"She's in bed now."

Prichard Ayre Dale Kraz swirled the half-emptied wine glass as he watched Selarina descend the stairs. "Good, she has a long journey ahead of her," he said, taking another sip.

"Are you sure you don't want to stay a while longer, Uncle?" Selairna asked, taking her seat at the table.

Most of its contents had been cleared off the table. The two maids of his niece had seen to that. There were just the candlelights, an empty wine bottle, and a bowl of fruits on the table.

Setting down the wine glass, Prichard took a Rain Fruit from the bowl. He had especially taken them with him from Arwintar's central market and would have withered and rotten had he not wrapped them in a preservative cloth. He inspected the fruit briefly–it was a deep green, rough and textured, resembling spikes or scales like the skin of a lizardman–before presenting it to Selairna. "Come, you used to love those as a child."

Selairna looked at the fruit as if it was foreign to her.

Prichard sighed, placing the Rain Fruit on the table. "I already told you," he said. "The sooner this matter is concluded, the better. What I've said before was no lie. Time is indeed imperative. The journey back will take weeks, at best. Emperor El-nix does not take kindly to insults, let alone from one of the Five Families. It would be…a problem. An avoidable one at that."

He was indeed speaking the truth. Unlike the Roble Holy Kingdom, the Baharuth Empire was effectively governed by its Emperor and his closest peers: The Five Great Houses. Their authority almost stood on par with the Emperor's royal house and constantly vied for de-facto control of the Empire. Be it through gifts, back-handed scheming, or marriage. It wasn't absurd to say that everyone in the Five Great Houses had a little of each other's blood in them. One big family, Prichard thought, amused. The Emperor was like a puppet on strings, dancing to the whims of whoever pulled them. And yet, even a small slight such as not attending the Crown Prince's birthday would be seen as a grave insult, and surely break favor with the Emperor and his soon-to-be twelve-year-old son.

"I understand," Selairna said demurely.

"Speaking of which," Prichard began, stroking his beard. "The temple won't have a problem with such a prized prodigy being taken, will it?" Not that it would be much of a problem anyhow. The temple of the Four Great Gods may exert its influence throughout most of the continent, even in the Empire, but, one way or another, he would have leveraged his position accordingly.

"I've taken care of everything, you have my assurance. The temple won't bother you." Selairna replied.

"And your family?" Prichard emphasized the word. The Father and Son which she hid from him. Though he hadn't seen the boy, Selairna's description painted a spitting image of his father, lacking much of the noble complexions of his proud heritage. Whatever possessed her to marry that now fatted oaf instead of–

"What about them?" Selairna asked quite defensively, causing him to hold the thought.

"Do they know?"

"Lerosso does," Selairna replied.

"I imagine he was not quite happy to hear that." Prichard attempted to sound sympathetic–any man would anguish losing his daughter–but he couldn't hide the tinge of satisfaction it brought him.

"...He wasn't," Selairna replied. Whether instinctually or not, she reached for her forearm, gripping–no, caressing the spot under the fabric.

Prichard reached out to gently grasp her arm. She winced, and he had his confirmation. "Show me."

"It's nothi–"

"Show me," he demanded now, cutting into her speech.

Reluctantly, Selarina loosened the fabric of her sleeve and rolled it up. An angry red and swollen bruise marred her arm.

"Did he…"

"No, " Selairna interjected swiftly.

Prichard couldn't hide the anger flaring up in him. He exhaled. She was still protecting him, he thought. After all this time, even now…

"Uncle…" Selairna pleaded, taking his hand. "It is nothing. I bumped into a table…and knocked over a Vase."

You always were a terrible liar, Prichard wanted to say, but he spared her the comment. Instead, he clasped her hand. "The children. Did he ever…"

"No," Selairna snapped. "Never."

"Very well. I will speak no more of it."

A pause followed, until Selairna spoke again. "...My brother will keep his word, won't he?" She looked down, and her nails dug into the dark wooden furnish of the dinner table. "How is he?"

