The morning sun rose higher than usual, and the orphanage halls were already full.

  Parents had begun arriving just after breakfast—some alone, some in pairs, some guided by academy staff in traveling coats and lined boots. There was no formal announcement.

  There were more visitors than usual.

  The official letter had gone out only a day before. For weeks, there had been whispers—but now the closure was certain. The board had called for early placements. Children who had tested within range were being fast-tracked to mage-track homes, or sent to instructors with room to train.

  Those with families were taken aside first. Those with consistent mana readings were ushered next. The halls buzzed with polished boots and practiced smiles. Children stood straighter. Shoes were scrubbed clean. A few had rehearsed spells, just enough to spark faint glows or drifting sparks of air.

  Miss Anel recorded names. Elra moved between rooms and conversations with quiet, tired grace—offering tea to guests, notes to staff, signing papers, answering questions, calling names from memory.

  It was hours into the day before she paused long enough to realize—

  She hadn’t seen the girl.

  Not during breakfast. Not in the spell lines. Not even in the quiet corners she usually drifted toward when things got loud.

  The realization landed with a quiet dread.

  Elra stopped in the hallway, heart pulling tight in her chest. She turned to Miss Anel.

  “Cover the next group,” she said quietly, and walked off.

  She didn’t run. But her steps grew sharper, more purposeful.

  The usual paths—dormitory, stairwell, kitchen—had turned up nothing.

  Elra moved briskly from room to room, her brow creased.

  The girl’s bed was empty. The washroom silent. She checked the kitchen, the study nook, even the chapel vestibule—nothing.

  A flicker of worry rose in her chest.

  So she turned down the west hall.

  It was older here. Less maintained. A few doors hadn’t been used in years. The air smelled faintly of wood dust and something dry, like old paper.

  At the far end, she reached the side door. It stuck slightly when pushed, the frame swollen from years of rain and never quite fixed. She braced it with her shoulder and shoved until it gave with a tired creak.

  Outside, the wind met her.

  The back yard wasn’t far, but it was cut off—separated by a low fence and overgrown hedges that curled like thorns across the gravel path. One had to duck slightly under a half-broken arch and step around an old pile of bricks that had never been moved.

  She followed the worn trail through patchy grass. Her boots crunched softly over loose stone.

  And then she saw it.

  The old shed.

  Tucked behind a row of rusted drying poles no one used anymore. Its roof sagged slightly, warped by years of rain and heat. Moss had crept into the corners of the slanted wood, and the window panes—though grimy—still caught morning light like fading glass eyes.

  Its door leaned off-center, stubborn on its rusted hinge. One had to pull it a certain way to open it without the frame catching.

  Inside, it should’ve been forgotten. But it wasn’t.

  The floor had been swept. The air smelled faintly of dust and dried herbs. Everything in its place: the old magical scale in the corner, the stacked practice stones near the wall, the buckets with dried cement lined up neatly, handles wrapped in cloth to keep them silent.

  A quiet hall of effort. Of failure. Of quiet defiance.

  The girl’s secret place.

  Of course.

  When Elra opened the shed door, she looked at her

  Inside, she lay curled beside a bucket with writing “10” on it—small, folded in on herself like something left behind.

  Her coat had slipped halfway down her back. One bare foot stretched into the dust, toes cold and still. Arms hugged her own shoulders tightly, as if she’d tried to trap the warmth before it escaped.

  She hadn’t brought a blanket. No cushion. No lamp. Just her breath, shallow and uneven, and the faint shimmer of dried salt at the corners of her eyes.

  It was as if time had stopped.

  Elra looked at the girl—curled on the shed floor, breath shallow, fingers still faintly curled from effort. A hollow ache of grief rose in her chest, tinged with something quieter. Not just sorrow for the girl’s exhaustion…

  But a flicker of admiration and the will behind it. She stepped forward, knelt down quietly, and laid a worn blanket over the girl’s back. Then she placed a hand gently on her shoulder.

  “…Wake up,” she said softly.

  The girl stirred, blinking slowly, her eyes unfocused for a few seconds before registering the light and the presence beside her.

  “Come on,” Elra added, voice quiet. “Let’s go back.”

  The girl sat up without protest, though her movements were sluggish. Her hands were dust-streaked. Her legs stiff.

  She didn’t speak at first.

  Elra didn’t ask her to.

  They walked the path back in silence.

  The trail wound through brittle grass and low-hanging branches, the gravel beneath their steps whispering softly with each movement. A few birds stirred in the courtyard trees, their wings flitting in and out of view like restless thoughts.

  Elra kept her pace even—not too fast, not too close. Just beside the girl, step for step, without comment.

