The dawn over Oria wasn't golden. It rarely was.
Here, in the outer rings of the city where smoke clung low and the sun hesitated to shine, morning was a slow stretch of dim gray that peeled back the shadows. A reluctant beginning. But today, it was sacred.
The Day of Awakening.
The halls of Orphan's Grace were quieter than usual. Most of the younger children were still asleep, limbs tangled in threadbare blankets and dreams that didn't yet know the weight of the world. But in the east wing—where those turning eighteen resided—two rooms were lit, side by side.
In the left, Koda stood before a cracked mirror, buttoning a beige tunic over his lean frame. It hung slightly loose across his shoulders, the stitching uneven and faded, but it was clean—a rare luxury borrowed from the Matron herself. His trousers were darker brown, cuffed hastily at the ankle where they hung too long. Simple. Functional. The best he'd ever worn.
His reflection was sharper than he remembered.
Fair skin, freckled lightly across the bridge of a strong nose. A jawline set in the kind of firm stillness that could be mistaken for stoicism. His hair, dark and unkempt, fell in uneven layers that nearly grazed his eyebrows. But his eyes—
He paused.
Unremarkable.
Across the hall, Maia's door creaked open, followed by the sound of quick steps on bare wood. Koda turned just in time to see her step into the light.
He forgot how to breathe.
The dress was borrowed, but it didn't look it—white linen embroidered with delicate blue floral patterns that trailed along the hem and sleeves. It fit her slender figure with near perfection, cinched just above the waist by a faded sash. Her dirty blonde hair had been tied in a loose braid, soft tendrils framing a gentle face. A delicate, angular nose and pale skin painted her face. Her eyes—crystal blue, like fresh-glazed porcelain, wide with quiet wonder.
"You're staring," she said, brushing a finger under her eyes with a self-conscious laugh.
"Just making sure you're real," Koda replied.
She smiled, and for a moment, the gray dawn felt like sunlight.
⸻
Downstairs, Matron Elta waited by the door—a short, round woman with tired eyes and arms strong enough to lift three children at once. Her robe was patched in too many places to count, but her posture was firm. She held a small satchel in one hand, a charm stitched with the glyph of the Holy Mother in the other.
"You both look blessed already," she said. Her voice was rough, but warm. "Maia, this is yours. It belonged to a healer once. Keep it close."
Maia bowed her head and accepted the charm with both hands.
Koda shifted. "And me?"
Matron Elta raised an eyebrow. "You get my expectations. Don't die."
"Fair," he muttered, earning a quick grin from Maia.
They stepped out into the street, the morning mist curling around their feet like a blessing—or a warning of caution. Ahead, the great tower of Sanctum Oria rose into the clouds. At its base, the ceremonial gates had already opened. Robed priests stood in formation, each bearing the crest of their patron. Beyond them, the Awakening Hall, where fate waited with open hands and unseen judgment.
"You ready?" Maia asked, walking beside him.
"No," Koda admitted gently flexing his toes to relieve tension as he walked.
The Awakening Hall loomed at the heart of Oria like a monument to another world—untouched by soot, time, or poverty. Its smooth, pale stone caught the rising light and scattered it in shimmering reflections across the plaza, like ripples in a still lake. The front doors—tall, arched, and bound in woven silver—stood open, ushering the chosen inside with silent, ceremonial gravity.
Koda stepped in, his breath catching in his chest.
The air inside the hall was crisp and faintly perfumed with burned incense—cleaner than anything he'd ever breathed in the slums. Overhead, a vast dome stretched skyward, seemingly without end. The ceiling shimmered like the surface of water, inlaid with radiant threads of glass in intricate designs. The colors coiled in spirals and constellations—ruby, sapphire, emerald, and pearl—each symbolizing one of the Four.
The fifth color, the lightless hue of the Eternal Guide, was not present.
Beneath the dome, polished obsidian tiles formed a massive circular floor, etched with concentric rings of runes too ancient for most to read. Stone benches surrounded the edge of the room in layered tiers, already filled with adolescents dressed in their best—their families seated behind, murmuring in quiet excitement or hushed prayer.
