The morning sunbeams, thick and golden as honey, streamed through the dusty window of their room, raising myriad dancing specks of dust into the air. Waking up at the "Old Pine" orphanage was an unshakeable rule, but on Sundays after breakfast came that rare time that belonged entirely to them. No cleaning, no lessons, no mandatory work in the garden. Just them and their small, secret worlds, into which they immersed themselves with special reverence.
First, as always, Kaedan got up. His red hair was tousled, and his orange eyes held their usual determination. He stretched silently, feeling every muscle, and his gaze met those of his friends. Without words, it was understood: time to go. While the other orphanage children lazily milled about the yard or gathered in groups for games, the four of them dispersed, like a well-rehearsed patrol, each to their own secret hideout.
Kaedan crept like a hunter around the main building and ducked into the narrow passage between the woodshed and the old stone pantry. This place he called his "training ground." Here, on the mossy stones of the back yard, no one could see him. He closed his eyes, sinking into himself. At first, there was just a slight tingling in his palms, barely perceptible, like numbness. Then the air around his hands trembled, shimmered, and the ghostly but dense stone bracers appeared on them. They were rough, covered in small cracks like ancient basalt, and lay heavily on his wrists. He didn't strike them against the wall, didn't smash anything—today he was learning to hold. Two drops of sweat rolled down his temples as he, gritting his teeth, forced the form not to blur, but to remain clear. He knew he wasn't looking into emptiness. His gaze flickered for a second to the narrow window on the second floor, where three silhouettes were barely visible. Ulvia, Gil, and Dur. They were watching him, his personal guard, his main and only audience. Their invisible support gave him the strength to push on, beyond the growing fatigue.
A little later, Gil sat cross-legged on the cool floor by the cherished bookshelf. It wasn't a library, more a storehouse of knowledge gathered bit by bit: a few tattered volumes on geography, a thick book of laws with faded ink, a collection of folk tales, and a couple of religious tracts. But for Gil, it was a portal to other universes. Today she wasn't reading, but creating. In front of her lay a sheet of coarse gray paper, acquired by some unknown means, and with imperturbable concentration, she was tracing fine lines on it. This was her "Great Map of the Unexplored." She marked the north with the sign of "Hammer and Anvil," drawing schematic snow-capped peaks. The south was adorned with whimsical trees, labeled by her as "Ulvia's Singing Forests." In the west, towers rose, resembling stacks of books. And in the east... in the east, she left a blank, only drawing a few wavy lines and placing a question mark. She wasn't just copying—she was connecting real scraps of knowledge with fantastic bridges, creating the world as it could be.
Ulvia, at that moment, was in her personal paradise—a tiny patch of ground, no bigger than a blanket, by the eastern wall of the orphanage. She had begged for it from Miss Elira herself, dug it over herself, and planted it. Now it bloomed with cheerful marigolds, modest daisies, and bluebells, nodding their heads in the morning breeze. For Ulvia, this wasn't just a flowerbed. Each plant was a person. "Hang in there, little one," she'd whisper, tying a drooping daisy stem to a stake. "You need more water today, you're the fullest one," she'd address the marigolds, carefully pouring water from a little watering can Kaedan had made from an old tin. Her fingers, covered in soil, moved with tenderness, and a happy, focused smile played on her face. In this micro-world, there was no cruelty, loneliness, or fear. Here she was a goddess creating life, not an orphan awaiting her fate.
And at this time, in the coolest and quietest room of the orphanage, which smelled of bread and dried herbs, Dur was setting up pieces on a wooden board. His opponent, as every Sunday, was Aunt Marina, the elderly caretaker with kind, intelligent eyes. "Well, hero, are you going to show me your famous triple trap today?" she winked, moving a simple checker. Dur just nodded, his attention already fully absorbed by the game. Checkers for him was not entertainment, but a silent battle of intellects. He didn't just move; he calculated, sacrificed pieces to gain a decisive advantage in two moves. His blue eyes, usually slightly clouded by an undefined fear, were now clear and sharp. Aunt Marina was his quiet teacher. "Strength isn't in breaking things, but in seeing one step ahead," she'd once said, and Dur remembered those words. In this game, his fear receded, giving way to calm confidence.
When the sun had risen high, casting short shadows, their rituals came to an end. Kaedan, with temples wet from sweat but with a sense of accomplishment, emerged from his hiding place. Gil carefully rolled up her map and hid it in a secret crevice behind the shelf. Ulvia, satisfied, brushed the earth from her palms. Dur, with a barely perceptible smile, ended the game in a draw—the highest achievement against Aunt Marina.
They met at lunch, as usual, as a foursome. No one asked in detail how the morning had gone. There was no need. The tiredness, yet satisfaction in Kaedan's eyes; the mysterious gleam in Gil's eyes; the faint traces of earth on Ulvia's fingers; and the unusual calm in Dur's posture—all this was more eloquent than any words. Their silent understanding at that moment was stronger than any oath. These little rituals weren't just hobbies. They were a quiet preparation, a training of the spirit before the great exodus they all felt approaching with inexorable force.