  The girl moved like someone only half-awake. Her coat hung crooked from her shoulders, speckled with dust. Her hair, usually tied back, had come loose in the night. It clung to her cheek and neck in uneven strands, pale and dull in the morning light. Her face was tired—not just sleepy, but hollowed in the quiet way that comes from being worn down past words.

  Her hands were still dust-stained. Her knees, streaked faintly from the shed floor. A dried leaf clung to the hem of her skirt and fluttered with each step.

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  But she didn’t complain.

  She didn’t speak.

  Only walked forward, eyes down, as if her thoughts were trailing somewhere behind her—still curled on the cold floor beside a bucket that never moved.

  Elra didn’t break the silence. She knew this kind of quiet. The kind that needed space to breathe.

  So they kept walking.

  The orphanage came back into view, its gray walls washed in morning light. A breeze stirred the drying lines, though no clothes hung from them anymore.

  When they returned to the front hall, the morning had already moved on.

  One family had just risen from the interview bench a tall man with worn gloves brushing off his coat, his hand resting gently on the shoulder of the boy beside him.

  Rulin.

  He turned slightly, mid-step, and caught sight of her.

  His face lit up—not wide, not loud, but real. He raised his hand and gave a small wave, the kind that said I see you.

  The girl paused.

  Then she smiled.

  And raised her arm high, a little too fast, a little too wide and waved hard, like she meant it. Like she wanted him to know she was proud.

  Because she was.

  Even with the ache still in her chest. Even with the cold clinging to her legs. Even with the weight of the shed still dragging behind her like a shadow—

  She was proud of him.

  Her smile shone in that moment.

  It didn’t hide the pain behind her eyes. It didn’t need to.

  Because it wasn’t a lie. It was both.

  It was joy and sorrow. Bright and breaking. All at once.

  Elra stood beside her, silent.

  And when she looked down at the girl’s face—at the bright, trembling smile and the trembling hand still held high—she felt something inside her collapse and curl. Not from pity. Not even from grief.

  But from a helpless, hollow ache.

  This girl, hurting and hiding it

  Still waving like her whole heart wasn’t fraying at the edges.

  Still proud of someone else, even when no one was proud of her.

  Elra blinked. Breathed once.

  The girl lowered her arm.

  “I’m sorry,” she said, quiet now, “I overheard last night. I didn’t mean to. But… I’m sorry.”

  She didn’t look up.

  Elra didn’t speak.

  She stepped forward, knelt down, and wrapped her arms around the girl—soft and steady.

  And the girl let herself be held. And in that stillness, the warmth of being seen even if just by one person returned, like breath into winter air.

  They walked together back into the main hall.

  Elra didn’t turn toward the staff desk, or the parchment pile, or the waiting parents clustered near the windows.

  She guided the girl toward one of the benches along the side wall—an old wooden one where coats were sometimes draped, where few ever lingered for long.

  And she sat down.

  The girl sat beside her, hands still dusty, knees drawn inward just slightly. She didn't lean against Elra, but she didn’t shrink away either.

  The hall moved around them—heels clicking, papers shuffling, voices murmuring, footsteps crossing quickly in every direction. A few children ran past with uncertain glances. A clipboard snapped closed.

  One staff member, Tarin, one of the aides—began to approach, holding a note.

  “Elra, I think we need—” he started, voice low but urgent.

  Then he stopped. His eyes shifted from her to the girl. And back.

  He nodded once and stepped away without finishing his sentence.

  Another staffer, Jessa, moved closer from the side hall, waving gently to catch Elra’s eye, but when she saw the bench, the stillness, the girl’s distant expression, she slowed.

  Then turned.

  And said nothing

  For a few hours, the two of them felt left behind by the hecticness of the day, they just sat there in silence. No words, just looking at the business of the hall. The sun had lowered behind the hills, casting long shadows across the quiet courtyard. The noise from earlier, the shuffle of papers, the clipped heels of strangers, the soft voices of selection, had faded into the stillness of evening.

  The last family had left nearly an hour ago.

  But Elra and the girl still hadn’t moved.

  The main hall had shifted around them. Chairs had been pulled back into place. The fireplace had gone cold. Most of the children were already upstairs, eating or packing what few things they had.

  A few still remained—children who hadn’t been picked today, but whose names had already been promised. Arrangements were in motion. Letters sent. Transfers inevitable.

  She sat beside Elra in silence, her coat still loosely drawn around her shoulders, hands folded in her lap. Her white hair caught the faintest light from the last window.

  For a long time, Elra didn’t speak.

  Then, softly, she said, “You know… there are paths besides magic. Roles with quiet purpose. There are places—orders, homes, sanctuaries—where someone like you could serve. Someone patient. Attentive.”

