Orion woke to the faint creak of settling wood and the soft glow of morning light creeping around the edges of his shutters. For the first time in days, his dreams had been mercifully blank—no equations spun in his mind, no ball of light ignited in his sleep.
It should have resulted in a restful sleep. He should have felt lighter than he did before.
Yet the memory of yesterday’s heartbreak weighed heavily on his chest: the pursing of his mother’s lips as she forced his journal into the brazier, the soft crackle of ink bleeding into ash.
She hadn’t enjoyed it, but that didn’t mean she hadn’t destroyed his hard work. It felt like a betrayal; yet, the person he was most angry with was himself. I should have known better.
He sat up and ran a hand through his messy hair. The rest of the apartment was already buzzing with the low hum of Asteria’s morning preparations—jars clinking, spoons stirring—but Orion found no comfort in it today. He dressed in muted colors, put on his clothes, and left the room.
It feels like I haven’t learned anything from my past life. Worse, at least back then I had no expectations of my parents! How could I let myself become so dependent on a cult member?!
In the kitchen, Asteria bustled between shelves of jars and vials, looking much like she did every other morning, although at least she wasn’t humming this time. He wasn’t sure he could handle such casualness.
On the table lay a small plate of honeycakes, glistening with a sugar glaze, and beside it, wrapped in cloth, was a set of polished silver beakers and spoons.
He knew them to be new potion instruments, each engraved with his name. A few weeks ago, they had discussed how he could begin brewing real potions under her guidance. On any other day, this would have filled him with excitement.
“It’s for you,” she said, voice soft.
Orion swallowed, forcing a lump down his throat. “Thank you.” The words came out slow and stilted.
She offered him a cake, smiling tentatively. Now that he was paying attention, he noticed the bags under her eyes, and the way she twisted her hands after putting the plate down told him she was nervous. “Eat something. You’ve barely had a proper meal in three days.”
He lifted the honeycake to his mouth, ate it, and then set his fork down, leaving the plate unfinished. “I appreciate it,” he said, turning toward the door. “I need some air before class.”
Asteria reached for his shoulder. “Moonbeam, I’m sorry for yesterday.” Desperation filled her voice as her eyes searched his for something akin to forgiveness.
This, Orion realized, was the first time they had ever fought. It shall be the last, too. I have no more expectations.
“It is what it is,” he snapped, then bit his lip. “You did what you thought was best.” If his tone was more venomous than the words implied, well, what could he do?
He strode away before she could respond, leaving Asteria to gaze after him with eyes clouded by guilt.
Madame Eire’s lecture hall radiated the warmth of sun-baked stone and the fragrance of lavender incense. It had become something of a retreat for Orion, given that he couldn’t help but be suspicious of every glance sent his way.
Asteria was the main culprit in his mind, as she had succumbed to external pressure, but he couldn’t overlook that she had a motive to destroy his research.
Someone in the coven knew what he had been trying to do and took it as a challenge to the established doctrine.
Here, at least, the librarian couldn’t see his research, and the witches murmuring as he passed wouldn’t be able to disturb him.
Two dozen Initiates trickled in, their faces glowing with anticipation. Orion lingered in the doorway, arms crossed and his mood dull. The other children chatted about last night’s dinner, the new lessons they would learn, and the upcoming games in the courtyard.
For them, the Sanctum was a playground of wonder. It was all they had ever known, so naturally, they couldn’t see it for what it was.
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Orion closed his eyes for a moment. He had no right to criticize them; they had the excuse of being actual children. He, however, should have known better. The promise of a loving family had been enough to lower his guard, but where did that lead him?
Yesterday’s events had extinguished any hope he might have had. He had awakened from the long slumber.
He took a seat on the far bench. Since these were only preparatory classes, there were no assignments to submit, but soon, they would be given homework. How can I possibly go through the motions when I know this is all a farce?
He took a deep breath and exhaled. He had done this once already. He just needed to hold on long enough for an opportunity to leave to present itself.
And although it was hard to reconcile this laughter and camaraderie with the sting of yesterday’s betrayal, he could not fully blame his mother or other shadowy figures. They were part of a belief system enforced through real power.
The rules enforcing his silence stemmed from a fear of disorder. He was certain the High Priestesses and other powerful witches had to make significant efforts to maintain peace in the region, and given their success, why would they allow anything to undermine them?
Selene shifted next to him and slid her hand into his. She pressed it once, light and comforting, then withdrew before he could react. He blinked in surprise, his resentment softening for a moment. Yes, they're not all bad people. It's the overarching structure that is rotten.
When the last Initiate settled, Madame Eire glided in. She wore pale blue robes that shimmered like moonlight on still water. Her hair was pulled back, revealing silver-threaded braids. The moment she entered, the murmuring ceased, and the chamber fell silent.
“Good morning, children,” she began, her voice a gentle chime. “Today is a special day, for you will come to know the founding story of the Lunar Sanctum.”
A ripple of interest passed through the room.
