Chapter 1 - Another Day at the Orphanage

  "Syrin! Come back here right now!"Sister Faela’s voice rang out down the long, worn corridor, bouncing off the ancient stones like a bell.

  Bare feet slapped against the cool floor as Syrin raced away, his small frame a blur of ash-blond hair and wild giggles.The morning sun streamed through tall, narrow windows, laying bands of pale light across the dusty stones. Syrin leapt through them like a fox chasing the sun.

  Behind him, Sister Faela gathered up her skirts in one hand and hurried after him, breathing harder with each step.

  Syrin darted past the kitchen and skidded to a sudden stop, the rich, yeasty smell of fresh bread grabbing his full attention.His stomach rumbled, loud enough to make him giggle again. For a moment, he forgot all about escaping.

  That moment was enough.

  Strong hands seized him by the back of his tunic and hoisted him lightly into the air.

  "Got you," Sister Faela said, puffing out a breath as she set him firmly back down.

  Syrin looked up at her with wide, innocent green eyes, the picture of wounded virtue."I wasn’t running," he insisted. "I was... smelling."

  Sister Faela tried to keep a stern face, but the corners of her mouth betrayed her with a smile."Mmm-hmm," she said, half-laughing, half-scolding. "Class first. Bread later. And maybe, just maybe, a second piece if you sit still today."

  Syrin’s face lit up as if she had promised him the moon.

  The classroom was a narrow stone room tucked into the church’s side wing. It was cold in the mornings, with uneven benches and a small hearth that smoked more than it warmed. There were no toys, no chalkboard, no shelves lined with stories. Only a single wooden pedestal at the front, and upon it, the only book in the entire church — the Bible, thick and bound in cracked leather.

  Syrin wriggled into his spot on the far end of a rough-hewn bench, legs too short to reach the floor, his feet swinging slowly back and forth.

  Sister Faela stood near the hearth, hands folded in front of her. Her voice, when she began, was calm and clear.

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  "The Creator made the world and all that fills it," she said. "The rivers and stones, the trees and the sun, the beasts of the field and the birds of the sky. And us. He gave us food and warmth, breath and thought — everything we need to live."

  She stepped toward the pedestal, resting one hand gently atop the book.

  "This is the only book we have. And it tells us of His grace. The Church teaches us how to live rightly — with kindness, with order, and with work that honors the gifts we’ve been given. That is why we gather, why we sing, why we serve."

  Syrin blinked slowly. He liked the sound of her voice, even if he didn’t understand every word. It made the stones feel softer somehow.

  He glanced toward the narrow window. A tiny sparrow landed on the ledge, its feathers puffed against the cold. It peered in curiously.

  Syrin smiled without thinking.

  The bird chirped once, then flitted away.

  He turned his attention back to Sister Faela. She had opened the book now, though she did not read from it — not directly. She spoke slowly, gently, repeating the old stories passed from memory: the mountains lifted from sea, the stars scattered by the Creator’s hand, the first breath gifted to the first soul.

  And Syrin sat still for longer than usual, listening.

  After lessons came chores.The children swept hallways, carried firewood, washed the morning dishes in cold, soapy water. Syrin was sent to the garden behind the kitchens, where the last of the winter cabbages waited to be turned under.

  He liked the garden best.The cats didn’t scratch him. The birds didn’t fly away as quickly. The soil felt soft under his fingers, even when it clung to his nails.

  No one made much of it.Some children were just lucky that way, the Sisters said.

  By sunset, the children were called to chapel.The nave was cold, its stone pillars casting long shadows in the candlelight. The windows, tall and narrow, held colored glass that shimmered in red and gold as the sun slipped down.

  They knelt on thin cushions. The air smelled of old wax and worn incense.

  Sister Faela led the evening hymn, her voice steady as the children joined in.

  "The Creator watches all things," she said afterward."He made the world, and we care for it in His name. Let your sleep be peaceful. Tomorrow, we rise again to serve."

  That night, the children curled together beneath thin blankets.Syrin found his usual spot near the wall, where a small window showed only a sliver of sky.

  He pulled his small, thin blanket tightly around himself, tucking it under his chin. The fabric smelled faintly of smoke and old soap, but it was warm enough.

  He stared up at the faint stars through the cloudy glass, his eyelids growing heavier with each passing moment.

  No dreams of magic. No thoughts of destiny.

  Just the quiet promise of bread in the morning.

  And maybe, if he remembered to sit still, a second piece.

  Sleep found him quickly, wrapped in the simple peace of another day gone by.