  She didn’t say it directly. Not “become like me.” Not “give up.”

  Just a suggestion, gently offered.

  The girl turned slightly, then looked back at her lap.

  “…Thank you, Matron,” she said. Her voice was soft, “I’m glad you said that.”

  She let the silence hold a moment more.

  Then added, “But I want to be a mage. Or at least someone who uses Magic”

  Elra was quiet. Her hands shifted faintly in her lap, fingers curling in and out of each other like they were remembering something.

  When she spoke again, her voice had changed—lower, slower. Not unkind, but heavier.

  “…Why is it magic you love? When it’s given you so little?”

  It wasn’t said with cruelty. It was said like someone asking herself the same question years too late.

  The girl didn’t answer right away.

  She watched the light on the floorboards, shifting orange into grey.

  Then, softly

  “I don’t think it needs a reason.” Her fingers folded tighter in her lap, “Some people like birds. Or rivers. Or the sound of bells. I just like magic. It feels like… something beautiful that’s far away like the moon, and I want to reach it no matter how.”

  The girl’s voice had softened, but her eyes hadn’t dimmed. As she spoke of the moon, her face took on a faraway stillness not the dull ache of disappointment, but a fragile, reaching awe. Like a child whispering to the stars not to go.

  And Elra… watched.

  Her breath caught in her chest, though she didn’t let it show.

  The weight in her shoulders eased just slightly, her fingers going still in her lap.

  Because for a moment just a flicker the girl didn’t look like someone lost or left behind.

  She looked like someone whole.

  After a brief moment of silence, Elra spoke plainly, like someone who had waited too long to say something and now had no soft words left to wrap it in.

  “If no one takes you,” she said, “you’ll be given to the state.”

  Her hands folded in her lap again. She didn’t look at the girl.

  “They’ll decide where you go. Maybe to a temple. Or an outreach farm. But most likely …the Aschezug Division.”

  The girl’s shoulders stiffened.

  Elra didn’t explain. She didn’t need to.

  The girl already knew.

  The Aschezug Division—a place for the unchosen, the weak-blooded. Where low-mana orphans were put into uniform and taught to die in groups. Scouting wards. Frontal sieges. Support detachments where shields always failed first.

  They said it was service. But everyone knew what it really was.

  A place to disappear.

  A place for those no one would miss.

  Her stomach felt hollow. Not with fear—but with something colder. Like a door slowly closing, one she had only just realized she was standing behind.

  Elra’s voice softened again.

  “If you became a Sister,” she said, “there’d be shelter. Study. Routine. Not what you wanted, I know.”

  “I know, Matron.” She said it gently, “but... if it means I can still study magic… maybe the Division wouldn’t be so bad.”

  Her voice was quiet. Almost hopeful, though it shook a little at the edges.

  “Maybe they’ll let me learn. Maybe even use what I can, who knows? Maybe the Aschezug Division will be the one to change the tide of the war.”

  She knew it wasn’t likely. So did Elra.

  But she said it anyway.

  Then Elra lifted her head, her gaze had drifted toward the tall front windows—and beyond them, the drive that wound down through the misty woods. A carriage had appeared, its frame black and austere, drawn by two pale horses whose hooves made no sound on the cobblestone.

  But it was the sigil on the side that made her breath catch.

  A black ouroboros—a serpent devouring its own tail—encircled a field of delicate arcs and nested lines. No eye was drawn, but the shapes in the middle implied one.

  A seal of cycles, control, and unspoken things.

  Cold. Precise. Arcane.

  The seal of Einhart.

  Her lips pressed into a line. “No,” she muttered under her breath, already rising. “Not him. Not now.”

  She looked to the girl. For a heartbeat, she considered moving her. Hiding her. The shed? The storeroom? No—

  Suddenly a man appeared in front of her, it was as if a snake sprung on its prey.

  Its as if he teleported there, the girl and Elra haven’t realize as the moment happened instantly

  Elra rose, slowly.

  “…Arkmarschall Leopold…”

  The name barely escaped her lips. Her voice faltered in a way that few ever heard. Some children in the dining room heard it. Even the youngest ones had heard the name—whispers passed between older wards and fearful staff.

  The girl remained seated, watching carefully.

  “I was told your orphanage holds a child afflicted with Faintborn’s Blessing,” Leopold said. His voice was smooth, clinical, without pause or pretense. “I am here to take her into my custody.”

  Elra’s face remained composed, but her fingers curled slightly.

  He glanced toward the girl, noticing her silver hair

  She didn’t flinch.

  Elra stepped in front of her.

  “She is still a child,” she said, more quietly now. “Not an experiment.”

  Leopold’s expression did not change.

  “If her will endures, she may even become a mage.”