"If we pray devoutly every day, will God *really* let us go home?"
A bone-chilling cold seeped from the stone slabs of the church floor. No. 6's knees were long past numb, but Silas's gaze still bored into her back like a branding iron. No. 6 shifted her deadened legs, fingertips unconsciously kneading her kneecaps. She turned her head, her amber-gold eyes shimmering faintly in the dim sanctuary, like two ancient gold coins catching the candlelight. "Silas says God loves all his flock as lambs..." she murmured, voice low as she whispered to the distracted No. 7 beside her, "But if a lamb yearns for home, would the shepherd even notice?"
No. 7 shot her a sidelong glare, words squeezed from the corner of his mouth, "Just memorize your hymns. Mess up the next spot check, and Silas will have you 'reflecting' in the purification room. I'm definitely not covering for you this time."
No. 6 pouted, turning away. Her skin, the color of sun-warmed sand from the church riverbank, was fine-textured with a light bronze hue. Her almond eyes, large and deep with a slight, mischievous upturn at the corners, still held a faint glow in the prayer room's gloom. She instinctively clutched the strip of blue cloth at her waist—a faded remnant she'd found by the river during an outdoor training, its patterns barely discernible. With a flick of her wrist, she snapped the cloth against No. 7's thigh. *Thwack*. He scrambled closer to No. 3, the two of them practically a single huddled form.
Silas's cough exploded like a sledgehammer on stone. Heads snapped up. His gaze, like twin torches, seared them. Terrified, No. 6 immediately bowed her head, feigning piety. No. 7 offered an apologetic smile, mouthing "Sorry" in Silas's general direction.
As Silas led them in one final, drawn-out intonation, "We shall ultimately welcome His glorious return," the most agonizing part of the day finally concluded. No. 6 silently gathered her meager belongings and departed. No. 3, his sharply defined features crinkled into a teasing smirk, sidled up, his lank brown hair, clearly unwashed for days, falling over his shoulders.
"The lovebirds having another spat?"
No. 7 disdainfully pushed his earnest, deceptively innocent face away. "Don't spread tales. The sacred texts clearly state that rumor-mongers are tossed into a cauldron of boiling oil by the great god Jupiter, fried till they're golden brown on both sides."
No. 3 froze, panic flaring in his brown eyes. He hastily thumbed through his hymnal. "That's in the sacred texts? How did I miss that? It… it won't be on the test day after tomorrow, will it?"
No. 7 glanced towards No. 6's retreating figure and scrambled to his feet. He rose too quickly; his legs, stiff and aching from kneeling, buckled. He stumbled a few steps before catching his balance and hurrying after her. Casting a quick look at Silas, now some distance away, he said to No. 3 in a conspiratorial whisper, "That's right. That's exactly why the angels attending Jupiter are all golden—straight from the fryer." With that, he abandoned a thoroughly baffled No. 3 and sprinted off.
No. 3 scratched his head, a nagging feeling that something wasn't quite right. He pored over the hymns, but much of the script remained incomprehensible.
No. 7 was sharp, his mind a quicksilver current compared to his own plodding thoughts. He'd picked up the local tongue with startling speed, while he, No. 3, had become the resident slow-witted oaf. The priests here made no secret of their disdain for his sluggish learning; he could read the impatience simmering in their eyes. If No. 7 hadn't patiently tutored him, he dreaded to think what would have become of him.
Sighing, No. 3 looked in the direction No. 7 had vanished. Lately, No. 7 poured all his energy into being near No. 6; he wouldn't be much help with what lay ahead. He turned and walked towards the church's nave. No. 1, the eldest among them, remained kneeling, piously turning the pages of his hymnal. An almost imperceptible luminescence seemed to emanate from him, rendering him like a martyr's effigy. Guiltily, No. 3 tapped No. 1's shoulder. "Excuse me… May I ask a question?"
...…
The sunset's dying embers slanted through a fissure in the stained-glass window, bathing No. 6's profile in an orange-red halo. Outside, a waterway snaked into the distance, its surface a tapestry of shattered gold light. A few white-winged water birds skimmed low, their wingtips occasionally kissing the water, sending out tiny, ephemeral ripples that the current quickly smoothed away.