"He is acclimating well to the position." Prichard already knew what question would follow, so he raised a hand to speak. "I know you two didn't always…see eye to eye, and it will take time to–"

"That's…good." Selairna interrupted him, smiling. "I'm proud of him. It was long overdue anyhow. I hope Siria will like it there…"

"You don't sound so sure," Prichard remarked.

Selarina swallowed hard. "I've sent her into my old life. At that court with those miserable snakes. They will tear her apart. All to make up for–"

"What's done is done. She will thrive, you will see in time." Prichard smiled reassuringly, before placing the Rain Fruit in her palm. "Now we build towards a better future. For our family."

Wordlessly, his niece conceded. She looked down at the Rain Fruit, and took a bite.

•

Siria shifted uncomfortably on the saddle of the great black Mustang. It was a proud beast. Tall and broad, fit for an adult man, not a young girl like her. She yawned, not out of boredom, but because she hadn't slept the entire night. Last night's words had wormed their way deep into Siria's mind, and denied her the shut-eye she so desperately needed: A priestess… one of the oldest and proudest bloodlines… he agreed to take you in… you're my sister, not his… they tore her apart… this isn't a punishment… stupid girl… you don't know anything!

"How are you feeling up there?" Lord Kraz asked as he held onto the reins.

"...I'm fine." Siria managed, smiling as she gave her best to sound confident. The view was much higher from the horse than she had imagined. Her eyes scanned the crowd gathered in the courtyard, many familiar faces watching eagerly. Instinctively, she searched for Kris among them but couldn't spot him.

She adjusted her shirt sleeve. Instead of her usual hems and habits, she wore a simple linen shirt, pants, and long boots borrowed from her brother. The outfit was a bit tight in some areas yet strangely comfortable.

"Don't worry, you'll have some proper riding leathers soon," Kraz said, pulling the reins to guide the horse around the village courtyard.

Siria froze, clenching the reins, perhaps too tightly, as the horse moved. She felt its weight shift with each step. The sensation was strange and unfamiliar. After a moment, Lord Kraz sped up to a slow trot. Slowly, Siria gained enough confidence to circle the courtyard. She turned to smile at Lord Kraz, but he wasn't there anymore.

He stood next to her mother, talking. The smile faded, and Siria remembered why.

Earlier that morning, before the sun rose and even the earliest villagers began their work, her mother and Lord Kraz had gathered the family to discuss what had happened the night before. Confusion turned to derision. Her father was furious, cursing her mother and Kraz before storming out of the house. Garro, her brother, was eerily quiet, not his usual snide self. Even her mother seemed strangely hesitant—careful, deliberate, as if she were suddenly made of glass. It made Siria's skin crawl.

Kraz. The name still felt foreign. Would that be her name soon? Would everyone see her like that then? Would she see herself like that? Would she be tied to a family she barely knew and a life she never asked for? No, that wasn't true. It was precisely what she asked for. She would leave the village–her home–and step out into the world. And yet, for years, ever since becoming enamored with stories of the Thirteen Heroes, Dragons, and the Valkyrie Knight, she wanted a chance to become something, someone great. And now, that the opportunity had finally arrived, she wanted nothing more than to stay home.

Siria sighed and continued on her own, trotting around the courtyard. Her movements were stiff as she did her best not to fall and embarrass herself in front of the crowd. She exchanged smiles and waves with the villagers. Naturally, some curious stares weren't directed at her but at the man speaking to her mother.

She tugged gently on the reins to stop the horse, but the massive warhorse ignored her and kept trotting. She pulled harder. "Whoa. Whoa."

Suddenly, she wasn't there anymore. The wind slammed against her face as she clung desperately to the Mustang, fearing she might fall. They were galloping now, racing through the streets and out of the village. Distant shouts and cries echoed behind her.

"Stop! Please stop!" Siria cried, shutting her eyes.

After a while, she could tell they weren't in the village anymore. The scent of damp grass and open air surrounded her. The hooves thundered across the plains for what felt like an eternity.

But eventually, the beast slowed, first to a slow trot, then entirely.

