Three landmarks cast long shadows across the Imperium, each commanding both respect and fear. In the south, Sanctuary's stone walls housed Hil's Inquisition, training warriors to hunt the unnatural. The controversial Fugue Academy claimed the western hills, where those with dangerous gifts learned control under watchful eyes. And in the east, perched among ancient cypress trees, stood El Convento de Hil.

  The Convento opened its doors to those touched by divine providence, though noble blood or influential sponsors ensured placement more readily than faith alone. Unlike the Fugue Academy, with its reputation for brutal training and close surveillance, the Convento promised a path of service rather than subjugation. Most families with means directed their gifted children here, away from the Fugue's "strenuous" methods or the grim alternative—conscription to the Eastern Front.

  For decades, the Imperium had waged a brutal war against enemies who employed Bruja—magic users who perverted divine gifts for personal gain—and unleashed monstrosities that haunted survivors' nightmares. Those who failed to secure placement in Hil's service often found themselves on those blood-soaked battlefields. Some served as healers, but many were weaponized, forced to counter enemy magicks with their own gifts. Few returned. Fewer still returned whole.

  The Convento's eight-year path transformed children into Hil's devoted servants through carefully structured trials. First came three years of foundation: memorizing scripture, mastering emotions, and the cardinal rule—never use your divine gifts. This prohibition wasn't mere dogma but a grim necessity.

  The mortal body was never designed to channel divine power. Each time a gifted person accessed Hil's light, they risked more than failure—they risked annihilation. The human frame could only contain so much of that celestial fire before breaking. Like water through a fractured dam, uncontrolled divine energy would tear through flesh and bone, consuming the vessel from within. The fortunate died quickly. Others lingered, their bodies ravaged by power they couldn't contain, organs failing as celestial energy scorched pathways through their nervous systems.

  Those first three years taught control and restraint—the foundation that might someday allow students to survive their own gifts. Transgressions meant immediate expulsion, with only the Fugue or conscription to the Eastern Front as alternatives. More than one novitiate had been found in their dormitory, body twisted in agony, skin cracked with golden light pouring through like molten metal from a broken crucible. These served as object lessons, whispered about in darkened dormitories.

  For each person blessed by Hil's touch, countless others became cautionary tales—husks, their humanity burned away by power they couldn't harness. The most pitiful weren't even those who died. The living tragedies were those who survived yet lost themselves—minds fractured by glimpsing divine realities no mortal was meant to comprehend.

  Two years of practical healing followed, where students treated the sick and dying with mundane medicine, purposely separated from their divine abilities. The public saw compassionate service; the instructors saw necessary humbling. No student completed this phase without watching someone die despite their best efforts, a deliberate reminder of mortal limitations.

  Year six brought change as segregated dormitories merged and students first heard the word that would define their remaining time:

  Divina.

  While the curriculum still demanded theological study, public speaking, and Imperial history, Divina dominated every student's thoughts. Here, finally, they could access the gifts Hil had bestowed upon them. Here, they would learn to channel divine power after years of suppression.

  Few understood the true cost until too late. The senior class of twenty would, by final exams, dwindle to a handful. Some simply failed, their spirits broken by demands of perfect faith alongside perfect control. These unfortunates typically joined the war effort, their partially-trained divine potential thrown against enemy Brujas on eastern battlefields where they died by the thousands.

  Others suffered what official records called "overwhelming by divine forces"—a sterile phrase masking horrific deaths as bodies literally exploded from uncontrolled power, burning from the inside out as divine light consumed them. When the power took them, witnesses reported seeing expressions of rapture on their faces in that final moment—before flesh yielded to something greater. Such students returned home in sealed boxes when enough remained to bury.

  Lupe Casteneda, First Daughter of House Casteneda, now belonged to a class of six—the final survivors of Year Eight.

  After being forcibly dressed by Esperanza, Lupe followed her sister-in-spirit toward the refectory. The cavernous hall, built to accommodate fifty students per mealtime, now echoed with the movements of just six. Five long wooden tables formed a silent quorum—one at each corner and a fifth standing oddly in the center. Years of elbows and spilled meals had worn smooth patches into their surfaces, ghosts of more crowded days.

  What made the emptiness worse was how the survivors isolated themselves. Six students spread across five tables—islands in a sea of vacant benches. Each carried the same knowledge: twenty had begun this final year. Fourteen were gone. They avoided each other's eyes as if death might be contagious.

  Lupe and Esperanza collected their cold breakfast and settled at the southwest table, across from a young man with dark, unruly hair buried in a book.

  "Bueno, Moco," Lupe said, her voice carrying in the quiet hall.

  He looked up, offering a small smile that never quite reached his eyes. "Oatmeal was okay today... I wish we had a banana or an apple to add." His sleeve-covered hand clutched a wooden spoon, keeping his fingers from touching the utensil. "Sugar is sugar, but nature is divine, no? Maybe I'll get something special in the mail in a few days." He winked, then added wistfully, "Though I wish for an apple... or even a banana."

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  'Moco' had earned his unfortunate nickname—meaning 'snot'—when he'd arrived at Convento with a perpetually runny nose. As with all childhood cruelties, it adhered to him like a shadow. His true name was Julio Roberto Antonio Marquez, second son of Familia Marquez, whose sheep provided wool for the Imperium's finest textiles. He might have lived a comfortable life managing flocks if not for his divine gift.