No. 6 leaned against the window, her fingers gently caressing the blue cloth strip at her waist. Her mother had owned a similar sash, though its make was far cruder. Her gaze drifted with the birds, a soft smile unknowingly touching her lips.
"You're here." She turned, the evening blush reflected in her eyes.
No. 7 stood behind her, fingers nervously twisting the fabric of his cuffs. "Mm... back in the church, I didn't mean to snap at you."
No. 6 shook her head, dark hair swaying. "I know you were just looking out for me." She shifted, making a small space on the sill. "Come, look."
Hesitantly, No. 7 drew closer, following her pointed finger. A flock of water birds skimmed the river, their shadows fleeting impressions on the water.
"They're so free," No. 6 breathed, her voice soft as if not to shatter the fragile peace of the scene. "Sometimes I imagine… if I had wings…" Her fingers idly traced the faded script on the blue cloth.
No. 7 tilted his head, noticing the corners of her eyes were tinged with red. "Are you... homesick again?"
Silence stretched for a moment before she gave a small nod. "I remember… a big river flowed past my home. My mother told me its name was the Itrull River. She said if I ever got lost, I just had to follow the Itrull, and it would always lead me home." Nostalgia softened her voice. "So much is a blur, but…"
She stopped abruptly, a flicker of realization, then apology, in her eyes as she met No. 7's gaze. "Sorry, I shouldn't… You don't remember your home at all, do you?"
No. 7's gaze dropped to his clasped hands. "It's okay." A dismissive smile played on his lips; it was hard to mourn what the mind refused to yield. "It's... nice, hearing you talk about these things."
Dusk bled into night. The deep toll of a distant clock tower resonated through the air. No. 6 reached out, her touch light on No. 7's arm. "Time to head back. Evening training will be starting." Before turning, she cast one last look out the window. The final water bird was winging its way into the deepening sky, slowly vanishing into the twilight.
..............
Torches in the training yard spat and crackled, flinging their elongated, distorted shapes onto the stone walls. Instructor Marina paced, hands clasped behind her back, her black robe whispering across the ground. Her aquiline nose was knife-sharp, and fine veins webbed her grey-blue irises. Everyone feared her; she was no gentle soul.
"The Tidal Force is in the very air you breathe," she declared, raising a hand. A tendril of silver-blue light coiled around her fingertips like quicksilver. "Feel it. Guide it. Absorb it. Then, wield it in your own way. Let it become an extension of your very limbs."
"As I taught you last session, the Tidal Force can be used to strengthen your physical form, tempering flesh and blood to the hardness of steel." Instructor Marina held up her hand; as power suffused it, a faint metallic sheen glossed its surface.
"You can also infuse your power into objects, forging them into weapons more suited to your will."
Her gaze swept over them like a warden inspecting inmates, finally settling on No. 3. "No. 3. You're up. Demonstrate."
At the sound of his name, No. 3's neck jerked back instinctively.
"Me?" He pointed at himself.
"Who else? Up here, now." Marina's expression soured; patience was not her virtue. Action always preceded words with her. With a flick of her fingers, like an eagle's talons, the towering No. 3 was yanked through the air and dumped onto the platform, flailing like a helpless chick.
Gasps rippled through the students below. No. 6 and No. 7 watched, fists clenching involuntarily.
"Oof!" No. 3 scrambled to his feet, wincing. He had no desire to further provoke the old crone.
"Now," Marina gestured to a wooden target three meters distant. "Use your power. Hurl the stone on that table at the target."
No. 3 closed his eyes. Following what he'd gleaned from the texts, he slowly reached out, attempting to sense the Tidal Force shimmering in the air. These energies were elusive, as hard to grasp as butterflies in a child's net.
As the captured power began to coalesce, a searing pain scorched the skin of his hand. He hastily tried to channel the volatile heat outwards, imagining it as an invisible extension of his own hand, grasping for the pebble before him.
Before the stone even twitched, the students below had dived for cover. The slender No. 4 proved the swiftest; his wide, deer-like eyes—fixed on No. 3 from the moment he'd stepped onto the platform—had him half off his seat, poised for escape. The next instant, the pebble, a veritable cannonball, shrieked diagonally across the yard, blasting No. 4's still-warm chair to smithereens.