"Hah~" A sigh of relief escaped her lips, but she didn't dare to open her eyes yet. Her heart raced. Her muscles were frozen solid, glued onto the warhorse.

"...You okay?" a familiar voice called out to her.

Siria gingerly opened her eyes. Kris sat cross-legged at the foot of the great bark tree, looking at her curiously. A large book stretched across his lap, making him seem smaller somehow.

"Yes…" she said.

"You're riding a horse…" Kris sounded almost amazed.

"Yep!" Siria proclaimed, smiling with pride. "All on my own!"

"Why?"

Siria's smile died as quickly as it was birthed. "Well…I'm being taught."

Kris eyed her carefully. "By the man that came yesterday?"

Siria hesitated. She had forgotten how perceptive he could be, even for his age. "Does it matter?" she said, only to realize how rude it sounded.

"…I guess not," he said, looking down at his book again.

Siria sighed and hopped off the Mustang, nearly falling before steadying herself on shaky legs. The thought of asking Kris if he wanted to try riding crossed her mind, but she decided against it. He was younger than her and wouldn't fare better. He might fall, and the last thing she wanted was to see him with a broken arm, or worse.

"What are you reading?" she asked, sitting beside him. She already knew the answer but needed to change the subject.

The Legacy of the Valkyrie Knight. Siria had given him the book from Carma's archive to help him learn to read.

Kris took a moment before replying. "The one you gave me."

Leaning toward Kris to see what he was looking at, Siria saw a large image on the left page: The Valkyrie Knight, his bright angelic wings flapping in the air, surrounded by a group of monsters—almost human, but somehow wrong. Spriggan. Four arms and two legs, equipped with razor-sharp tarsal claws that acted as the hands and feet. Six glowing eyes, three on each side, that glared brightly. And wide, chittering mandibles. It possessed a tough, bark-like chitin that covered the entire body, acting like a natural suit of armor, but that didn't stop them from also wearing plate, cloth, and accessories. On its back stretched wide, iridescent wings, resembling an insect's.

She recognized the scene immediately. It detailed the duel between the Valkyrie Knight and the Spriggan High King Nedre grand Tasha with such Vulgar precision, as though the author had been there. It was one of the last great battles against the demihuman warlords before the rise of the kingdom and the building of the Great Wall. She often wondered how much of these tales was true and how much had been embellished over the last two centuries.

"Do you like it?" she asked.

Kris nodded. "I don't understand a lot of the words, but the pictures are nice."

He seemed content, almost happy, in that moment. But her guilt gnawed at her. She knew she was stalling. She had to tell him.

"...Hey, Kris," Siria carefully treaded.

"Hm?"

"I…" The words stuck in her throat. His dark eyes stared back at her. Her heart raced as the rehearsed lines she'd practiced all night vanished like smoke. How could she begin? How could she tell him? Doubt clamored on her like a cancer.

Finally, with a burst of resolve, she blurted, "I'm leaving the village. Lord Kraz said he sees my potential as a holy sorceress and will take me in. I'll be studying at the Imperial Academy of Magic in Arwintar."

Kris looked like he hadn't understood a single word. As if everything she said went from one ear through to the other. But after a moment, he spoke. "When?"

Something changed in his expression. He lowered his head, his ashen hair falling like a veil. Siria couldn't imagine what he was feeling. Was it pain? Betrayal? Or–

"I understand," Kris said softly.

"Huh?"

"If that's what you want…" His voice cracked, fragile and thin, as if forcing the words out. "Then…I'm happy for you."

Siria had expected more of a tantrum, a "Why are you only telling me this now!?" or something like that. But hearing him like this broke her heart. She knew it wasn't her fault, and yet she felt responsible for his pain.

"You..." Siria began. The thought was foolish, and she knew it. But she couldn't think of anything else. She didn't want to leave him alone, alone with those horrible kids and his brother who bullied him, and the adults who paid him no attention. He would be better off with her anyway. If he were with her, she could look after him and take care of him. "You could come with me."

"It's fine," Kris said. "I have my mama... she needs me."