  His blessing had marked him doubly. Julio was a Silba, touched by Lune to glimpse things beyond time—past, present, and possible futures. His gift was rare and widely feared; unlike those who channeled Hil's divine light through their bodies, Silba gifts worked differently. They bore messages directly to the mind, bypassing physical limitations. But the strain still manifested—Moco's nose bled whenever visions came unbidden, and nightmares plagued him constantly. Unlike students who risked physical destruction, Silbas faced mental fracturing, their sanity eroded by glimpses of what should remain hidden.

  Fear and superstition had done the rest, with rumors claiming Silbas could see a person's death upon physical contact. He was one of the few students granted a private dormitory, particularly after the incident with his former roommate.

  The story was whispered among first-years: how his roommate, jealous of Julio's seemingly peaceful sleep, had swapped their pillows. That night, Moco's screams had echoed through the dormitory. For days afterward, his roommate had mocked his tears and nightmares.

  A week later, scaffolding had collapsed, crushing the roommate instantly.

  In shock, Moco had admitted seeing the death in his dreams. After that, no one dared touch him. If not for his family's standing, he might have been sent to the Eastern Front like most Silbas, where commanders used their prophetic abilities to anticipate enemy movements. Few such seers lasted beyond their first year of service, their minds shattered by battlefield horrors glimpsed in advance.

  No one touched him now. No one except Lupe.

  She reached out now, tugging his sleeve. "Which?"

  "What do you mean?" he asked, confusion briefly crossing his face.

  "Do you want an apple or a banana? Manzana o un plátano?" she repeated, slipping into the old tongue.

  His lips quirked into a smirk as he pulled his sleeve from her grasp. "If you can conjure a plátano, I'll tell you about your husband," he said, mischief dancing in his eyes.

  "You mean her second or third husband," a voice called from the center table. "Or maybe Moco wants a try at playing house with Two-Face?"

  Three heads turned toward the voice.

  Concepción Maria Calvo sat up, her back straight as an inquisitor's blade. Unlike Lupe, Concepción was not merely a first daughter but the eldest child of her house. When her gift manifested, Familia Calvo lost not just a daughter but their future leadership. Her gift was enviable—a Fire Singer whose flames burned with white-hot intensity, capable of purifying even the most corrupted flesh. She would have been valuable on the Eastern Front, but her family's connections had secured her place at the Convento instead.

  "You assume I would go through men like you go through underwear, Concha!" Lupe fired back. "How about you mind your conversation and let decent people talk amongst themselves?"

  Concepción's face flushed crimson at the nickname. While 'Moco' was merely disgusting, 'Concha' carried deeper insult. To the uninitiated, it referred to a sweet morning pastry, but among students, calling another girl 'Concha' was equivalent to calling her a fat ass.

  Fury transformed Concepción's features as she stood. The air around her shimmered with heat—a dangerous lapse in control that could bring severe punishment. Divine energy crackled briefly around her clenched fists before she mastered herself. "Listen here, you insolent fu—" she began, only to be cut off by the girl beside her.

  "Coco! Mira!" her companion hissed, eyes fixed on the refectory entrance.

  Six heads turned in unison as silence descended.

  A tall, lanky figure stood in the doorway, scanning the room methodically. His fingers smoothed his mustache and goatee with practiced precision before he addressed them. His left hand bore the scars of one who had channeled divine power for decades—weblike patterns of silvery tissue where celestial fire had nearly broken through.

  "I assume you all have had a decent breakfast," he said, voice carrying without effort. "Service for Gilberta and Ramona begins in one hour. I trust you will all attend." His gaze lingered on Lupe's table. "And dressed appropriately?"

  "Sí, Maestro Bolivar," six voices answered in mechanical unison.

  Technically, his title should have been Padre or even Voca, but Tomás Amando Bolivar insisted on 'Maestro' within these walls. Of all Convento's instructors, Lupe loathed him most. Behind his fatherly appearance lurked a man who seemed to take personal pleasure in pushing her beyond her limits. During their first year together, she had spent half her time in the infirmary, her body ravaged by the demands he placed upon her divine gift.

  His eyes locked with Lupe's for a moment longer, conveying silent challenge, before he turned and departed. The tension that had filled the room ebbed, but did not vanish entirely. Six pairs of eyes drifted to one of the empty tables.

  At term's beginning, twelve students had shared these meals. Now "tragic accidents" had halved their number. Two more failures, and they might send one of them to the Eastern Front as a replacement. The thought alone was enough to kill appetites.

  Divina lessons had been suspended for the week following the "unfortunate incident" that claimed Gilberta and Ramona. Beyond the official story lay two friendly faces now gone. Both had been Elementalistas, blessed with control over earth rather than the more common fire. While fire held obvious martial applications—earning its practitioners the title "Fire Singers"—the other elements could be equally powerful if properly harnessed.

  Most chose fire for its simplicity—rage and passion flowed through the same channels, making it an accessible power source. But divine power demanded absolute focus. A moment's lapse could prove fatal, as demonstrated by the explosion that had rocked the training grounds, leaving behind only unrecognizable remains. Witnesses reported seeing the earth itself rise up around Gilberta before compressing inward with terrible force. The official explanation was loss of control, but whispers suggested otherwise—that they had been deliberately pushed beyond their limits.

  Lupe and Esperanza finished their cold breakfast in silence as the others left to prepare for the memorial service. It would be a long day of prayers for the dead and whispered fears about who might be next.

  Neither voiced what both were thinking—that with each passing day, their own names seemed more likely to join that growing list. Or worse, to be reassigned to battlefields where divine gifts became weapons until the bodies housing them burned out completely.

  It was going to be a long day.