The bells of St. Ilyrion's Orphanage rang at dawn, their iron voice echoing through the sleepy streets.
Lith was already awake. He sat on the edge of his narrow cot, the cold stone floor seeping into his bare feet. He watched as the pale morning light spilled through the stained glass windows. The day had arrived: his fifteenth birthday, the Day of the Rite of Dawn.
A faint cough broke the silence.
"Lith.." Mina's small voice trembled from the bed beside him. She was only nine years old, as pale as linen, her chest rising shallowly with each breath. "It hurts again."
Lith's expression softened. Without hesitation, he rose and knelt beside her. "Shhh, I've got you."
He placed his hand against her forehead, as Father Aldric had shown him, to check for a fever. Mina's skin was burning. Lith bit his lip and closed his eyes, whispering under his breath, as if the very words could heal.
Please let her pain ease, even if just for a moment.
His hand drew warm—barely, lightly, like the sun's warmth hidden behind clouds. Mina's breathing became more even, and her coughing lessened. She offered him a small smile. "Better."
He felt a wave of relief wash over him. "Good. Rest now, and I'll bring you some bread after the ceremony."
He pulled the blanket tighter around her, even though his heart ached. He didn't yet possess a proper Gift, but sometimes, when emotions swelled within him, a strange warmth flowed through him.
It wasn't divine or powerful enough to banish sickness, but it was enough to soothe—enough to keep him clinging to hope.
Suddenly, a boy's voice burst into the dormitory like a firecracker. Toren, fourteen, barrelled in with his wild hair and boundless energy, beaming from ear to ear. "You're still in here? Today's the day! Jeez, don't tell me you're nervous?"
Lith gave him a look. "Maybe...just a little."
"Don't be!" Toren flopped onto his bed like he owned the place. "Bet you'll awaken something crazy—like fire, or lightning, or whatever!"
BOOM! CRACKLE!
He threw his arms wide, mimicking an explosion and nearly knocking over the oil lamp.
Lith chuckled despite himself. "What about you?"
"Of course, I'll get something impressive—gift sword, maybe. Hehe, imagine—it'll be like, 'Toren the Thunder blade!' So cool! Right?" He puffed out his chest and pointed at Lith with his finger. "But you and I both know you will be the stronger one. I can feel it."
Lith shook his head; he did not share Toren's confidence. In fact, he dreaded stepping in front of the obelisk. What if nothing happened to him? What if he was destined to a life of nothing more than being a shadow, giftless and forgotten?
The bells tolled once more—heavy and dark—three times.
"The procession is beginning to gather." Lith straightened up and donned the simple robe given to all the orphans, which faintly smelled of incense and candle wax. The robe was so worn, stitched so many times, that the seams looked almost like scars. He forced himself to look back at Mina, giving her a faint whispered reassurance: "I'll be back soon," as he followed Toren out of the room.
The streets of Ebonreach were brimming with energy and life, filled with both excitement and tension. Children clad in fine silk strutted alongside their noble parents, their necklaces and rings gleaming in the light. Meanwhile, other children, barefoot and dressed in rough-spun clothing, trudged along as commoners. The divide between them was a vast gap, unmeasured yet unmistakably present.
The orphans walked in a single file under the direction of Father Aldric. The priest's hair had turned silver with age, but his eyes gleamed warmly—a light he had held onto all his life. Sister Seraphine walked beside him, her white habit flowing like light. She was twenty-four, calm, and her presence was soothing like balm. Some said she was too beautiful to be confined behind cloistered walls, but so far it had not affected her; she spent her days caring for the orphans.
I want to tell her how lovely she is, but even more, how kind she is.
Father Aldric raised his staff and spoke with authority. "Children, keep your heads high. This is not the world's judgment day; it is the gods'. Make sure to remember that."
Lith nodded slightly, but his stomach burned. It was still judgment day.
They arrived at the town square.
It was expansive and lined by the arches of marble. At its center stood the Obelisk, an enormous black stone inscribed with the glyphs of ancient runes. It glimmered faintly at its surface, as if stars themselves were trapped within. Next to the Obelisk, the Luminara floated, vying to descend—books of light suspended in the air. Some had said that the Luminara were fragments from the Slumber of Heaven itself, born only when the gods had breathed over the Obelisk.