His mother, Elena, right? Siria felt stupid for forgetting her, even though Kris almost always talked about her, and she was the reason they never had enough time to really play. Over the years, Siria had only seen her a handful of times. There was no doubt she was his mother. With that almost ghostly presence she had. It was unnatural, and yet she had a cold, eerie beauty about her. Slim and fragile, almost like a doll. It wasn't fair. He always had to sacrifice their time together to take care of her.

"Your mama is an adult and can't even properly take care of herself or you. She doesn't owe you anything." The words burst out of her mouth until a loud slap rang in her ear, and she felt the sting on her cheek. Only then did she realize what she had said–but far too late.

Kris looked at her. Tears streamed down his face. His face had twisted into an ugly grimace. It was a look directed at her for the first time, filled with bitter anger. Then he lowered his head. "Good luck at the Academy." His voice was hard and cold as stone as he turned his back on her.

"Kris!" Her voice cracked as she grabbed his arm tightly and turned him toward her. "I didn't mean it like that. I only want the best for you!"

"I don't care!" Kris tore himself free from Siria. Every word he spoke after that was like a dagger, driven deep into her chest. "Why do you always try to tell me what's best for me? You're not my sister and never will be, so stop acting like you are."

"Kris..."

"Just go."

"But–"

Kris' face twisted to a pained grimace. "Maybe when you're finally gone, your father will stop fucking my mother!"

Anger flashed across Siria's face. What did he just say? His mother… my father… She felt like she wanted to vomit. Is what he said true? Why would he say that? His words coursed through her mind like a whirlwind.

After a few moments, she spoke. "You know what? Do whatever you want. Because I don't care anymore."

"Hey!" A voice called out to both of them.

Siria turned to see a group of villagers—a dozen in total—running up to them. Lord Kraz and her Father led them.

"Siria!" Her father said–a faint scent of alcohol on his breath– as he embraced her. "Thank the gods you are safe! We thought you might have hurt yourself."

When her father released her, his relief turned to confusion as he gently cupped her red cheek. She winced. "What's that, happened to you?"

"I…" Siria couldn't even explain what happened when her father rose.

His eye twitched with rage. He looked past her, at Kris. "Did he do this?"

"N-no, wait–"

"You little runt!" Her father stepped past her and grabbed Kris by the neck, easily lifting him into the air and pressing his small frame against the tree. He raised his clenched fist, and with one swift motion, threw a right hook.

"No! Stop!" Siria cried, rushing to stop her father, but one of the villagers held her. She squirmed and fought. "Let me go! Stop!"

Her father's bloodied fist flew again and again, connecting with Kris. He winced and squirmed, but didn't attempt to fight back. First the belly, then the face. "What gives you the right to hit my daughter, you miserable piece of shit!"

"Papa, stop!" The tears burned hot on her cheeks and her voice strained to speak as she desperately reached out.

"Lerosso!" Another voice called before grabbing her father. Suddenly, her father fell back to the ground, and Kris's battered body crumpled against the tree like a puppet whose strings had been cut. Lord Kraz separated them, and for the first time, Siria was truly grateful for his presence.

"That's enough," He said, his tone clear and commanding, forcing everyone to stop and listen. "I will see to the boy. Take your daughter to the chapel." He looked at Siria now. "Your priestess wants to see you."

•

When the crowd left back to the village, Prichard breathed an exasperated sigh. He silently regarded the beaten body. Lerosso, despite throwing only a few punches, had done him quite good. Blood streamed down his bruised face like a minuscule river, tracing down from the nose along the edge of his lips, then dripping down and pooling lightly on his lap.

Prichard sat down next to the boy.

"So, you're Siria's little mutt, hm?" he said.

The boy didn't answer.

At first, Prichard thought that he had been knocked out cold. But when the boy began to cough, he fished out a handkerchief from his pocket, extending it to him.

The boy hesitated, looking at the Handkerchief.

"I could also beat the shit out of you for what you did, you know that?" Prichard teased.

That convinced the boy. He took the handkerchief to wipe his bloody nose.

