Six years old, and Amelia had already lived in seven different homes.
The current one was Greenhill Orphanage, a larger, grimmer institution than Stone Creek had been. It housed over fifty children, ranging from infants to teenagers, all crammed into a converted monastery that smelled of mold and boiled cabbage.
Amelia had arrived two months ago, delivered by the village magistrate after being found living in an abandoned shrine in the forest. She'd survived there alone for nearly a year—though how, no one could explain. When they'd found her, she'd been thin but not starving, dirty but not sick. As if something had been watching over her.
If they'd paid closer attention, they might have noticed the shadows that moved around her without natural cause. The way small animals would leave food near where she slept. The spirits that kept vigil in the night, unable to help directly but doing what little they could.
But no one paid that kind of attention to orphans.
At Greenhill, Amelia quickly learned the rules: keep your head down, don't cause trouble, and above all, don't be different. She failed spectacularly at the last one.
It wasn't her fault. She didn't choose to see the dead. Didn't ask for the visions that came unbidden in the night. Didn't want the strange knowing that sometimes overtook her, showing her things that hadn't happened yet.
But wanting or not, the gifts—or curses, depending on one's perspective—were hers.
"You're staring again."
Amelia blinked, refocusing on the girl beside her. Mei—named for the plum blossoms that bloomed when she was born—was eight, one of the few children who'd shown Amelia any kindness. She was also sick, though the matrons insisted it was just a cold.
Amelia knew better.
"Sorry," she murmured, looking away from the gray shadow that clung to Mei like a second skin. She'd learned what that shadow meant. Had seen it enough times to understand.
Death was coming.
"It's fine," Mei said cheerfully, seemingly unaware of her fate. "You always look like you're seeing something the rest of us can't. What is it this time? Ghosts?"
She said it jokingly, but Amelia's silence made her laughter trail off.
"Wait, really? You're actually seeing ghosts right now?"
"There's one sitting on your bed," Amelia admitted quietly. "An old woman. She's knitting something, though there's no yarn. She seems… peaceful."
Mei's eyes widened, following Amelia's gaze to her apparently empty bed. "What does she look like?"
"Gray hair in a bun. Wearing a blue hanfu with flowers embroidered on it. She has a kind face. Wrinkled, but kind."
Mei went very still. "That's my grandmother. She died last year." Her voice shook slightly. "You're not making this up, are you?"
"I never make it up." Amelia had learned that lesson the hard way. Adults thought she was lying or mad. Other children thought she was trying to scare them. Only Mei seemed willing to believe her.
"What does she want?"
"I don't know. She just sits there, watching over you. Sometimes she smiles."
Mei was quiet for a long moment. Then, softer: "Can you… can you tell her I miss her?"
Amelia hesitated. She could see spirits, could hear them sometimes, but talking to them directly? That was different. More active. More… dangerous. The binding ritual suppressed her powers, but every time she actively used them, it weakened slightly. And when the binding weakened, strange things happened.
But Mei was her only friend.
"Grandmother," Amelia said, addressing the spirit directly for the first time. "Mei says she misses you."
The old woman's translucent face brightened. She set aside her ethereal knitting and stood, moving to stand beside her granddaughter. She reached out as if to stroke Mei's hair, her hand passing through without substance.
"She hears you," the grandmother's voice echoed in Amelia's mind, distant and hollow. "Tell her I miss her too. Tell her to be strong. Tell her…"
The spirit's form flickered, unstable.
"Tell her I'll be waiting, when it's time."
A chill ran down Amelia's spine. "What does that mean?"
But the spirit was fading, growing more translucent by the second. "Soon," was all she said. "Very soon."
Then she was gone.
"What did she say?" Mei asked eagerly.
Amelia hesitated. Should she tell Mei about the ominous message? About the death-shadow that clung to her? About the vision Amelia had been having every night for a week—Mei lying still and cold, covered in a white sheet?
"She said she misses you too," Amelia finally said, unable to voice the rest. "And that she loves you."
Mei smiled, tears glistening in her eyes. "Thank you. For telling me. For… for seeing her when I can't."
That night, Amelia couldn't sleep. The vision came again, stronger now: Mei's bed empty. Matrons whispering in corners. Other children crying. A small wooden coffin being carried out.
Three days. The vision said three days.
Amelia sat up in her bed, looking across the dormitory at Mei's sleeping form. Could she change it? Could she warn someone, make them get proper medicine instead of the herbal tea the orphanage provided?
She'd tried before. Tried to warn people when she saw death coming. They never listened. They called her morbid, disturbed, attention-seeking. One matron had beaten her for "speaking evil" over another child.
But this was Mei. Her friend. The only person in this place who didn't treat her like a curse made flesh.
The next morning, Amelia approached Matron Wu, the head of the orphanage—a severe woman with a face like carved stone and about as much warmth.
"Matron Wu, I need to talk to you about Mei."
"What about her?" The matron didn't look up from her ledger.
"She's very sick. Sicker than you think. She needs a real doctor, not just herbal tea."
Now Matron Wu looked up, her expression cold. "And how would you know this?"
"I just… I know. Please, she needs help."
"What you 'know' is irrelevant. We cannot afford a doctor for every child with a sniffle. The tea will suffice."
