The sun shone brightly, almost as if the heavens themselves were celebrating his victory.
For the first time in years, Riel woke fully rested. The nightmare was gone—silenced, slain by his own hands. He sat up slowly, letting the sunlight spill across his face, the warmth foreign but welcome. For once, there were no whispers clawing at the edges of his mind.
He dressed in his Hand's robes—plain, practical, black. The only decoration was a small silver crescent moon stitched above the heart, the symbol of his patron. His fingers brushed over it briefly before he packed the few belongings he owned and stepped into the corridors of the Cradle.
Today was his first true day here.
Kaelith was waiting for him in the courtyard, robes gleaming with gold embroidery that shimmered like sunlight through stained glass. The difference in treatment between them was … glaring.
"Aren't you looking dashing," Kaelith said, that familiar grin already on his face. "You almost look alive today."
Riel couldn't help but smile—he was too happy to let Kaelith's teasing bite.
"What's that on your face?" Kaelith asked, his grin faltering.
"A smile?" Riel offered.
"No, not that ugly thing. Right there—below your eye."
Riel frowned and moved toward a nearby window. The reflection showed a small black mark etched beneath his right eye—a dagger, long and thin, its crossguard rounded. The misericoide, that same one, the dagger that followed him everywhere.
His breath caught.
The nightmare had left its mark on him.
He rubbed at it, hard, but the mark didn't fade. It clung to him like ink spilled into his very skin, unmoving, eternal.
"Hah," Riel said after a moment, forcing a smirk. "Thought I'd reinvent myself."
Kaelith arched a brow, unconvinced. "Sure, sure. Whatever helps you sleep. Let's go—we can't be late on our first day."
The Cradle's Grand Hall was vast and alive with divine energy. The air hummed softly with power, the faint melody of distant hymns reverberating through the marble walls. Hundreds of young disciples filled the chamber, voices a low murmur beneath the looming grandeur.
Riel stood beside Kaelith, trying not to stare too openly at the seven floating sigils above the dais.
Along the walls, towering statues of ancient heroes watched in eternal silence, faces carved with reverence and sorrow. Riel felt their gaze like a weight pressing on his shoulders.
Then, one by one, the Masters of the Cradle appeared beneath their gods' symbols. Some radiated calm like still water, others burned with an intensity that seemed to bend the air.
"Today," one began, their voice echoing through the hall like a struck bell, "marks your true beginning."
Silence fell.
"Welcome, acolytes of the Cradle—heirs to divine will. This place will shape you, mold you into instruments of the gods' purpose. You shall vanquish the ghosts and demons that plague this world. You shall become the shield that guards the mortal flame."
A murmur rippled through the crowd.
"Classes will be divided into Hands and Scions," the Master continued. "Hands will serve and learn under the Scions, assisting them in study and mission alike. But know this—your station is not fixed. Those who excel may ascend. And at midyear, all shall face The Proving—the divine tournament that determines your worth before the gods."
The sigils above flared in synchrony, light cascading through the hall like the breath of heaven.
"Remember," the voice thundered, "to bear the suffering of mortals is your charge—for you shall be their ascendants, their shelter, their shield."
The morning sun had climbed high by the time the Hands were gathered for their first lesson. The lecture hall was nothing like Riel expected — no carved angels, no gilded light. Just stone, old and gray, veined with faint runes that pulsed softly like a heartbeat.
Rows of benches curved down toward a low platform, where a tall man stood silently before a wall of glowing sigils.
Professor Daen.
He was not draped in finery like the Masters, nor did he carry the air of holy arrogance so common in the higher ranks. His robes were dark grey, metallic trimmed only with the smallest thread of red. His hair, black streaked with iron, fell to his shoulders. There was no kindness in his expression — only precision. The kind that saw through you.
"Sit."
The benches creaked as everyone obeyed.
"First day, huh?" a boy beside Riel said, his tone casual but eyes sharp. His robe bore the golden mark of the Dawnlord. "Heard our instructor fought in the Crimson Crusade — left a trail of corpses from here to the Southern Wastes."
Another across the bench — a girl with her hair tied in a soldier's knot — snorted. "Good. Maybe he'll weed out the ones who only got here through connections."
The Dawnlord's boy smirked. "You sound confident for someone in a Hand's robe."
"I plan to trade it for a Scion's before the Proving," she said flatly.
Riel looked between them, keeping quiet. Ambition and arrogance — that was the scent of this place. Some wanted to rise. Others thought they already had.
Before anyone could reply, Professor Daen began.
"You are Hands of the Cradle," his voice like a drum — steady, cold, resonant. "You serve those who have already heard their gods' voices. You will bleed, sweat, and break so they may rise. That is your purpose until you earn one of your own."
He let the words hang, heavy and absolute.
"Some of you think yourselves unlucky," he continued. "You are wrong. To be a Hand is not to be lesser — it is to be tempered. The Matron teaches that a sword forged too quickly shatters at the first strike."
Riel listened closely. Daen's presence wasn't divine, but commanding — the kind of authority that came from surviving more battles than anyone should.
"You will learn the principles of invocation, divine resonance, and will-formed combat," Daen went on. "But first, understand this: no prayer, no sigil, no miracle matters without resolve. Faith is a weapon — and weapons are worthless in trembling hands."
A murmur ran through the room — quiet agreement from some, uneasy silence from others.
Daen's gaze fixed on the Dawnlord's boy, who had shifted restlessly in his seat.
"You seem eager to speak," Daen said.
The boy froze. "N-no, Professor."
"Then listen." Daen stepped closer. "You may believe you are special, important but in here, to me, you are all the same — untested metal." His tone hardened. "And I will strike each of you until I find what breaks first — your will or your body."
The boy swallowed hard and nodded.
Satisfied, Daen turned away.
He faced the sigils etched along the wall "The divine does not pity you. It will not guide your hand. You are here to understand the weight of your own spirit. The day you stop relying on borrowed faith is the day you begin to walk your own path."
Riel felt those words settle deep within him. His hand brushed the mark beneath his eye — the faint etching of the dagger that refused to fade.
He wasn't sure if it was faith that drove him, or something else entirely. Yet whatever it was, it honed him, carved him into something sharper. And he could never hate that.