The square was crowded with nobles dressed in crimson and gold, who huddled near the dais, and with commoners who pushed their way to the edges, breathless with anticipation. The corners of the square were filled with whispers that floated like tendrils of smoke.
"Which house will be the strongest this year?"
"Did you hear that Duke Varlen adopted the Flamebearer from last year?"
"May the gods not waste the breath of the Giftless."
Lith clutched the folds of his robe tightly.
The High Preceptor stepped forward. Dressed in white and gold robes, he held a shining jewelled crozier in his hand. His voice carried, smooth and resonant. "Children of this year's dawn, step forth. The obelisk awaits your truth."
The High Preceptor read each child's name in turn from the gilded scroll.
The first child to respond was a noble boy, who took the few steps to the obelisk. The obelisk thrummed with a quiet, deep frequency...
FWOOOSH!
A fireball descended from the top of the Luminara. Pages of flames unfurled as the child reached for the burning books. The flames spread around his hands, sparkling, coiling, and intertwining like a python. Cheers erupted from each corner of the square. "A High Gift!"
Next, a girl dressed in sapphire silk appeared.
CRACKLE!
Lightning exploded, sending out sparks across the dais. The crowd erupted as her Luminara imprinted itself in thunder-blue light.
Each awakening was a spectacle. Shadows spilled out like ink. Wind shrieked through the trees. Stones trembled.
BOOM! CRASH! WHOOSH!
The square transformed into a stage of its own.
Then, the orphans.
A hush fell. They were organised in a separate line, scrutinized with interest, scorn, and all of the feelings in between. To nobles, orphans represented both charity and opportunity: unwanted by blood but a potential treasure if fate proved generous.
The first boy knelt before the Obelisk as it pulsed with light.
HUMMM
The glimmered Luminara emerged and floated down towards him, infused with ancient power. Imprinted on him was the sigil of Steelborn Strength. The audience gasped in astonishment.
"A high gift from an orphan?"
"Great! The House of Damar will surely sponsor him."
Good for him.
The boy's face flushed with stunned pride. Excited murmurs erupted among the audience of nobles as they exchanged delighted glances and calculated their offers.
Then came a girl. She knelt down as well.
WHOOSH!
With a rush of wind, a silvery Luminara swept down on her like a stack of pages fluttering in a book to form wings. Her hands stamped the sigil of Gale. Cheers erupted once again from the audience.
She looks so confident. I envy that— I envy the way the light finds her.
"A rare affinity!"
"She will attract a good offer as well."
The girl looked at the light with bright, glistening eyes full of hope.
More orphans stepped onto the stage. Some experienced brief flickers of hope, receiving modest gifts of water, stone, or wood—enough to earn a smattering of applause, or perhaps attract a sponsor's attention. Each moment was a big deal—their entire futures balanced on this one single dawn.
At least no one left empty-handed. That should have helped, but my name never came up, and each new name made my stomach drop.
And then...
"Lith Solis."
The name cracked through the air like a whip. Lith felt his legs suddenly heavy and awkward. Toren grabbed his shoulder as he passed by on one knee, moving alongside the boy and whispering, "Come on, Lith! Do it! I'll be your loudest cheerleader!"
Lith walked to the dais. The obelisk towered over him, its runes glowing softly—cold and vast. He knelt, heart pounding in his ears. Please, anything... I want anything. I'll treasure whatever you give; please, let it not be nothing.
Then, the obelisk began to stir.
SHHHP
A Luminara was descending—light and pale. A slip of green light, like spring leaves, flickered. It moved toward the cover of its tome. A sigil was being traced—a cross of light, delicate and beautiful—healing.
For a moment, there was silence.
Then, the whispers began.
"Healing? Seriously?"
"How pathetic."
"Wasting an opportunity."
"A small boon for such a burden."
Laughter followed, sharp as knives.
Lith felt heat rush up his next and face. He hung his head in shame as the words pierced deeper than steel. Nothing he feared had come to pass.
The Luminara closed, binding itself to him. The sigil glowed faintly against his chest, and something stirred alive in veins.
But no one cared.
"Its a Failed Gift," someone spat.
Lith hunched his shoulder. For a moment that he could blend into the shadows somewhere other than this place.
