Days have passed, and now I stand before the church in Osyrra. A blessing ceremony is about to begin.
"Don't wander off," Priya tells me. She's shorter and younger than I am, yet inside these walls, she guides me with quiet authority.
"You need to kneel at the front—and whatever you do, don't meet their eyes," she adds.
We both wear plain white linen dresses, each with a ring of flowers tied around the wrist. Helene made them for us.
Only those seeking a blessing may enter. Raphael waits outside; though born to a noble house, he lacks the mana needed to manifest, and so the doors remain closed to him.
The nave holds its breath as we slip inside. Smoke of cedar and lavender curls toward the rafters, soft as morning mist. At the far end, the Kaliki lifts a crystal staff, and pale light flows from the stone like milk into water.
A gong speaks—one round note that settles in my bones. We kneel on cool marble, palms open, heads low. Priya's fingers brush my wrist, making sure the flower band is still whole.
"Offer your heart," the kaliki calls, voice gentle but ringing clear. "Let it bloom."
The floor seems to hum. Around us, faint colors rise—pink, green, copper—each glow the secret breath of its bearer. I draw a slow breath, open the quiet door inside my chest, and silver-blue light drifts out, wrapping my shoulders like a shy cloak. The petals on my band shine back, moonlit even in daylight.
Gasps rustle through the pews. Light rises from Priya's form—soft gold laced with green, no brighter than the others before her. It casts a gentle sheen across the acolytes' bowed faces. She trembles, but holds her place.
An elder steps forward with a small copper seal. He presses it to my brow. The metal chills, then warms; a faint click sounds; and the seal's light sinks into my flowers, etching a crescent within a ring. I am seen. I am accepted.
When the seal touches Priya's skin, a quiet glow pulses outward, steady and even. No sparks. No fanfare. The kaliki's gaze lingers, unreadable, before she nods once and turns away.
Outside, Raphael paces under the archway. I feel his hope and hurt in every boot scrape. Born noble, yet shut out for lack of mana, his path stops at the door.
A second gong answers the first, deeper, closing the rite. Our lights fold back inside us, leaving only a soft tingling, a memory on the skin. The great doors open. Daylight pours in, scattering the incense haze like startled birds. We stand, petals fluttering, and step into the square.
Raphael greets us with a lopsided grin. "You're glowing," he says, half-laugh, half-wonder.
Before I can speak, a man in scarlet cuffs appears. His gaze settles on the emblem shining through my petals, then on Priya's bright hands.
"The crown sends riders," he says quietly. "They will wish for words with you."
He turns, cloak trailing, and is gone.
Raphael lets out a low whistle. Royal riders. That's news."
Priya and I trade a glance—half fear, half fire. The bells over Osyrra begin to ring, slow and sure, counting out the steps of a future we can't yet see. And in their echo I feel it: something has shifted, simple as breath, vast as dawn.
The bells had long fallen silent. Night swept gently over Osyrra's square, and the petals from our wristbands—now wilted—clung to corners of the fountain and gutters, forgotten by the wind.
By morning, the square had changed. The sunlight rippled lazily over the river beyond the bridge, casting gold across the cobblestones. Market stalls stirred to life, and baker's steam curled into the air like incense.
Priya and I stood at the edge of the square, our breath caught not from running now, but from the heaviness of waiting.
Then he returned. The man with scarlet cuffs.
His boots struck the earth in that same unwavering rhythm as the day before, as though no time had passed. In his gloved hands he bore a roll of pale vellum, bound in wax with the crown's crescent-ring.
He halted before us. The seal gleamed—untouched, unmarred.
"For the chosen of the First Light," he proclaimed, his voice solemn and sure. Then, before the gathering townsfolk, he broke the seal and unfurled the scroll:
"By the will and patronage of Kalihi Darius of the Provinces, entry is granted to the Sancta Lycra of Orion. Instruction, quarters, and humble provision shall be afforded. The Saintess watches with favor those who walk the path of Light. Departure is at dawn. Should you accept, be ready."
He lowered the scroll. "Do you go?"
My heart flutters like a caged sparrow. Orion City. A place of high towers and stargazers' domes, where the heavens are read like scripture. I turn to Priya. Her eyes shimmer like riverlight, though her hands cannot keep still.
Raphael stands beside us. I hear the whisper of his sword hilt brushing his belt. There is no seat for him within those sacred halls—the crown calls only for those with mana. Still, he lifts his head.
"I will ride as their guard," he says. "If it please the crown."
The messenger regards him a moment, then gives a single nod. "One escort may ride at royal cost. You shall serve."
We hurry through the late-afternoon streets to Helene's shop. Thread and herb bundles hang from the ceiling, and the air smells of mint and fresh dye.
"So soon?" Helene gasps when she hears the news. Without another word, she pulls out rolls of sky-blue cloth. Her scissors flash; stitches fly. By sunset, she hands us cloaks the color of early morning. Inside every hem, she tucks a sprig of sage and a pinch of salt.
"For safe steps and clear minds," she says, pressing the bundles into our hands. She kisses our cheeks, even Raphael's, then shoos us toward the door before tears can form.
