The crowd had gone silent.

  The torches along the walls guttered in their sconces, the fmelight throwing long, shuddering shadows across stone and faces. At the center table, three figures sat unmoving, each staring down at the parchment before them as if words themselves had turned to knives.

  The Inquisitor was the first to stir. His gauntleted fingers rapped once against the wood, then he cleared his throat — the sound rough, dragging the priest out of his stupor.

  “Well,” the Inquisitor said, voice pitched for the hall though it felt as if he spoke into a church at midnight, “we cannot sit here like statues. Read it out.”

  The priest blinked, his lips moving as if recalling how to speak. His hand trembled as he reached for the parchment, the inked evaluation trembling in his grasp. At st, he found his voice.

  “Written portion…” He swallowed. “Perfect score. Not a single missed figure, not a single misdrawn rune.”

  A murmur rippled through the gathered parents and children. Some gasped, some clutched their cloaks tighter, and others tilted their heads forward as if drawn by a magnet.

  The priest’s voice shook but continued. “Glyph affinity and comprehension… immeasurable. Far surpassing the aptitude of seasoned schors. She reads them as if she herself had carved them in the first days of stone.”

  Now the murmurs swelled. The schor at the table leaned forward, her quill forgotten. For once, she did not write, did not even try. Her lips parted, eyes bright with disbelief.

  “And her Vaylora…” the priest whispered. He paused, breath catching, as though even to say it would profane the air. “Her Vaylora is staggeringly high. I… I have never recorded such a resonance.”

  The Inquisitor shifted in his seat. His scarred face betrayed nothing, but when he spoke, it was with grudging respect. “She has the foundation of a knight already. Her body is young, but the roots are there. Given time, they will bloom.”

  The priest lowered the parchment with a hand that shook. Then he said something that made the other two stare.

  “We must fetch the Saint’s Stone.”

  The schor’s head snapped up, eyes narrowing. Even the Inquisitor stiffened, shoulders rising like a man bracing for a blow. For a heartbeat, they all looked at him as though he had spoken bsphemy aloud. Then, almost as one, their gazes turned toward the girl at the center of it all.

  Esmerelda stood with her chin high, silver hair spilling across her shoulders. She had not moved since the results were read. Her hands were folded at her sides, her face calm — but her eyes, wide and unwavering, gave her away.

  The crowd was restless, a low tide of whispers washing the walls.

  The schor rose at st, her voice ringing across the hall. “You may all bear witness,” she said. “Today, a new saintess candidate may be born.”

  The hall broke. Parents, vilgers, and even some of the older children dropped to their knees. Cloaks swept the ground, prayers hissed from lips, a hundred heads bowed as if a thunderbolt had cracked above them.

  Esmerelda stared at them all, her calm breaking at st into confusion. “What are you doing?” she whispered. Her voice lifted. “Please — everyone stand.”

  But the kneeling did not cease.

  The priest vanished behind the dais, and moments ter, he returned, cradling a relic in both hands. It was a stone no rger than a heart, veined with crimson and gold, like living fire frozen in crystal. It pulsed faintly in rhythm, as though remembering the blood it had once been forged from.

  The Saint’s Stone.

  The priest stepped forward, trembling reverently as he brought it toward her.

  And before it touched her, before it even came near, the Stone bzed.

  Light spilled like a star’s birth, flooding the front of the chapel in white-gold brilliance. The floor itself seemed to hum beneath their feet. Mothers clutched their children tighter. Men covered their eyes. Whispers dissolved into silence.

  The priest dropped to his knees, stone still held high. “Saints preserve us,” he breathed, voice breaking. “In all my years…” His words failed; his lips moved in prayer.

  The Inquisitor rose, only to fall to one knee, head bowed. The schor did the same. The hall followed, a wave of bodies prostrating before the child.

  Esmerelda staggered back half a step, her eyes wide. She looked down at her small hands, then back at the sea of bent heads. “What is going on?” she asked, her voice cracking. “Please… please, everyone stand.”

  It was the priest who obeyed first. Slowly, he rose, lifting the Stone for all to see, though its brilliance had already begun to fade back into a sullen glow.

  “There is nothing more to be tested,” he said solemnly. “This Stone was forged of saints’ blood. It answers only to their line. Sometimes faintly. Sometimes not at all. But this…” His voice broke again, awe strangling him. “This was one of the greatest reactions I have ever seen.”

  Gasps filled the room. The words spread like wildfire: saints’ blood.

  Esmerelda stood in the light’s afterglow, confusion and dread tangling in her chest. The world had just knelt before her — and it felt nothing like honor.

  ----------------

  That night, the mountain air was a bit sharp and cold, but the cabin’s single fire burned low, throwing long orange shadows across the walls. Esmerelda sat at the rough-hewn table, small hands folded in her p.

  Her “parents” sat across from her. The elven woman’s silver eyes were hard, unblinking.

  “Princess,” she said, voice sharp as a bde, “you drew too much attention today.”

  Esmerelda sighed and slumped forward. “I held back as much as I could.”

  A chuckle rose from the man at her side, broad-shouldered and weathered like an oak. “It isn’t your fault, child. Normal people are more unimpressive than you think. Even a fraction of your gift looks like a miracle to them.”

  Esmerelda looked up, her jaw tight. “It doesn’t matter. I would have drawn their eyes regardless, once the Stone reacted. If I must be their Saintess, then I will be the greatest they have ever seen. And with that power, I’ll change what needs changing.”