But—
The sigil pulsed once, twice. A much deeper thrum lay beneath the shame; perhaps the Luminara whispered only to him. Something hovered in its warmth—quiet, cloaked, waiting.
Lith stiffened. No one else saw it, but he felt a heartbeat that wasn't his—a buried promise within the light.
The laughter cut through him like ice. Voices rose—sharp, blunt, and eager to assign blame.
Orphans and nobles a alike clung to the verdict as if it were lifeline, pulling themselves toward safety. The Sanctum's hierarchy loomed over them all; everyone knew where healing ranked on that ladder—useful in charity, worthless in power, a Failed Gift beneath the banners of Divine and High Gifts. That knowledge made their scorn feel justified.
He froze, startled by the cold voice that washed over him.
"We must drive him out of our village—out of the orphanage itself," an elderly priest declared. Lith sharnk as the words struck him like a blow.
Drive me out? From the church that raised me—that one I love? Just because imya Failed Gift?
"He's right. Cast that pest out," another old priest sneered, his eyes hard as flint. "He could be a curse on the orphanage. Look—he's the only Failed Gift here. Better that he's gone than a liability, there's no use keeping him."
Lith felt the sound close in on him until he could no longer feel his own pulse. He could barely breathe. Until, Toren's face hovered in his vision—shocked, unbelieving, with the look of someone who had expected greatness from him. Even Sister Seraphine clutched her chest and stared with pity—a pity that cut deeper than scorn.
Is that how she truly see me? So pitiful?
Father Aldric stepped forward, raising both hands as if to gather their thoughts. "He's fifteen," he said, his voice tremulous but steady. "This—this isn't fair to a child who didn't ask for a gift like that, we can keep him here, find him a place in the church—"
An older priest, his face lined with contempt, cut him off. "If we keep such filth in the church, it will pose a risk to the children. With the number of orphans rising, don't you think of that, Father Aldric?"
"But isn't healing the very origin of the Saintesses?" Father Aldric insisted. "Healing is rare—if this boy is nurtured—"
"Foolishness!" the elder snapped. "Do not sully our Saintesses with talk of a Failed Gift. You grow sentimental in your age. To speak as though this child has a future—he is nothing."
Father Aldric's jaw tightened. Sister Seraphine stepped closer, her fingers briefly pressing his sleeve in Silent plea. Toren's shoulders stiffened, and his mouth moved, searching for a defense that would not come.
"P-please... stop," Lith whispered tears slipping down before he could stop them.
As murmurs swelled into an eager chorus of condemnation, the High Preceptor stepped forward. He did not raise his hand at once; a simple clearing of his throat was enough to draw the chamber into silence.
"Silence," he said—and the world fell like a seal.
Then, with a tone both deliberate and composed, he addressed the assembly. "Father Aldric speaks the truth: the wellspring of healing, the lineage that give up our Saintesses, is real." His gaze swept over the gathered nobles and priest. "That said, this child's Gift—as it manifested today—is faint. We will not pretend otherwise. I will inform the higher authorities and, if need be, our one living Saintesses herself. They will confer, and a course of action will be decided. That verdict will come tomorrow.",
He paused, allowing the weight of his words to settle. "For now, the ceremony is concluded. Let us be grateful for the many blessings the gods have bestowed today—gifts of power and promise, in both noble and orphan alike." His voice softened, then resumed its measured cadence. "And the adoption of will continue."
A ripple of renewed excitement swept through the square as noble families leaned forward, their eyes gleaming, while hopeful orphans whispered among themselves.
Lith remained bowed, the humor of crown washing over him like cold water. Around him, the children rose—some scampering towards patrons who would claim them, others lingering as offers were weighed. Joy and ambition filled their faces; for many a new life began at this very hour.
He straightened slowly and returned to his place at the edge, head bowed, shame pressing down on him like a physical weight. Beneath his robe, the sigil on his chest pulsed faintly—its inner warmth and promise felt only by him, dunno by all others.
But in his heart, a harsher weight pressed down. How... How will I tell Mina? How do I explain that her brother may be cast out, leaving her here alone?
The question burned in his chest, and he bit back tears as he stood, shoulders hunched, gaze fixed on the floor.