Then a little girl glided forward with an otherworldly grace unusual in a six-year-old, her platinum hair so pale it seemed to glow in the candlelight. Her violet eyes held an ancient quality that made even hardened adults pause, and she hummed a melody that no child should know—haunting and beautiful and somehow wrong.
"Seraphina Blackwood," Sheriff Shepherd announced, consulting his notes with visible unease. "Ward of the Eastern Sanctuary... circumstances of arrival... unusual."
The little girl smiled—an expression far too known for her cherubic features. "The pretty stones sang to me," she said in a voice like silver bells. "They told me stories about the deep places where the old things sleep."
The Head Priestess leaned forward with sudden sharp interest. "Child, who taught you such songs?"
"Nobody taught me," Seraphina replied, twirling in place with childlike glee that somehow felt sinister. "The whispers come when the moon is dark. They tell me secrets about the places underneath."
Cathie felt gooseflesh rise on her arms as she approached the ethereal child. "Seraphina, sweetheart, where did you live before you came here?"
"Everywhere and nowhere," the little girl giggled, clapping her hands with innocent delight. "I walked through the mist-places where the hungry shadows live. They wanted to keep me, but I was too shiny-bright for their dark mouths."
Her handler stepped forward with barely concealed relief, pressing a simple iron cross into Seraphina's small hands with obvious haste. He saluted quickly—almost desperately—and practically fled the temple, leaving behind the lingering sense that he had delivered something he was glad to be rid of.
The Head Priestess studied the otherworldly child with sharp interest. "This one carries old gifts in young flesh," she murmured, her eyes finding a sister whose dark hair was streaked with premature silver. "Sister Morwyn—you understand the deeper mysteries. Guide her carefully." The chosen priestess bowed her head silently and extended her hand. Seraphina laughed—a sound like crystal chimes in winter wind—and skipped after her into the temple's deeper shadows.
Next A boy bounced forward with the irrepressible energy that only six-year-olds possess, his freckled face split by a gap-toothed grin that could illuminate the darkest corner. His red hair stuck out in every direction despite obvious attempts at combing, and his good clothes bore the honest stains of a boy who found adventure in puddles and berry bushes.
"Benjamin Cartwright," Sheriff Shepherd announced, his stern expression softening involuntarily. "Son of the Cartwright merchant family. Parents voluntarily surrendered custody to provide their son with... opportunities."
Benny's infectious grin faltered for just a moment. "Mama said I was gonna learn to read big books and maybe see dragons!" His enthusiasm cracked slightly around the edges. "But she cried when she hugged me goodbye. I don't know why she was sad if this is s'posed to be good."
The Head Priestess nodded with measured approval. "The child shows promise and proper energy."
Cathie couldn't help but smile at Benny's boundless spirit. "What kinds of dragons would you like to see, sweetheart?"
"Big friendly ones! With sparkly scales and maybe they could give rides!" He bounced on his toes, his excitement barely contained in his small frame. "Do you have any real dragons here? Or maybe just pictures of dragons?"
The gruff, battle-scarred man who had escorted Benny knelt with surprising tenderness beside the energetic boy. His weathered hands shook slightly as he pressed a small wooden sword into Benny's palm. "Every dragon-hunter needs proper equipment, little knight," he said quietly, then ruffled the boy's unruly red hair with unexpected gentleness before standing and delivering a precise salute. He paused at the temple doors, looking back once with something like regret before disappearing into the night.
The Head Priestess smiled at the boy's boundless energy. "This one burns bright with life—he needs direction for his fire," she said, selecting a priestess whose warm brown eyes sparkled with shared mischief. "Sister, channel his enthusiasm toward worthy pursuits." The chosen priestess bowed her head and took Benny's small hand, leading the bouncing boy toward whatever adventures awaited in the temple's halls.
After that a girl crept forward like a shadow given form, her raven-black hair hanging in tangled curtains around a face marked by premature wariness. At six, she moved with the feral caution of a child who had learned that adults often brought pain, her dark eyes constantly scanning for threats and escape routes.
"Cordelia Blackthorne," Sheriff Shepherd's voice carried careful neutrality. "Retrieved from the Underground Warrens. Guardian... status unclear."
Cordelia's small hands clenched into fists. "The mean man who had me ain't my guardian," she spat with venom unusual in such a young voice. "He hurt me and made me beg for pennies. I bit him when he tried to grab me again."
The Head Priestess studied the fierce child with clinical interest. "This one will require gentle guidance and proper care."
Cathie's protective instincts flared as she slowly approached the wary little girl. "Cordelia, sweetheart, no one here will hurt you. You're safe now."
"That's what they all say," Cordelia whispered, but her defiance wavered as she looked up at Cathie's kind face. "Are you gonna hurt me too when I'm bad?"
"Oh, little one," Cathie breathed, kneeling carefully to avoid startling the child. "You're not bad. You're brave and strong, and no one will ever hurt you here."
Her handler approached with the careful movements of someone who understood trauma in the very young. He pressed a small cloth doll—clearly handmade with love—into Cordelia's grimy hands. "My daughter made this for you," he said quietly, his voice rough with emotion. "She said every little girl needs a friend." He stood slowly, his own scarred hands trembling as he saluted with unusual solemnity, then walked away with the heavy step of a man who understood too much about broken children.
The Head Priestess's expression softened as she regarded the wounded child. "This one has known cruelty—she requires infinite patience and gentle strength," she declared, her gaze settling on a sister whose severe features were tempered by deep compassion. "Sister, heal what has been broken. Show her that power can protect rather than harm." The chosen priestess bowed her head and waited with infinite patience, allowing the frightened child to make the first move toward whatever healing might await.