  The man’s ughter faded into a sigh. He leaned forward, folding his hands. “Perhaps. But you do not understand the heart of men. If you reveal too much too quickly, you will not only awe them — you will earn their envy. And envy is a bde sharper than steel.”

  The elven woman’s expression softened, though her voice stayed cold. “We have seen it before. A boy from Velorr, brilliant with the bow. He bent wind and arrow as one. The nobles feared him, so a ‘training mishap’ broke his spine. He lives still, but he will never stand.”

  Esmerelda’s lips parted, but no words came.

  The man’s eyes darkened. “There was a girl in the capital, three years ago. She healed a dying man on the street with a single prayer. The priests hailed it as a miracle. Two months ter, she was found drowned, her name smeared with rumors of heresy. That is what envy does.”

  “They will try to hold you back,” the woman said softly. “The candidates with noble blood, with patrons in the Sanctum, will be given every aid. The Church itself will help them suppress you, belittle you.”

  Esmerelda’s fists clenched. “And if I grow strong enough not to care about that?”

  The man’s voice was low, grim. “Then they will turn to force. And if even that fails, they will ruin you. And when ruin is not enough, they will kill you.”

  The fire popped, sending sparks up the flue.

  Esmerelda’s breath caught in her throat. At st, she asked, “The Church would do this?”

  The man chuckled, but it was a bitter sound. “The Church, no matter how holy its symbols, is run by mortals. And mortals are selfish. Corruptible. Afraid.”

  The girl sat in silence, her silver hair catching the firelight, her young face already shadowed by knowledge. Things would be more difficult than she had ever imagined.

  ----------------

  The next morning, the children were gathered once more, standing in rows as new guardians came to collect them. Names were called, groups ushered away. One by one, they vanished down the stone hall.

  Esmerelda stood alone.

  Then, in a fsh of radiance, a figure appeared before her.

  A man cd in silver armor stood tall, his tabard marked with the crown of thorns. His blonde hair gleamed in the light, his presence commanding and bright. A Saint — one wired for battle.

  He looked down at her and nodded. “A fine seed indeed. And of elven descent. I hope to see great things from you, child.” He extended his hand.

  Esmerelda hesitated only a moment before pcing her small hand in his. His gauntlet closed gently around it, and together they stepped into her new life.

  ----------------

  Months passed.

  The training yard rang with chants and shouted spells. Twenty Saint candidates stood before their dummies, voices raised as they wove the air with power.

  A boy of thirteen thrust his hands forward, lightning cracking loud enough to rattle the rafters. Gasps and cheers followed. A girl of the same age lifted her palm, a torrent of wind shredding her target into splinters. Awe rippled through their peers.

  Then the ground shook.

  All eyes turned. At the far end of the yard, Esmerelda moved like a silver fme. Her small body darted and spun, her hair trailing like moonlight as she sparred not with dummies, but with two armored Inquisitors. Their bdes whistled through the air, their boots shook the earth — and still she flowed between them, light as a leaf in the wind.

  Glyphs shimmered at her fingertips as she moved — lines of silver fire drawn into the air with effortless precision. A shield bloomed to intercept a sword-strike; a chain of light shed out to catch a leg mid-step; sparks leapt where her runes met steel. She was not merely defending — she was weaving the fight itself, forcing the Inquisitors to follow her rhythm.

  Steel cnged. One Inquisitor staggered back as a glyph erupted under his feet, stone cracking upward like a sudden spike. The other swung, only to have his bde caught in a net of glowing runes. Esmerelda twisted past him, the air alive with the hum of her craft, every movement too fast, too fluid, too sure.

  “She’s not just holding her own,” someone muttered. “She’s winning.”

  Whispers spread, but they soured quickly.

  “Look at that little freak, Soso,” the boy who cast lightning, Lucen, spat, his voice thick with admiration. “Six months here and she’s already doing practical training with Inquisitors.”

  The girl who cast the wind beside him, Soso sighed, her gaze cutting sidelong toward the nobles watching with sour faces. “I don’t think that’s a good thing, Lucy. Look at them. They hate her for it.”

  “Mutt,” hissed one of the older candidates waiting for their turn at practical training. “Half-blood trash. She doesn’t belong here.” Jealousy pin as day, angled at the child who accomplished so quickly what took him nearly half a decade.

  A third whispered lower, but not low enough to hide the venom: “The Sanctum doesn’t suffer showpieces for long. Not ones like her.”

  Noble-born children scowled openly. A girl with golden braids whispered to her companion, “If the Inquisitors favor her now, she’ll outshine us all. We can't allow that.”

  Lucen ughed, though his voice was uneasy. “She can take care of herself. You saw what she did to Travis the other day.” The girl shook her head. “That’s the problem. Meme stands out too much. And we’ve both seen what happens when peasants stand out too much — even here.”

  The venom thickened, an ugly buzz at the edges of the yard. Yet some voices whispered softer, almost reverent:

  “She moves like a Saint already.”

  “She’s… beautiful.”

  But admiration was drowned in envy.

  Esmerelda felt it even as she fought — the weight of their stares, the heat of their hatred pressing in like the walls of a cage. And still she moved, still she carved glyphs and wove strikes until both Inquisitors stumbled back, their bdes lowered, sweat streaming from their brows.

  She stood alone in the ring, chest heaving, silver hair falling across her face. Not just surviving. Dominating.

  And the storm of whispers rose louder still.