"Why did you hit her, anyway?"

The boy paused, looking down. After a long silence, he finally spoke. "She insulted my mother."

"Oh, look at that, it can talk," Prichard said. "And for that, you hit her?"

"I didn't hit her!..." the boy squealed petulantly. "It was just a slap."

"Still, you hurt her," Prichard remarked. "You regret it now, don't you?"

The boy curled up, clenching his legs as he looked away.

"I can understand your frustration to some degree, boy," Prichard said. "I asked around about you. You're the little bastard who gets everyone on edge around here. They think you're cursed, or practically undead, like a vampire or something, and how your mother is a godless whore witch."

Suddenly, the boy turned, glaring at him. Prichard smirked. "Struck a nerve there, didn't I? Strike me if I am wrong."

The boy clenched his fists, trembling angrily. Prichard could see the thought cross the young boy's face, weighing his decision. He was slightly disappointed when the boy relented, and just stared at the ground again.

"And yet the village leader's daughter is your only friend," he said. "You cling to her like a little lost puppy, and she patches you up every time her brother beats you into the ground. Is it because of how you look?"

The boy didn't answer. Prichard regarded him. Admittedly, what he saw was a disappointment. The villagers spoke of a cursed creature. Skin, sick as rotten flesh and pale as death. Eyes so dark and hollow that when you stared into them it would suck out your soul. A misbegotten spawn. A bad omen. But all he saw was a scrawny little kid with a bloody nose.

"No, probably not." He remarked, and a certain suspicion crossed his mind. "I overheard the last thing you said to her. That's why her brother always beats the living hell out of you, isn't it?"

The boy nodded quietly. With his suspicion confirmed, Prichard pressed on. "And she didn't know. Must've been quite the effort to keep that from her and take the beatings for it. You don't even fight back."

He received no reply from the boy. Prichard stroked his beard thoughtfully. "You think you deserve to get beaten up because Lerosso Ruiz is screwing your mother, hm?"

The boy's eyes glared at him again, but there was something else. It wasn't just a flash of anger–perhaps a tinge of surprise.

"Surprised?" Prichard perked a brow. "I told you, I asked around. You wouldn't believe how chatty some of your people are. More surprising is that the girl didn't even know. Why did you only tell her now?"

"...She loves her father. I didn't want to hurt her," the boy said.

"The silent martyr, huh?" Prichard remarked. "Well, now the cat's out of the bag. The girl hates her brother, and she's going to keep hating him. Soon enough, she'll hate her father too, once the shock wears off and she asks him if your words were true."

The boy looked at him now, regretful.

"Believe me, keeping secrets like this always turns to shit. No matter how long you lie or how convincing you are. I should know best—I'm a nobleman, after all," he said, smiling.

The boy let out a quiet snort at his poor jest. With that, Prichard stood up. "Come on, boy. Wallowing in your own filth and waiting to die won't get you anywhere. The girl will come with me, and that's not suddenly going to motivate her brother to let you off the hook. Maybe he'll even hit harder afterward."

The boy took Prichard's hand. "And what should I do?" he asked softly.

"Fight."

•

Half an hour or so after the incident at the Great Bark Tree, Siria found herself in the hall of the village chapel.

Daylight filtered through the high, arched stained glass windows, casting muted beams on the four carved figures towering over her. The air was thick with the scent of incense and mingled with the dampness of yesterday's storm that seeped from the walls. Her knees ached on the cold stone floor, with clasped hands and head bowed in reverence to the gods. But that wouldn't be the truth of it. The truth was, she desperately fought not to cry.

Siria looked up at the statues of the Four Great Gods, their faces shadowed by the golden hues spilling through the windows. The sight felt heavier now, heavier still than those last few days ago. This might be the last time she'd ever kneel here.

Bang! Loud and booming, something striking the floor rang in her ears. Siria jumped, turning to see Carma looming over her, her hands clasping a walking stick.

"Have you forgotten your lessons, girl?" she croaked.

"I-I apologize," Siria said hastily, wiping a hand across her face. "I have been deeply in prayer."

