The afternoon sun draped itself lazily across the crest of a small hill, its warmth spilling over the grass that bent gently with every idle breeze. The sky was painted in a broad, endless blue, with only a handful of thin clouds drifting like stray cotton pulled apart by invisible fingers. Laughter, sharp and unrestrained, shattered the stillness of the countryside, spilling down the slope like a song too wild to be contained. Two small figures darted through the field, their light steps scattering petals from wildflowers that had no business blooming so brightly in a place so quiet.
One of the girls stumbled, her tiny shoes catching against a patch of stubborn roots, and she fell with an audible gasp, rolling once on the grass before stopping. She clutched at her knee with exaggerated drama, cheeks puffed out like she had just been betrayed by the earth itself.
The other stopped mid-run, hands on her hips, her hair catching sunlight like strands spun from gold.
"You're so clumsy! Every single time, you trip over nothing."
The girl on the ground squinted at her, trying to suppress the tremor of laughter bubbling beneath her pout.
"No, it wasn't nothing! The ground just… just wanted to fight me!"
A moment of silence passed between them, broken by sudden giggles that spilled out of both mouths until neither could hold in their laughter. They scrambled up, dusting off grass and dirt, before chasing each other once more across the slope, their high-pitched squeals rising above the hum of cicadas hiding somewhere in the distance.
The village spread out beneath them, a small cluster of wooden homes with smoke drifting from chimneys, narrow dirt paths weaving between the houses like veins. Farmers carried bundles of firewood; a pair of children tugged along a bucket of water, spilling half its contents with every lopsided step. From somewhere near the well, a woman waved toward the hill with a raised voice that carried up with startling clarity.
"Be careful! Don't go too far, it's dangerous out there!"
Neither of the girls slowed. They traded glances, giggled again, and ran faster, tiny feet hammering the earth, their lungs burning with the stubborn joy of rebellion. The warnings from below became background noise, faint and unimportant against the thrill of chasing shadows that stretched longer with every passing second.
They darted into the village, the dusty streets puffing small clouds beneath their steps. A chicken scattered away from them, wings flapping noisily, and one of the girls nearly toppled into a stack of firewood, shrieking with laughter as she corrected her balance at the last moment. The other, not about to lose her lead, reached out with outstretched fingers, brushing against her friend's sleeve before pulling back with a triumphant shout.
"Got you! You're it now!"
The first one gasped, hands immediately flailing.
"No! No, you didn't even touch me properly!"
"Yes I did! I did, I did, I totally did!"
Their argument dissolved instantly into another round of chasing, weaving between doorways, ducking past startled villagers, until their laughter seemed to wrap the entire street in a strange, fleeting brightness. And then—just as suddenly as it had begun—the spell broke.
From the steps of the small chapel that stood near the heart of the settlement, a calm yet firm voice cut through their game.
"It's time for lunch, both of you. Come now."
The figure who called them stood framed by the open doors of the chapel, her simple attire marked by a white veil that glowed faintly under the sunlight. Her tone carried no anger, only a gentle insistence that made the girls freeze mid-stride. For a moment they exchanged quick glances, breaths still uneven, cheeks red from running. Then, like a secret agreement passed without words, they let their laughter soften into smiles.
Together they turned, walking side by side toward the chapel. The village behind them resumed its rhythm: voices of merchants at the corner, the clatter of pots, the distant bark of a dog. Yet for the girls, the game's echo still lingered inside their chests—an echo of innocence unbothered by warnings, unbroken by time, unknowing of what awaited them far beyond that quiet afternoon.
And high on the hill, where wildflowers trembled beneath the wind, their laughter seemed to linger long after their small figures had disappeared.
The chapel doors creaked softly as the two girls pushed them open, the faint scent of old wood and candle wax curling out into the bright air behind them. Inside, light filtered through the high windows in pale beams, casting the long wooden benches in stripes of gold. Several children had already gathered, their chatter filling the space like the buzzing of restless sparrows.
At the very front, standing with arms crossed and a pout tugging stubbornly at her small lips, a tiny girl with sharp eyes stomped one foot against the stone floor.
"You two again! Always running off together, never asking me to come with you!"