No. 4, looking utterly despondent, raised a bandaged hand and wailed at No. 3, "Brother, why *always* me?!"
No. 3 waved his hands frantically. "Sorry, so sorry! I really didn't mean to!"
Marina let out a profound sigh, pressing her fingers to her temples. She turned, retrieved a bottle of colorless, odorless developer solution from the ground, seized No. 3's hand, and doused his arm with the liquid.
His skin changed color instantly. Large, irregular blue blotches flared across the area where he'd channeled his power.
"Observe!" Marina held No. 3's arm aloft, jabbing his head with a sharp fingernail. "No. 3 has once again provided us with a perfect example of what *not* to do. His control of the Tidal Force is chaotic, disorganized—all brute strength and no finesse."
"No. 7, wipe that smirk off your face. You're next."
A grin still playing on his lips, No. 7 ascended the platform. Silas had often lauded his precision, claiming even veterans with a decade of training couldn't match his finesse.
Beaming at No. 6, who watched intently from below, he proactively applied the developer to his own arm. Then, with a graceful flick of his fingers, a silver needle slid from his cuff. It hovered in mid-air, then traced a beautiful arc around his fingertips. Azure patterns, like fast-growing vines, illuminated the veins and sinews of his arm.
The silver needle danced between his fingers like a nimble serpent, its tip glowing faintly, etching a crystalline trail in the air. Murmurs of awe rose from the onlookers. No. 3 even clapped with exaggerated enthusiasm. Controlling this force was notoriously difficult; most struggled to levitate even a simple water cup without mishap. No. 7 flicked his hand forward. The needle sliced through the air with a piercing whistle, tearing through three wooden planks.
No. 8, lounging at the edge with crossed arms, his sharp, upward-tilting eyes laced with disdain, drawled, "Is that all? I could manage that."
No. 3 instantly craned his neck, bellowing, "Then why don't *you* go up!" No. 8 merely pouted and averted his gaze.
No. 7 chuckled, nudging No. 3 with an elbow before bowing to Instructor Marina. "Care to make it a little more challenging?"
A slight smile touched Marina's lips. "Since you offered. Try this." She indicated a bullseye ten meters away. "Put the needle in the red."
No. 7 executed a dapper turn. The needle returned to float in his palm, its blue glow intensifying. He adopted an exaggerated throwing stance, arm raised high—then froze. His eyes narrowed to mere slits, his neck craning forward involuntarily. "Uh... isn't that target a tad… small?" he muttered, arm wavering.
A few stifled chuckles rippled through the observers. No. 6 saw the tips of No. 7's ears flush crimson.
"Get on with it. Don't dawdle," Marina urged, her staff tapping impatiently.
"Enough!" Silas's voice cut in from below the stage, uncharacteristically flustered. "Come down now. You've done very well."
No. 7 swallowed, but in a rare show of defiance against Silas, he took a deep breath. With a fierce swing of his arm, the needle sliced through the air, overshot the target, and quivered in the wall. He protested, aggrieved, "Who could possibly see a target that far off clearly?"
No. 8 immediately piped up, "I can see it just fine! Anyone with eyes could!"
"No. 7, look here!" an assistant instructor beside Silas called out, holding up his left hand. "How many fingers am I holding up?"
"Three? Hmm… four?" No. 7 squinted, his voice laced with a tremor. "Uh… wait. Maybe… two?"
As the atmosphere grew heavy, No. 7 looked to Silas in bewilderment. He didn't understand. What was wrong with not seeing clearly? Wasn't everyone else the same? Silas was locked in a hushed, intense discussion with those beside him. A single word, "Defective," drifted through the charged air, stabbing into No. 7's ears.
"Follow me."
Silas's voice, a low rumble of thunder, exploded by his ear. He seldom used such a tone with No. 7.
Head bowed, No. 7 threaded through the silent crowd, trailing slowly behind Silas. They traversed the corridor, heading towards the office of the Cardinal of Sin. As he passed a window, afternoon light now faded, No. 7 saw a bank of dark, oppressive clouds scudding across the distant river, and beneath them, the world plunged into a deathly, silent gloom…