The old woman flashed a mischievous grin. "Deep in prayer, you say? To the gods, or your own thoughts?" Carma's head tilted, her eyes gleaming with a knowing look that Siria couldn't quite meet.

"I—" She faltered. The words struck too close, and she looked away.

Carma's sharp eyes widened briefly, then narrowed as she studied her face. "Ah, something's weighing on you, girl. Don't try to deny it."

Siria stiffened, her hands gripping the fabric of her habit. The temptation to confide in her was there, but she bit it back. It felt strange. She suspected that someone had told Carma everything already. But the vagueness of her question is what made her pause. Was she just waiting for a confession, or was there a chance she had no idea yet?

Nevertheless, she forced a dim smile. "It's nothing," she said, the lie sour on her tongue. "Just… nerves, I suppose."

"Hmm," Carma murmured. "Whatever's going on, you'd better get your head straight. Can't focus if you're tangled up like a bird in a net."

"I'm fine."

With a long, searching look, Carma bore into her, before snorting. "Fine, eh? We'll see about that." She tapped her staff against the stone floor, echoing through the quiet chapel. "Come. Enough sulking in here. You've got more important things to do than stare at statues all day."

Siria blinked. "Come where?"

Carma turned, already heading toward the chapel doors. "Outside, girl. You've got your lessons to finish, remember?"

Siria glanced at the statues, and, as if commanded, the light in the chapel shifted. A cloud passed over the sun, shrouding the faces of the gods in a deep darkness, faces that radiated serenity, confidence, and wisdom turned grim and scrutinizing. They were judging her, she knew it.

The old woman looked back at her as she opened the door, letting in the crisp air. "The gods may guide you, child, but they won't hold your hand. Now, let's see what you've got."

•

Narrow cobblestone paths weaved through and encircled the vibrant flowers and herb bushes. A wide stone terrace in front of the chapel garden entrance was spacious enough to accommodate their training. Siria had often practiced here.

"These past few years I have only taught you the art of healing, but that will change today," Carma said. "Normally, it could take years to learn a new spell, but I am certain you will master this spell like the others in no time, won't you?."

Siria nodded, trying to muster confidence she didn't entirely feel. She had heard Carma speak of Tier Magic–its layers and different types–many times before, but it was still something of a mystery to her. "It is the power that separates people like you from the ordinary." She had once said to her. To be a magic caster, even a second-tier one like they were, was rare. Even rarer still were casters of the third tier and the heroes in those stories that even eclipsed that. To think of ever reaching that realm…

With that, Siria took a deep breath. "Yes, Carma."

"Hm, very well." Carma lifted her hand and whispered something that Siria couldn't hear.

Then, with a bright shining light, a figure appeared.

It stood as if conjured from a dream. Clad in silver plate from head to toe, gleaming in the sunlight, and flowing robes that brisked in the cool breeze. Bright, white feathered wings jutted from its back, twitching gently in a motion faintly reminiscent of a bird. It held a silver mace that seemed to hum with a divine resonance. The angel's form appeared human, but something was almost off-putting about it. Its shape was more of an amorphous silhouette of a humanoid than strictly defined. Then, she realized; the armor didn't simply encase the angel—it was the angel; alive with subtle movement and melded together with its body. Its eyes, burning like embers, glared through the gaps of its helm. It truly seemed like something called upon from another world.

Siria gasped. Awe tinged with slight unease prickled her skin. It was the first time she'd ever seen an angel for real.

"Honored friend, lend us your strength to stand as an enemy for this exercise," Carma said politely, nodding respectfully at the Angel, who tilted its head in supposed acknowledgment. "Now, Siria, watch carefully. This is a first-tier offensive spell—simple, but crucial."

Siria tore her gaze away from the angel, her attention snapping to Carma, who stood poised and focused.

Carma raised an open palm towards the angel and uttered a single word, loud and clear: "[Smite.]" A burst of radiant light flared from her hand, striking the angel square in the chest. The light splashed against its armor, dispersing like ripples across water as the angel shifted, taking a single step back.