It buzzed, not with sound, but with emotion.
Nervous energy hung in the air like a second skin.
Some of the boys and girls fidgeted, unable to hide their excitement. Others sat stiffly, hands folded, faces pale with anxiety. They all knew what came next—the Calling. On their 18th year, those whose souls were compatible would awaken, guided by the divine spark of one of the Four.
Maia clung to Koda's side, her fingers lightly brushing his hand. Her pale skin looked even fairer under the glowing lights, her dress softly reflecting the color from the ceiling above. She gave him a smile, the kind that was just as much for him as it was herself—trying to quiet both their nerves.
"You're shaking," she whispered.
Koda hadn't noticed. He flexed his fingers and let out a slow breath, eyes sweeping across the room.
Here, in this space of ancient holiness, he felt impossibly small.
There were no patrons among the crowd, of course—but their presence was undeniable. Carvings of each patron stood in recesses along the walls: The Divine Forger, hammer lifted in one hand, flame curling at his feet; The Divine Shield, stoic and strong, arms outstretched to block an unseen force; The Divine Librarian, cloaked in robes, one hand extended with a floating tome; and The Holy Mother, seated among woven branches, head bowed in silent kindness.
But where the fifth should have stood, there was only a blank alcove—untouched, unfilled. The Eternal Guide, as always, remained unseen.
"Once it starts," Maia whispered, leaning a little closer, "everything changes."
Koda looked at her. For a moment, the light caught her eyes—the still blue now full of a nervous fire, but deeper still….hope. He thought about the borrowed tunic on his shoulders, the feeling of not belonging here.
"I hope so," he said.
And somewhere, unseen beneath the stone… something stirred.
A hush fell over the hall as the high cleric stepped forward. Cloaked in the radiant white of the central Church, he raised his hands, and the room answered with silence. Even the youngest siblings in the crowd quieted, caught in the solemn gravity that only this rite could command.
One by one, names were called. A slow procession. Each name echoed through the vast dome as its bearer rose, trembling.
Some stood for just a moment before a soft shimmer bloomed around them—the clear sign of divine recognition. Their families gasped, wept, or clasped their hands in joy. Two in five were chosen.
But when the shimmer did not come, when a boy or girl stood in front of the Seer and the silence stretched too long, the truth became undeniable.
No calling.
No divine spark.
They were gently led away—faces blank, or twisted in disbelief. Years of hope shattered in seconds. One girl refused to leave, sobbing, clutching at the hem of the Seer's robes until she was pulled away. A boy simply walked without expression, his fists clenched at his sides.
They would still have lives. Work. Family. But they would never know what it meant to touch power.
Koda sat, unmoving.
He wanted to look away, to not see the grief or the way it hollowed the eyes of those who had failed—but he couldn't. There was something sacred about it. This was a moment that defined futures, and his would be called soon.
Maia's name came before his.
She squeezed his hand once, then stood with more grace than Koda had ever seen her summon. Her dress, now a little wrinkled from nervous hands, fluttered softly as she stepped into the center of the hall.
The silence was thick. Even breathing felt loud.
She stood alone beneath the dome, before the empty throne where the Eternal Guide once might have sat. Her head was bowed.
Then—a shimmer.
A soft glow with hues of jade, like morning dew lit by starlight. The air itself seemed to exhale as the aura bloomed around her, gentle and strong. From behind her veil, the Seer bowed her head once.
Maia's eyes fluttered open, and they had changed—radiant sky blue, brighter than before. She smiled, overwhelmed. Around her, quiet gasps of awe and approval filled the chamber.
A second later, a voice—serene and unseen—declared:
"Maia, of the Holy Mother."
The moment hung, perfect, suspended in the reverence of her awakening.
She turned back once as she was led to the side chamber, her eyes finding Koda's.
He nodded—just once. His chest was tight with pride.
And then, his name was called.