“Most of you already know the brief version that is often told at the sermons—that the Moon Goddess battled the Deep Night and brought light to the world. Today, however, we will explore the full tale.”
She stepped onto the dais, where a lone brazier burned with a cool blue flame, giving the room a focused atmosphere. The lamp crystals around the hall dimmed, their glow shifting from silvery white to a soft indigo. Eire raised her hands, and the brazier’s flame vanished for a moment, plunging them into shadow.
“Once,” Eire began, “there was only darkness. The spirit of the Moon was powerful yet aimless, floating through the void without purpose. Then came the Tremor—a wound in reality that birthed the Deep Night. From its rifts poured creatures not made of flesh or soul, but of pure hunger. They devoured stars, extinguished suns, and threatened to unravel existence itself.”
Her voice hushed the youngest children, their eyes wide. Once more, the light dimmed until it was so faint that Orion could barely see her.
“In that time of desperation, the spirit of the Moon found purpose. She wrapped herself in the mantle of hope, drew strength from every grateful heart on every world, and stood firm against the tide. For centuries—and then millennia—she fought alone. Her light was a beacon, a promise that even in the darkest hour, not all was lost.”
Eire’s hands moved, and the brazier erupted with light. A crescent of blue flame appeared above her palm before expanding into rings of soft luminescence, revolving behind her head like a halo. “When humanity stumbled into the shadow, it was her radiance they followed to come out of it. They sang her praise, built shrines in her honor, and learned to coax her light with prayer and song. Each act of faith, each heartbeat of hope, fed her strength.”
A tendril of pale flame spiraled upward, entwining with the brazier’s flame. “The Deep Night’s monsters pressed ever closer, but she could not be denied, and she fought back, until only one remained: the Nameless Terror, the primal entity that had birthed darkness itself. It stood at the universe’s heart, a wound of endless hunger. The Moon Goddess unleashed every ounce of her glory to face it. The battle shook the very foundations of reality.”
Eire paused. The air in the room felt charged, and Orion could almost hear the clash of obsidian claws against silver light. At least she’s a good orator. “When the final blow fell, the universe shuddered free of the Deep Night’s grasp. Reality was restored, stars reignited, and life blossomed anew.”
She lowered her hands. The flames vanished, and the lamp-crystals flared back to their full glow. In their light, Eire’s eyes glistened. “But the goddess was spent. Her radiance dimmed, and her spirit grew quiet. In mercy, she chose not to return to the void. She bound herself to this world as the Moon itself, a guardian watching from above. Even now, she rises each night to pour her light upon the faithful.”
A wave of power pulsed through the hall. Orion felt the tension in his shoulders dissipate. Three days of frantic work melted away as if a soothing balm had been applied to his mind.
Every member of the coven cast their light magic with the story of the Moon Goddess, grounding it in meaning and enhancing every light spell and healing draught. It was a subconscious boost, and yet it was undeniably powerful.
There must be something to this. How could they draw power from faith if Light mana didn’t interact with it in some way?
Eire’s voice softened. “The Sanctum stands on that promise. We are the keepers of her light, scholars of her lore, wielders of the power that springs from faith and purpose. That is why our light magic shines brightest: because it flows from the love of a goddess who gave her essence to protect us. No one else can compare to that.”
She stepped down from the dais and swept her gaze across the children as the lighting returned to normal. “I want each of you to write a page of parchment in the next couple of days. Describe what this story means to you—how the Moon Goddess’s sacrifice speaks to you personally. The day after tomorrow, we will gather and begin our first true casting, guided by her light.”
A murmur of eager agreement rippled through the benches. Children accepted her words as truth, and even now, Orion could see how the story of the moon goddess had become a fundamental part of their understanding of magic. It was indoctrination, to be sure, but it had exceptional results.
He closed his eyes and took a steadying breath. He had been ready to dismiss everything that came from the Sanctum in his anger, but he recognized there was a kernel of truth: that belief itself was a force, amplifying Intent and empowering Knowledge from the threads of faith.
It explains how these people can cast complex magic without realizing what they are doing. They rely on religious faith to make the leap, enabling them to use stories that contain an actual understanding of specific phenomena hidden within.
He remained confident that his approach was superior, and once he gained sufficient power, he would prove it. However, he wouldn’t make the mistake of dismissing the Sanctum’s way again.
Just as the lesson was about to end, the floor beneath them trembled. A low boom echoed from somewhere beyond the classroom walls. The lamp crystals flickered; a plume of smoke rose beyond the inner windows, curling like an inky finger toward the sky.
Gasps filled the hall. Orion steadied himself, but when he looked at it, his chest tightened—the smoke came from the direction of the potion storerooms. His mother was there.
Eire’s voice brought their attention to her. “Remain calm,” she instructed. “Children, stay seated.” Her voice rang with authority that brooked no dissent. “I will be back shortly. None of you are to leave the classroom.”
She then tapped her desk, and it flowed like water, rising and extending until a knight in full armor stood. It was at least ten feet tall, and it had eyes only for its creator.
“Protect the children. Let no one in.” And with that, she walked away.