Her cheeks puffed, strands of her short dark hair sticking out wildly as if even her own body was conspiring to share her annoyance. She was Gao Lingyun, and her voice carried enough bite to make it sound like she was ready for a fight.
The two girls, still flushed from their earlier game, exchanged quick glances before bursting into quiet chuckles.
"Sorry, sorry, Lingyun. We didn't mean to leave you out."
"Yeah, next time we'll drag you with us no matter what."
Lingyun squinted, hands on her tiny hips, but the faint twitch at the corner of her lips betrayed how quickly her anger softened when they laughed like that.
From one of the benches, a boy lifted his head without looking up fully, his round spectacles catching the glint of sunlight. In one hand he held a book almost too large for his age, fingers curled protectively around its spine. He pushed the glasses higher onto his nose and spoke in a tone far too serious for someone so small.
"Do you even know? According to this, there are records that a person can have not just one, but three types of Pacta. Only three in history have ever been noted with such a gift. It says here it's so rare it's practically impossible."
He leaned forward eagerly, pointing a stubby finger at a page filled with hand-drawn sigils and cramped notes.
"Can you imagine it? Three types, all at once… That would make them stronger than any other Astraga wielder alive."
The two girls tilted their heads, curiosity sparking, though neither could follow the full weight of his words. One of them whispered, half teasing, half bewildered:
"You always read things we don't even understand, Haoran."
Before the bookworm could retort, a taller boy—only taller by a few inches, yet it felt like leagues compared to the rest of them—slouched casually against the doorframe as if he had been waiting there the whole time. His presence carried no sharpness, no irritation, just an easy calm that settled the room like ripples fading on water.
"You're back, finally. The whole place's been too quiet without your noise."
He offered them a small, amused smile, brushing dust from his sleeve with a lazy flick of his hand.
"Yanqi," one of the girls said with a grin, "we weren't gone that long."
"Long enough," he replied in that same steady, unhurried way.
The chatter swelled again around them—Lingyun still muttering under her breath about being left out, Haoran bending over his book to underline something with his finger, Yanqi watching it all with calm detachment. And in the middle of it, the two girls, still carrying the remnants of their laughter from the hill, slid into the warmth of that little world within the chapel, unaware of how fragile it all truly was.
The wooden floor groaned faintly under a scatter of small feet as the children made their way toward the long dining table, their chatter spilling ahead of them like the rumble of a stream tumbling down stones. The table stretched across the hall, its surface polished smooth by years of use, the benches already waiting for them in a neat row. The two girls slipped into place among the others, shoulders brushing, their cheeks still rosy from the run back.
From the far end of the hall, a nun in a pale habit stepped forward, her hands folded neatly before her, her presence quiet yet commanding in its simplicity. Her voice carried with a gentleness that floated above the restless hum of the children.
"Today's meal," she announced softly, "is corn soup."
A ripple of groans surged instantly down the table.
"Corn soup again?"
"That's three times this week…"
"I can't eat another spoon of that!"
The disappointed voices tumbled over one another, a chorus of childish protests filling the air. Some of the younger ones dropped their heads against the table in exaggerated despair, while others poked at invisible bowls as though tasting the monotony already.
Before their complaints could grow any louder, a shadow loomed at the side of the hall, cutting through the chatter with the sheer weight of her presence. Another nun stepped forward—broad-shouldered, towering, her veil barely disguising the hard lines of her face. Her voice thundered across the room like iron striking stone.
"Enough!"
The room fell still at once. Even the smallest creak of benches seemed too loud under her gaze. She was Sister Ruyue, and when she spoke, every child felt the weight of her tone press against their ribs.
"You'll eat what you're given," she declared, her voice low and rumbling, each word carved with sharp edges. "Supplies are short. Right now, corn is what we have. That means corn soup is what you'll get. No more whining."
Her eyes swept the table, sharp as a hawk's, daring anyone to speak against her.
For a breathless moment, silence stretched. Then, like puppets pulled by the same string, the children straightened in their seats and nodded quickly, murmuring soft acknowledgments.
"Yes, Sister Ruyue…"
"Of course, Sister Ruyue…"
No one dared to complain again. Even Gao Lingyun, usually fierce with her words, shrank slightly in her chair, her lips pressed into a thin line as she tried not to look directly at the nun.
