Pale light filtered through a low veil of ash that hung like a mourning shroud over Oria's outer ring. The slums, already worn by time and neglect, now bore the fresh scars of fire and death. Roofs had collapsed like paper, beams blackened and snapped, and the air still trembled faintly with the heat of what had been.
They came as the sun rose higher—responders in blue-and-gray uniforms, marked by the crest of the Church of the Divine Shield. Their armor was dull, reinforced with soot-stained plates, and their boots moved with practiced rhythm over the broken stones. Silent. Efficient. Tired.
Not because they had seen too much—but because they had expected this.
Oria's outer ring wasn't supposed to attract dungeons.
It wasn't supposed to matter.
Now, even the churches could not look away.
They combed through the remains with discipline: removing bodies, searching for signs of residual mana, cordoning off collapsed structures. A Divine Librarian with circular glasses and white-gloved hands waved her fingers over a pile of debris, watching as faint threads of energy coiled into her instruments.
"Residual scar signature," she murmured. "Not natural. This one was forced open."
Others glanced her way. But none of them looked surprised.
A makeshift command tent had been set up near the old bakery—what was left of it—and from there the whispers began to spread. It wasn't just Oria. Other low-density cities had reported tremors. Flickers. Failures in barrier wards.
Dungeons were surfacing in heightened frequencies.
Their presence, no longer subtle.
⸻
By the second morning, the funerals began.
The orphanage children were buried in the old patch of dirt behind the east chapel. A quiet affair—no priests, no rites, just the matron and the survivors. There were only a handful now.
Each child was buried with a stone, flat and whitewashed, with their name scratched by hand.
Koda watched in silence from the back of the hill, his arms crossed tightly over his chest. His borrowed tunic was stained now, his pants torn at the knees. He hadn't changed. He hadn't spoken much either.
Maia stood beside him. She still bore healing bandages across her forearms, but the bruises on her cheek had begun to fade. She hadn't let go of his hand since the fire.
When the last name was read, the matron—her voice cracked from grief and smoke—touched the top of the shovel, leaned into it, and stayed there a long while.
Koda looked at the children's graves and said nothing.
He'd always imagined leaving Oria with some ceremony. With achievement. Respect.
Instead, he now suspected he would leave because there was nothing left.
⸻
"Why haven't they asked what happened?" Maia asked quietly later, her voice like wind through brittle leaves.
"They know," Koda replied.
He sat on the same bridge where he'd hidden the night before the awakening, his legs dangling over the side, Maia seated beside him.
She blinked. "How?"
"The slums burned. People died. But not all of us. I think that's enough of a headline."
She frowned, turning to study his face. The light in his eyes was different now. Sharper. Softer, somehow, but focused.
"Your eyes…" she whispered. "They changed."
He turned away.
"I know."
Maia whispered, "It's not only their color—".
⸻
By the fourth day, a letter arrived from the local guild branch, stamped with the mark of the Holy Mother. It confirmed Maia's registration as an official Chosen.
There was no letter for Koda.
Not yet.
But somewhere, deeper in the bureaucracy of the world, something unregistered had begun to stir in its own quiet, divine rhythm.
⸻
The Church of the Holy Mother did not build grand spires or golden towers in cities like Oria. Instead, their presence took root in wide halls of soft stone and flowering courtyards where the light found every corner and the floors were always clean.
The induction took place on a crisp morning, a breath of something gentler after a week of ash and silence.
Maia stood in a line of seven. All girls, all newly awakened.
They wore robes of soft beige stitched with pale blues, colors of renewal. Her dress had been cleaned and fitted better now, and her hair had been brushed and pinned behind her ear. A silver band had been placed gently across her brow. Not a crown—but a promise.
The hall smelled of pressed flowers and old parchment, lit by wide stained-glass windows depicting The Holy Mother—her arms always outstretched, her gaze always downward, gentle and enduring.
A priestess approached them, older, with warm amber eyes and silver-white hair braided down her shoulder.
She spoke softly, but with gravity.
"You are Chosen," she said. "Not just to heal, but to hold life sacred. Not just to support, but to withstand."
The ritual was brief, by church standards. Each of the seven stepped forward when called, knelt before the Font of Blooming—a shallow silver basin filled with water from a divine spring, blessed long ago before the sealing of Heaven.
When Maia knelt, the water shimmered with pale blue light. The others watched as the priestess touched two fingers to the water, then to Maia's forehead.
Her body pulsed faintly. A warmth took root in her chest, spreading outward. It didn't burn—it soothed, like sunlight through linen, like a mother's voice humming through the door of a nursery.
A pale glyph bloomed in the air behind her: three gently intertwined circles of light forming a crest of nurturing.
And then came the words—quiet, internal, and not hers.
[New Skill Unlocked]
Mother's Touch – "A gentle hand mends more than wounds."
A single-target healing spell that grows stronger with the caster's vitality and wisdom, soothing both flesh and spirit.
She gasped faintly, her breath catching as the glyph vanished.
The skill whispered itself into her soul.
⸻
Name: Maia, of the Holy Mother
Level: 2
Health: 50
Mana: 50
Stamina: 50
[Attributes]
Strength: 5
Dexterity: 5
Vitality: 5
Intelligence: 5
Wisdom: 6
[Traits]
Sanctuary - "The closer you are to those you protect, the stronger your healing. The more they believe in you, the deeper your power."
[Abilities]
Mother's Touch – "A gentle hand mends more than wounds."
A single-target healing spell that grows stronger with the caster's vitality and wisdom, soothing both flesh and spirit.
⸻
She stood slowly, blinking away tears she hadn't meant to shed.
She was Chosen. She was real now.
⸻
That afternoon, the induction concluded with assignment.
She had been selected for Sanctum Training Camp #14, a two-year program for Holy Mother inductees gifted in mending flesh, located a few days north. Far from Oria. Far from Koda.
She folded the scroll carefully. Her hands shook.
He hadn't spoken much since the incident.
But she had promised herself—if she moved forward, she would drag him with her if she had to.
⸻
Later that evening, the sky wept pale rain, barely more than mist.
She found Koda at their old spot—just past the east edge of the burned-out orphanage. He'd cleaned it, somehow. Placed a few salvaged chairs under a patched tarp to make a kind of crooked shelter. His tunic was still tattered. He looked like he hadn't slept.
But he smiled when he saw her.
And it crushed her, how much pain sat behind it.
"I leave in three days," she said, sitting beside him.
He nodded. "I know."
She looked down, fists clenched in her lap.
"Come with me."
He hesitated.
"I can't."
"Why not?" her voice cracked. "You fought harder than anyone. You saved lives. Why are they pretending you don't exist?"
"I don't think I'm part of their plan anymore."
She stared at him.
Then, quietly:
"Then whose plan are you part of?"
He didn't answer. He had no answer.