel, beasts of thunder and blades of living bronze. This was… modest.
He laid a hand over Bai's and drew on the Echo Crystal. "We shall test for lineage," Lao Ming said, both habit and hope in his voice. The priest's tools — inked plates and a paper gauge — measured the current, sought the faint patterns of bloodline. The instruments hummed. The Echo Crystal glowed faint, then dimmed in a silence that tasted like rain. The paper stayed blank.
"No trace of noble line," Lao Ming reported, gentle but factual. "Your Martial Echo, child… it is ordinary. It is a summon-type — a skeletal cluster; primary summon plus three lesser attendants. It is… modest talent."
There it was: the verdict the village had waited for. Some children smiled at the mention of "summon," imagining beasts and glory. Others slumped. Around them, the gossip wheels spun; teachers exchanged sympathetic looks. In the world of banners and birthright, "modest" read like a quiet condemnatory sentence.
Bai Yinfeng blinked as though hearing the words in a language that did not concern him. Then he laughed—full and bright and without a single thread of shame.
"Well then," he said, looking at the frail skeleton as if at a comrade-in-arms who had been shown up by a weak tea. "Welcome, Bones. I hope you like pie. And pranks. Mostly pranks, to be honest."
The skeleton tilted its skull once. Its jaw clicked in an imitation of a smile that made a few of the younger children giggle despite themselves. Even Lao Ming could not help the faint amusement that crossed his face.
That night, the orphanage was a flurry of stewed cabbage and candlelight. The courtyard smelled of old wood and new hope. After the others had eaten, Bai excused himself with a conspiratorial wink and led the way to the narrow back alley where no one watched too close.
He placed his palms again over the Echo Crystal he had been given to keep that day — a small, palm-sized shard that had not the grandeur of temple crystals but hummed faintly with borrowed light. The shard warmed, as if remembering the morning. Between Bai's fingers, the same dry breath of Aether sighed, and the bones shimmered into being.
Three small skeletons clattered to their knees, dust falling like flour from their ribcages. The largest of them — the one from the temple — stood in front, head cocked, as obliging and ridiculous as a marionette fashioned from twigs.
Bai crouched and regarded them with proud, exaggerated solemnity. "You lot," he whispered, "are officially Club Mischief. First order of business: fetch more biscuits. Second order: scare Gao at dawn. Third order: practice dramatic posing. Very important."
At the sound of his voice, the skeletons shuffled in obedient, ridiculous formation. One reached out a skeletal hand and picked at the hem of Bai's sleeve as if curious about the fabric. The touch was dry, papery, and somehow harmless.
Across the courtyard, Mei peered from a shuttered window and stifled a laugh. The orphans, who had spent the day watching the altar with held breath, now watched a child whispering plans to his summoned bones, and the precarious world of their morning ceremony seemed to tilt — not into despair, but toward a reckless, contagious warmth.
Bai Yinfeng lay back on the worn wooden steps, skeletons listless around him like odd, quiet toys. He did not think of banners or bloodlines. He thought of the small, bright schematics of mischief that floated through his mind: the long prank that would end in a borrowed tea tray exploding in a cloud of glitter, the midnight race across the courtyard with a skeleton as a klutzy steed, the jokes he would tell to keep cold nights from turning sour.
If Aether had chosen this for him, so be it. There were worse gifts to be given than bones and the faithful company of a few dry-handed summons. In the thin moonlight, where the temple bells still sighed on the wind, Bai Yinfeng smiled and made plans — the kind only a boy who believed in laughter could make— and for once the world, small and brittle as it was, answered with a faint, obliging echo.