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Ten Years Later
The boy ten years old, though tall for his age stood near the back of the classroom, his posture rigid, his hand hovering just above the doorframe. The lesson had ended minutes ago. The soft scraping of benches and the rustling of robes had already filled the room as the other children packed away their slates and prayer scrolls Yet Rhyka didn't move.
He rarely lingered. In fact, he was usually the first to vanish once the day's lessons ended. No conversation, no games in the courtyard, no quiet walks with classmates. He was a ghost in a child's skin seen but uninvited Most days, that suited him fine Most days, he preferred the silence.
But not today.
Something was happening.
Beyond the pale, warped glass of the window and the thin timber walls of the schoolhouse, the air pulsed with movement. With sound. With a low, swelling chant that didn't belong here in Darren—a village that prided itself on its silence, on its order, on its unshakable piety.
The voices outside rose and fell in rhythm, not angry or panicked, but focused. Devout. Euphoric.
"Rhyka!"
"RHYKA!"
His name.
Again and again, spoken as if it were sacred. As if it meant something more than what it was.
Rhyka moved slowly to the window. He didn't crouch, didn't press himself to the side like a boy afraid of being seen. He stood in full view, staring out at the gathering below with calm, unreadable eyes. It was the closest thing to a potent emotion his classmates had seen from him all week.
Outside, dozens of people had gathered in the dusty path leading up to the temple courtyard They weren't locals That was obvious from the moment you saw them. Their clothing was wrong loose, layered fabrics cut in jagged seams, with symbols embroidered in spiraling, chaotic thread patterns. They wore shoes that crunched oddly on stone, carried staffs and charms with beast-tooth hilts and curling, bone-inlaid wood. Their accents, even in broken Common, grated like oil in water.
Vaelmorans.
There could be no mistaking it. They hailed from the smallest of the three known continents, a wild land separated from the Old Sea by half a world of reefs and storms. Few from Darren had ever seen one in person, and fewer still would admit to it.
The Orthodox Church called Vaelmora a broken land. A place without gods. They said its people worshipped beasts and sky, stone and fire, anything but the Divine Threads. They were heretics Apostates Strangers who had turned their backs on the goddess and the other orthodox gods that held the world together.
And yet here they were.
Standing on the sacred ground of Darren.
Chanting the name of a boy who had no place in the world they'd rejected.
Behind Rhyka, the classroom had gone quiet.
Every pair of eyes was on him now—not openly hostile, not yet but wary. Apprehensive. A few children exchanged quiet glances, whispering behind their hands. Others simply stared, wide-eyed, unsure of what to make of the scene unfolding through the window.
Rhyka exhaled. Not a sigh. Not quite. Just the release of tension he hadn't realized he was holding in his chest. Then he turned slowly to face them. He didn't smile, but he gave a sound—an awkward, sharp little laugh, almost hollow. It echoed strangely in the silence.
To break the tension, he did the only thing he knew would calm them.
He raised his right hand, placed it over his heart, and recited the first line of the Morning Blessing:
"May Her Thread bind all things. May Her Breath light the soul."
His voice was soft but firm, even.
It worked.
Some of the others murmured the second line in response, half out of instinct, half out of relief.
The atmosphere relaxed a little. A few students looked away, ashamed at having stared so openly. A girl crossed herself and whispered something under her breath. A boy exhaled like he'd been holding it for minutes.
And then
The classroom door creaked open.
A tall figure stepped inside, shoulders relaxed, his posture casual but practiced. Emmet. One of the temple's young scholars, a teacher by title, but far more than that in practice. His robes were simpler than a priest's, but his silver pin bore the mark of familial favor—he was the younger brother of Darren's head priest.
Emmet's eyes scanned the room quickly. He noticed the tension, the stillness, the way everyone was facing the same direction. Then he saw Rhyka, standing tall near the window, and gave a wide, almost lazy smile.
"Alright, little saints," Emmet said, clapping his hands. "That's enough scripture for today. Class dismissed. Out you go. Don't crowd the windows. Let the heretics chant in peace."
The word "heretics" was said lightly, like a joke, but the room still stirred. One by one, students stood and filed toward the door, their eyes flicking back to Rhyka in quick, darting glances.
As they passed, Emmet's eyes lingered on the open window, on the growing commotion outside. His expression didn't change, but the sharpness in his gaze deepened.
One of the outsiders stepped close to the glass. A woman tall with a necklace of carved bone around her throat—pressed a hand to the frame, her eyes wide and focused.
"Rhyka…" she whispered.
Emmet moved in an instant. His boots struck the floor hard as he stepped toward the window. His voice was no longer casual.
"Back away."
The woman flinched. Another man behind her raised a hand as if in protest.
"I won't ask twice," Emmet said, and this time, his tone was ice. "You're guests. You can stay that way, or I can make you leave in pieces."
The crowd murmured uneasily, but no one pressed further. The woman stepped back, bowing her head slightly, and the Vaelmorans slowly retreated from the window.
Emmet let out a quiet breath, then turned to Rhyka.
"You handled it well," he said, voice lower now, more personal. He crouched to Rhyka's level and tousled the boy's hair with his hand.
Rhyka flinched, subtly. He didn't pull away, but his expression tightened.
"You followed everything I told you to do," Emmet continued "Didn't flinch. Didn't run. You even remembered the blessing That took guts."
Rhyka looked away. He didn't feel brave. He didn't feel anything except confused—and tired. As always.
"I didn't do anything particularly special," he mumbled.
"No," Emmet agreed, straightening. "But you did something, whether you like it or not And you did what was needed. So you get a reward my treat."
"I'm not hungry."
"You're lying. And ur surprisingly good at it."
Emmet turned toward the door and motioned for him to follow.
Rhyka hesitated, staring out the window one last time The Vaelmorans were still there, still watching, though they'd moved back to the edge of the courtyard Some were kneeling. Others held up objects—talismans, tokens, parchment etched with strange ink.
They chanted his name again, but softer now. Less frenzied. More reverent. Almost prayerful.
Rhyka shivered.
He didn't know who they were.
He didn't know what they wanted.
But he knew, with a quiet certainty, that this wasn't going to stop.
It had been going on for months now
He turned from the window and followed Emmet out into the corridor, into the stone-lined halls of the temple school, away from the echoing chants and the weight of strange eyes pressing down from afar.
But as they walked, one thought clung to him like ash in the lungs:
Why do they look at me like that