Grecko Academy's morning training yard rang with steel, stone, and divine light.
Sunlight poured across polished marble, reflecting off etched containment sigils carved into the ground. Circles within circles. Old designs, older than the city itself. Meant to hold blessing-force so stray lightning or divine pressure didn't crack the foundations. Every ring was a reminder that power here was expected, controlled, celebrated.
Frankie stood in the lowest one.
The ungifted ring.
Around her, scholarship students moved through basic forms. Footwork drills. Guard positions. Breathing cadence. Movements designed not to create warriors, but assistants. People who would carry equipment, record battles, haul wounded, or die buying time for those the gods had chosen.
Never champions.
Instructor Halvar strode along the outer rings, where the gifted trained. He didn't bother masking his preference. His Athena-blessed eyes, silver, cold, sharpbarely flicked toward Frankie's group.
"Again," he barked.
The gifted obeyed.
Lightning crackled. Wind curled into visible spirals. A boy lifted from the ground on a cushion of golden force, laughing as if gravity itself adored him. A girl formed a radiant spear and hurled it into a target dummy, which exploded in a shower of marble fragments.
Applause rippled through the courtyard.
Admiration.
Envy.
Resignation.
Frankie kept her gaze lowered and repeated the simple guard sequence.
Step. Turn. Raise. Lower.
Slow.
Deliberate.
Human.
Inside, everything in her body begged to move faster. To flow. To cut the air. To let instinct take over. To show how effortless this had become.
But power seen was power hunted.
So she stayed average.
Invisible.
"Rinaldi," Halvar called.
Frankie stopped.
He descended from the gifted ring, his boots striking marble with clipped precision. He circled her once, eyes narrowing slightly.
"Your guard is slow," he said. "Again."
Frankie repeated the motion. Purposefully imperfect.
Halvar's frown deepened.
"Again."
She did. Slight improvement. Still within human limits. Still unimpressive.
He waved her away with a flick of his fingers.
"Passable. Archive material. You'll serve by writing history, not shaping it."
A few gifted students smirked.
Frankie bowed her head.
And counted heartbeats.
Patience was survival.
When training ended, students drifted toward the colonnades. The marble arches threw long shadows. Water basins trickled with temple-fed streams. The air smelled of incense and clean stone.
Frankie moved with the crowd, just another scholarship girl in plain grey uniform.
As she passed near the records office, voices reached her.
Not students.
Clerks. Gate officers. Temple scribes. Adults who handled reports from the Death Zone.
"…twelve sent on that clearance," one clerk said quietly. "Only four returned."
Another sighed. "Rat swarm in sector nine. Maw-class sighting. They never should've been deployed without a god-blessed escort."
A third leaned closer.
"Marco Vieri was one of the survivors. He dragged two others back. Said something out there killed scavengers before they reached his unit. Quiet. Fast. Like the dark itself."
The second clerk scoffed. "Fear talk. Trauma."
"But retrieval squads found signs of a maw," the first said. "Already dead. No divine residue. No weapon marks. Nothing that fits."
Silence followed.
A silence shaped by unease.
All rumours not one hundred percent correct but close enough.
Frankie walked past without breaking stride.
Without glancing at them.
Without acknowledging that she had been there.
That four lived instead of none.
That a disaster had become a mystery.
At the water basin, a girl was filling her flask.
Simple uniform. No gold stitching. No family crest. No divine shimmer. Dark hair bound back with leather cord. Calm eyes that watched the world instead of demanding it watch her.
She turned as Frankie approached.
"First day back?" the girl asked.
Frankie nodded. "Yes."
"I'm Callista," she said. "Callie."
"Francesca."
Callista leaned against the basin, letting the water run a moment longer than necessary.
"They're loud today," she said, nodding toward the gifted students boasting near the pillars.
Frankie allowed a faint smile.
"They like being seen."
Callista studied her. Not rudely. Not suspiciously. Just attentive in a way most people weren't.
"You move like you've trained beyond these lessons," Callista said.
Frankie kept her expression neutral.
"We all train."
Callista chuckled.
"Most of them trip over their own feet."
They shared a brief silence.
Then Callista lowered her voice slightly.
"I heard about the clearance unit."
Frankie did not move.
"Marco Vieri," Callista continued. "He told priests something in the ruins killed scavengers before they reached him. Something fast. Something quiet."
She paused.
"Was it strong?"
Frankie turned her head just enough to meet Callista's eyes.
"Rumors grow legs in this city," Frankie said.
Callista smiled faintly.
"True. But people who crawl out of the Death Zone don't invent stories for fun."
Frankie held her gaze.
"What do you want, Callista?"
"To know if the rumor is real," Callista said. "And if it is… whether the one behind it is someone worth knowing."
Frankie thought of ash drifting away. Of silent kills. Of dominion pulsing beneath her skin.
She shrugged lightly.
"Scavengers die every day. Some by blade. Some by falling stone. Some by luck."
Callista laughed softly.
"That wasn't an answer."
"It was the only safe one," Frankie replied.
Callista accepted that without offense.
"If you ever want to speak to someone who doesn't kneel just because everyone else does," she said, gesturing toward the Academy halls, "my seat is usually empty."
Then she walked away.
Frankie watched her go.
Not threatened.
Not trusting.
Just aware.
Callista saw more than she should.
A ripple moved through the courtyard.
Subtle. Heavy. Like the air thickening before a storm.
Gifted students paused mid-conversation. Instructor Halvar stiffened, glancing briefly skyward. Temple banners fluttered though no wind blew.
Beneath Frankie's skin, the demonic mark pulsed once.
Contained.
Quiet.
Acknowledging something distant and hostile.
Angels near the perimeter.
Not inside the walls.
Not yet.
The pressure passed. Breath returned. Life resumed.
But Frankie did not forget it.
Scripture followed.
Priest Dorian stood before a vast mural of gods striking angels from the heavens, golden spears piercing white wings, lightning burning holy flesh.
"Without the gods," he proclaimed, "humanity would have been erased."
Students nodded.
Some smiled.
Some whispered prayers.
Frankie listened silently.
And remembered the altar.
The stone.
The choice.
Power that had nothing to do with gods.
During break, Cassian Aurelius intercepted her.
Hermes-blessed. Quick-eyed. Quicker grin.
"Well, Rinaldi. Still alive."
"I am," Frankie said.
Cassian flicked a coin into the air. In a blink he vanished, reappearing behind her with a whisper.
"Try not to embarrass yourself this term, gutter girl."
Frankie didn't flinch.
Didn't rise to it.
Because if she wished, she could outrun him, outfight him, break him like glass.
But revealing that would end everything.
So she let him walk away satisfied.
Mask over mask.
Lie over lie.
By midday, Frankie left the Academy.
The city noise swallowed her. Vendors calling. Temple bells chiming. Children laughing. Incense drifting through warm air.
She walked home through narrow streets.
Sofia opened the door before she knocked, throwing her arms around Frankie's waist.
"You're back."
Frankie hugged her.
"I always come back."
That night, Frankie stood at the window.
Beyond Novara Prime's walls, the ruins stretched beneath stars.
The Death Zone.
Where she did not pretend.
Where she did not bow.
Where she did not lie.
Inside the walls she was Francesca Rinaldi.
Ungifted. Replaceable. Invisible.
Outside, she was something else.
Not human.
Not angel.
Not god-blessed.
Godless.
And ascending.