The village of Arcanis took in the broken and the abandoned.Among them was Azrael. The orphanage smelled of damp wood and old bread, filled with the whispers and laughter of children too young to know the world's cruelty.
But there was no true safety.
Every child, once of age, was brought before the priests. Their bodies tested, their souls weighed. To be blessed by a god was considered salvation. To be denied was shame.
That morning, the air was heavy. The children stood in a line, trembling as the robed priest raised his staff carved with the sigil of the gods.
The first boy stepped forward. The priest pressed his palm against his forehead and chanted. A pale glow wrapped around the boy — his eyes turned a shining purple, silver light dancing across his skin.
The priest's lips curled in approval."The God of the Moon has chosen you. The power of the lunar tide flows in your veins."
The boy fell to his knees in tears, his body shaking with relief.
Next was a girl. She bowed low, her voice cracking in prayer as the priest laid hands on her. A cold, ghostly flame swept over her body. Her eyes burned with a whitish-blue glow, as if souls themselves gazed through her.
The priest's tone was reverent."The God of Souls grants you his blessing. Guard it well."
The children clapped in awe, fear, and envy.
Then came Azrael.
The whispers grew. He was the son of a woman taken in sacrifice. The boy whose father had been killed for defiance. Some said he was cursed before birth.
The priest's hand hovered over his head, hesitating for a moment as if sensing something wrong.
Azrael lifted his gaze, his amethyst eyes staring back, cold and unyielding.
The staff's glow flickered. The air turned heavy. The torches in the hall sputtered and dimmed.
And then...