With the thunder of her warning still hanging in the air, bowls were placed one by one along the table, steam rising in pale wisps from the surface of the familiar golden soup. The children, cowed but obedient, lifted their spoons without another word, the only sound now the soft clinking of wood against ceramic.
The girl sat at the long wooden table, her small hands wrapped tightly around the rim of the bowl, steam curling upward from the pale corn soup. The others around her chattered between reluctant spoonfuls, their voices weaving a faint chorus of childish sighs and half-hidden grumbles. Sister Isolde moved quietly between them, her veil swaying with each measured step as she offered the occasional word of comfort, while Sister Ruyue lingered nearby like a looming wall of iron, her broad figure casting an unspoken warning against further complaints.
Yet the girl barely tasted the food on her tongue. Each spoonful felt heavy, dull, as though her body ate out of habit while her mind drifted far away. Her gaze wandered along the table, studying her companions: Lingyun, still sulking but obediently chewing; Haoran, hunched protectively over his book even while lifting his spoon; Yanqi, calm as ever, his presence steady like the roots of an old tree. The scene was ordinary, safe, even warm.
Her jaw slowed. The rhythm of her chewing faltered until her mouth simply stopped moving. The world around her seemed to blur at the edges, the golden soup in her bowl rippling though no hand had touched it. Somewhere, faintly, a whisper stirred at the edge of her hearing.
Wake up…
She blinked, spoon hovering near her lips. Her eyes darted sideways. The children still ate, Sister Isolde still smiled gently, Sister Ruyue's stern presence still loomed. And yet—there it was again, the sound, clearer this time, crawling across her skin like invisible fingers.
Wake up…
Her breath caught. The room's color seemed to darken, the glow of the candles stretching into long, unnatural shadows. The whisper swelled, pressing harder against her ears, until her chest tightened and her heartbeat hammered loud enough to drown out even her own thoughts.
Suddenly, the air shifted. Heat surged across her face, the kind that prickled and stung. She blinked again—only this time, the chapel hall was no longer what it had been. Flames licked across the walls, black smoke curling upward to choke the rafters. The once-orderly benches were splintered, overturned, some already smoldering. And everywhere, on the floor, on the table, smeared against the walls—red. The deep, unmistakable stain of blood.
Her spoon clattered noisily into the bowl. She didn't notice. Her eyes were wide, burning, refusing to look away though every instinct begged her to close them. Her chest rose and fell in sharp, uneven gasps.
She turned—just slightly—and the world collapsed in on itself.
Beside her, the girl who had laughed with her on the hill, who had raced her through the dusty paths of the village, who had smiled and promised to never leave her side—sat motionless. Crimson pooled across her lap, streaking down the bench, dripping to the floor in slow, steady trails. Her small hands lay limp. Her lips were parted, no laughter left, no breath. And her eyes—those eyes that had always met hers so brightly—stared glassy and lifeless, unblinking, empty.
The breath caught in her throat like a shard of glass. Her fingers trembled violently as her entire body recoiled from the sight. She couldn't hear the chatter of her friends anymore. She couldn't hear the scrape of spoons, the footsteps of the nuns. Only the racing thunder of her own pulse beating erratically against her ribs.
Wake up…
The whisper grew louder, layered with urgency, with command, no longer soft but striking against her skull like a bell tolling too close to her ears.
WAKE UP.
Her hands pressed to her temples, her teeth clenched, her chest heaving as the world wavered between burning ruin and fragile normality. Panic seized her lungs, crushing, suffocating, and she felt her vision splinter as tears blurred the carnage before her.
Her heart crashed wildly against her ribs, each beat sharp and erratic, as though it might shatter apart at any second. Fear clawed at her insides, twisting until she felt she might break, until the weight of it all threatened to hurl her into the dark, until her mind screamed for escape.
The voice thundered once more, louder than the flames, louder than her own breathless sobs, tearing through every corner of her consciousness.
Wake up.
And in that moment, trembling on the edge of collapse, she could no longer tell if she was awake or drowning in a nightmare too vivid to escape.