Twilight paints the rooftops in copper. We cross the old stone bridge and watch the river catch the last light. Osyrra's towers glow behind us; Orion's promise burns low on the horizon where the first stars wake.
Raphael. "Whatever waits there," he says, "we face it together."
We link fingers over the curve of the bridge. The river runs under us, steady and sure, a song about moving on.
Night falls over the city. In a quiet room above the inn's stables, we pack by candlelight.I tuck a quill, a tiny bottle of ink, and the copper seal from the blessing into my bag. Raphael checks the edge of his sword and oils the worn leather grip.
When all is ready, we climb to the rooftop. Stars scatter across the sky—sharp, silver, endless. Among them shines the crescent and ring, the same shape stamped upon our petals. It feels like a sign and a weight at once.
"Orion lies beneath that band of light," Raphael murmurs.
Somewhere below, a single bell tolls the hour, slow and deep. With the sound, I feel the city slipping behind us, step by step, like a tide drawing back.
Dawn.
Hooves thrum on the cobbles as the crown's riders gather by the east gate. Their banners—crimson and silver—snap in the cool wind. Our new cloaks swirl around our ankles, and saffron light washes the rooftops.
The messenger from yesterday waits atop a tall grey horse. He lifts a hand. "Scholar," he calls, smiling for the first time, "the road to Orion opens."
We mount borrowed mares, Raphael calm as stone. I look once more at Osyrra's spires, softened by morning mist. The bells begin to ring, bright and clear, carrying wishes, warnings, maybe both.
I breathe in the scent of sage sewn into my cloak. "Ready?" Raphael asks.
"Yes."
The column moves. The city walls slide past, and fields spread green and open ahead. Somewhere far east, Orion City gleams like a thought not yet spoken. We ride toward it, hearts loud in our chests, leaving petals to scatter behind like a trail of light.
And as the road unwinds beneath us, I sense the first line of a new chapter writing itself with every hoofbeat—simple, sure, and shining.
Dawn stains the sky peach as we ride east, leaving Osyrra's walls shrinking behind us. Sorin—our scarlet-cuffed guide now wrapped in a plain travel coat—sets a patient pace, hooves clicking like a metronome on the white road. Barley fields lean toward the morning sun; farmers lift caps when they spot our flower bands, murmuring blessings of the First Light.
Raphael keeps to my right, loose in the saddle yet watchful, fingers never far from the worn hilt of his sword. From time to time, he tilts his head, listening beyond birdsong for the snap of a branch that doesn't belong. I jot these small moments in my journal, letters wobbling with each trot.
Sorin fills the miles with stories of Orion City—glass domes that track the stars, libraries where books float on currents of light, bells that ring only when a new idea is born.
By noon, the sun is bright enough. We stop at a willow-lined creek, horses lowering their heads to drink. Sorin drops a fresh stem of mint into the water. "Safe crossings," he says, an old road charm. We sit on flat stones and share travel bread sweetened with honey.
Raphael unwraps a tin flute, breathes a tune soft as rain on rooftops. Priya sketches him quickly and sure, charcoal racing across her page. When she shows the likeness, Raphael's cheeks darken, but he bows all the same, as though she had knighted him. Laughter settles over us like warm shade.
Afternoon shadows stretch long when the road narrows into Hollow Bend—a corridor of tangled oaks and crumbling stone walls. The air feels different here, cool and still, the silence too deep. Sorin raises a hand; we slow.
A whistle cuts the quiet. Shapes slip from the trees—three, four, five men with rust-spotted blades and greedy eyes. Bandits. Their leader grins, revealing a tooth like iron. "Scholars ride rich," he says. "We'll be taking tithe."
Raphael nudges his horse forward, voice calm. "There's nothing here but books and bread." His hand rests on his sword, not yet drawing.
I feel the First Light stir inside me—cool, bright, ready—but Sorin speaks first. "Provincial Kaliki Darius sponsors these riders," he says, lifting his travel papers high. "Rob us and you steal from his purse."
The name lands like a thrown stone. The leader's grin falters; whispers run among his men. No one wants Darius on their heels. With a spit and a curse, they fade into the trees as silently as they came.
We breathe again. Sorin tips an invisible hat to Raphael. "Steel is fine," he says, "but a well-placed name can end a fight before it starts."
The sun slips toward evening gold. We crest a ridge, and the land beyond rolls out wide and green, dotted with distant farm lights. Sorin points east where the horizon gleams faintly against the gathering dusk. "Orion," he says. "Another three days if the weather holds."
That night, we camped beneath a sky spilling stars. The crescent-ring constellation glows overhead—the same shape stamped on our petals. Priya traces it with a finger, whispering, "Almost there."
Raphael feeds the fire, sparks swirling up like promises. I close my journal, lie back on cool grass, and let the road's rhythm echo in my bones. Ahead waits the Divine Academy, halls where light and learning braid together. Behind us, Malton's bells are only a memory.
Sleep steals in, quiet as dew, and in the hush between heartbeats, I feel it again: the First Light, steady in my chest, guiding us onward one slow, shining mile at a time.