"But it won't!" Amelia's voice rose in desperation. "She's going to die if you don't—"
The slap came so fast Amelia didn't see it coming. She stumbled back, hand flying to her burning cheek.
"How DARE you speak of death so casually," Matron Wu hissed. "First at Stone Creek, now here—always with your morbid visions and dark predictions. You are a child of ill omen, Amelia. The sooner you accept that and keep silent, the better for everyone."
"But Mei—"
"Enough!" Matron Wu stood, towering over the small girl. "You will go to the contemplation cell and think about the harm your words cause. Perhaps a day without food will teach you to guard your tongue."
The contemplation cell was a euphemism for a punishment closet—dark, cramped, cold. Amelia spent the day there, shivering and hungry, while outside Mei's condition worsened.
When Amelia was finally released that evening, she ran immediately to the dormitory. Mei was in bed, fevered and pale, her breathing labored.
"Amelia?" Mei's voice was weak. "Where were you?"
"I tried to get you help," Amelia whispered, kneeling by the bed. "I tried to tell them you needed a doctor."
"It's okay." Mei managed a small smile. "I'll be fine. It's just a cold."
But she wouldn't be. Amelia could see it clearly now—the death-shadow had grown darker, more solid. It would happen tomorrow. Not three days. Tomorrow.
"Mei, I—" What could she say? How do you tell your only friend that they're going to die?
"You look so sad," Mei said, reaching out to take Amelia's hand. Hers was burning with fever. "Don't be sad. Everything will be okay."
That night, Amelia stayed awake, watching Mei sleep. She watched as the fever climbed higher. Watched as Mei's breathing became more labored. Watched as the death-shadow grew more solid, more real.
Around midnight, Mei began to struggle. Her eyes flew open, wide and frightened, unable to get enough air.
"Help!" Amelia screamed. "Someone help! She can't breathe!"
Matrons came running. They saw immediately that something was terribly wrong. But it was too late for doctors now. Too late for anything but comfort.
Amelia was pulled away as they crowded around Mei's bed, but not before her friend's eyes found hers one last time.
"Don't… be… sad…" Mei whispered, each word a struggle.
Then the light left her eyes.
The dormitory erupted in chaos—children crying, matrons shouting orders, someone running for the doctor who would arrive far too late.
But Amelia just stood there, frozen, as Mei's spirit rose from her body. The girl looked down at herself, confused, then up at Amelia.
"I died," Mei said wonderingly. "I actually died."
"I'm sorry," Amelia sobbed. "I tried to tell them. I tried to get you help."
"I know." Mei's spirit smiled, looking more peaceful than she'd been in life. "I know you did."
Mei's grandmother appeared then, her spirit solidifying beside her granddaughter. She took Mei's hand gently.
"It's time, little plum blossom."
"But Amelia—"
"Will be fine. She's stronger than she knows." The grandmother looked at Amelia with kind eyes. "Thank you, child, for letting me say goodbye. For being her friend. That meant everything."
"Don't go," Amelia pleaded, even though she knew it was pointless. "Please don't leave me alone."
"You're never alone," Mei's spirit said. "You can see us, remember? We're always around. Not me—I have to go now. But others. You'll never truly be alone."
It was meant to be comforting. Instead, it was terrifying. A lifetime of seeing the dead, of knowing when people would die, of being unable to save anyone.
Mei and her grandmother faded into light, leaving Amelia standing in a room full of living people who couldn't see what she'd just witnessed.
Matron Wu approached, her face grim. "This is your doing," she said coldly. "You spoke death over her, and it came to pass. You cursed child. You brought this."
"No," Amelia whispered. "I tried to save her. I tried to warn you—"
"Silence!" Matron Wu grabbed her arm roughly. "You will sleep in the contemplation cell until I decide what to do with you. Perhaps the other orphanages were right to cast you out. Perhaps you truly are cursed beyond redemption."
As Amelia was dragged away to the dark closet, she heard the other children whispering:
"She knew. She said Mei would die."
"She's evil. She made it happen."
"Stay away from her, or you'll be next."
In the darkness of the closet, Amelia curled into a ball and wept. She wept for Mei, for Chen Wei, for all the people she'd seen die and couldn't save. She wept for herself, for the curse she didn't choose and couldn't escape.
And in the shadows around her, spirits gathered—drawn by her power, her pain, her unique ability to see them. Some were kind, wanting to comfort. Others were malevolent, feeding on her despair.
Amelia could see them all. Would always see them all.
And she was only six years old.
In the spirit realm, Noctis held his weeping wife. "This is torture," he said, his voice raw. "Watching her suffer, unable to help. Unable to tell her the truth. She thinks she's cursed when she's actually blessed. Thinks she brings death when she's meant to ease the passage of souls."
"The binding," Aurelia sobbed. "It's doing exactly what we designed it to do—hide her divine nature. But it's also preventing her from understanding her gifts. She has the power to see and commune with the dead, but not the knowledge or control to do it properly."
"We did this to her. To protect her, yes, but we did this."
They watched their daughter cry in the darkness, and they could do nothing but watch.
Above them, in the celestial realm, Solarius—consumed ever more by the Primordial Chaos—smiled. He didn't know the child lived, but he could sense the breaking of families, the spread of despair, the fear and hatred growing like weeds across the realms.
The Chaos fed on such things. And it was hungry.
Very, very hungry.