"This spell is relatively ineffective against blessed servants such as our friend here. However, it's more than enough for the less savory creatures you may one day encounter," Carma explained. "Now, stand here." She gestured toward a clear spot a few paces in front of the angel.

Siria hesitated, before stepping into position. She couldn't help but feel unnerved. Healing spells were all she had known. The idea of using a spell meant to attack or to harm somehow felt foreign.

"Ready?" Carma asked, looking at her expectantly.

"I'll try," Siria said.

"Don't try. Just do," Carma corrected.

Siria closed her eyes, feeling the familiar warmth of magic stirring within her chest. She concentrated, stretching out to feel the warmth–the energy–flowing through her fingertips as Carma had taught her many times before. "Smite!" she shouted, opening her eyes.

Nothing happened.

It was the expected outcome, she knew, but that didn't stop it from bothering her, probably more than it reasonably should. She glanced back at Carma, who remained impassive.

"If we could learn a spell on the first try, we would be as gods," the old woman said facetiously. "Try again."

Siria inhaled, planting her feet on the ground as she tried to summon the magic again. "Smite!" she cried, her voice louder this time.

Still nothing.

Frustration bubbled in Siria's chest as Carma stepped forward and touched her shoulder. "Don't forget—control is as vital as power," she said. "Remember what I taught you: Concentrate, sharpen your mind, focus that power."

"...Yes, Carma," Siria said, nodding uncertainly.

"Oh, that reminds me." Carma's eyes went wide for a moment. "I'll be right back. Stay here, and don't lose heart." Then, the old woman disappeared inside the chapel, leaving Siria alone with the angel.

What seemed like hours passed.

Siria stared at the angel as she tried to cast the spell, again and again and again. Smite! Smite! Smite! By then, its gaze had turned from silent judgment to quiet mockery and any awe and reverence had been replaced by anger and frustration. Was it truly so? She didn't know, but it certainly felt like it. Thrusting her hands forward, she yelled out again, pouring her focus into the word. "Smite!"

Nothing, again. Not even a flicker.

The silence mocked her, and so did the angel's stillness. It didn't even move to acknowledge her failure. It just stared.

"What're you looking at?" She snapped at the angel.

Why am I wasting my time here? She regretted not telling Carma now. This was supposed to be her last day in the village—her last day to say goodbye, to hold onto the people and places she loved for just a little while longer. And instead, she was here, being drilled on casting spells that wouldn't even matter for who knew how long. She couldn't end it like this, leave it all like this, before she was taken away to the capital, to that stupid academy where she would learn those dumb spells anyway.

She just wanted to run away and give up, to run to him and apologize, to make amends and say that she would stay here. But doubt made her hesitate. If she ran away now, how could she ever look at Carma or her family again, let alone continue on like this? Her hands trembled as she forced herself to try again. "Smite!" she shouted, her voice cracking. Still nothing.

"Why?" she whispered bitterly. "Why now?"

Siria clenched her teeth and tried once more, ignoring the ache in her arms. "Smite!" Again, nothing happened. Her frustration boiled over, and anger flared through her like a flame. She picked up a rock. "This spell is stupid. This whole thing is stupid! I could make everything right, but no, I'm here, shouting at some stupid winged suit of armor!" She hurled the stone at the angel with all the strength left in her. It bounced off the armor harmlessly with a subtle clang.

That was the last straw. She snapped, cursing and swinging wildly around her before finally pointing her arms at Angel. Was it the magic surging in her chest or just pure, unbridled rage? It didn't matter. She screamed so hard she thought her throat might burst.

"[SMITE!]"

It all happened so fast.

She barely registered the flare bursting from her fingers, the sheer force sending her off her feet before it ricocheted off the angel's gleaming armor with a deafening crack. The light veered upward, slamming into the chapel's bell tower. Shattered bricks and dust flew into the air as the tower trembled, and debris began to fall right where she stood.

Siria froze. This is it, she thought. I messed up, and now…

Before she could finish the thought, darkness engulfed her.