Morning came slowly to the village.
The light spread over the fields first, pale and thin, before touching the narrow road that cut through the middle of the houses. Dust lay quiet on the ground. A few doors opened one by one as people stepped outside to begin the day the same way they always did.
Elian Mareth was already awake.
He stood beside the old wooden fence near the edge of the wheat field, tightening a rope that had come loose during the night wind. The rope scratched against his palm as he pulled it through the post. It was simple work. Familiar work.
He preferred it that way.
Life in the village rarely changed. Crops grew. Harvests came and went. Sometimes traders passed through. Sometimes priests from the temple walked the road and reminded people about prayer days.
But most days were quiet.
Elian finished tying the rope and leaned back slightly to test the tension. The fence held.
"Good enough," he murmured to himself.
He wiped his hands against his trousers and looked toward the village center. Smoke rose from two chimneys already. Somewhere a child laughed, followed by a mother's sharp voice calling them back inside.
Normal.
Everything looked normal.
But Elian had felt something strange in the village for the past two days.
It was not something he could easily explain.
People looked at him longer than usual.
Not everyone. Just enough to notice.
He had caught old Mara from the well staring at him yesterday, her eyes lingering before she quickly looked away. Even Thom, who usually greeted him loudly every morning, had only nodded once and walked past.
Elian had laughed it off at first.
Maybe they thought he had done something foolish again. That would not be new.
Still, the feeling remained.
He stepped away from the fence and walked down the path toward the center of the village. His boots crushed small stones beneath each step.
The temple stood on the far side of the village hill, its white stone walls rising above the smaller houses. It had been there longer than anyone living in the village could remember.
Most people treated the temple with quiet respect.
Elian mostly tried to avoid it.
Not because he hated it.
He simply disliked the silence inside.
The priests spoke softly and moved slowly, like every word they said carried a weight ordinary people were not meant to understand. Elian preferred loud places, laughter, and open air.
He reached the main road just as two priests walked down the slope from the temple.
They wore the usual white robes. One of them was older, with thin gray hair and narrow eyes that studied everything around him.
The other priest was younger and carried a leather book under his arm.
Both of them stopped when they saw Elian.
That alone made Elian pause.
The older priest stepped forward first.
"Elian Mareth," he said.
Elian blinked slightly.
"Yes, Priest."
The priest studied him carefully, as if comparing him to something only he could see.
"You are the son of Daren Mareth," the priest said.
"Yes."
"Born during the autumn harvest season."
Elian nodded slowly. "That sounds right."
The younger priest opened the leather book and scanned the pages.
The older priest continued speaking.
"You have lived in this village your entire life?"
"Yes."
"You have never left the southern valley?"
Elian scratched the back of his neck.
"Not really. Once with a trader cart when I was younger, but we didn't go far."
The older priest watched him for another long moment.
Then he nodded once.
"Good."
Elian waited for the rest of the conversation.
It did not come.
Instead, the priest simply said, "You will visit the temple this afternoon."
Elian blinked again.
"Visit?"
"Yes."
"For what?"
"A blessing."
The word sounded simple enough.
Still, something about the way the priest said it felt strange.
Elian tried to laugh lightly.
"I'm not sure I need one."
The younger priest looked up sharply from the book.
The older priest did not smile.
"This is not a request," he said calmly.
Elian felt the humor fade from his face.
"Alright," he said after a moment. "If that's what the temple wants."
The priests said nothing more.
They turned and continued down the road toward the village center.
Elian stood there for a few seconds after they left.
A blessing.
He exhaled slowly.
"Well," he muttered, "that's new."
He continued walking through the village.
More people were awake now. A farmer pushed a cart loaded with tools toward the fields. Two women stood near the well whispering to each other.
Both of them fell silent when Elian passed.
That happened again twice before he reached the bakery.
This time he stopped.
"Alright," Elian said, raising his hands slightly. "What did I do?"
The baker's wife looked uncomfortable.
"You didn't do anything."
"Then why does everyone look like I'm already dead?"
She frowned at him.
"That's not funny."
"I'm not joking."
The woman hesitated.
Her eyes flicked briefly toward the temple on the hill.
Then she said quietly, "The priests have been asking about you."
Elian's shoulders relaxed slightly.
"So that's it?"
She did not answer.
Instead she said, "You should go to the temple when they ask."
"I said I would."
Her expression softened, but not with relief.
"With respect," she added.
Elian frowned slightly.
"Have I ever disrespected the temple?"
"No."
"Then what's the problem?"
She opened her mouth to answer.
Then closed it again.
"I need to get the bread out of the oven," she said instead, turning away.
Elian watched her go.
The uneasiness in his chest grew slightly heavier.
Still, he shook his head and continued with his work for the rest of the morning.
By midday the sun sat high above the valley.
Elian washed his hands at the well and looked up toward the temple.
He considered ignoring the request.
He could easily stay in the fields until sunset.
But the thought only lasted a moment.
The temple always noticed when someone avoided them.
Better to go.
He started walking up the hill.
The path toward the temple was lined with short stone markers that had faded over time. The wind moved softly through the grass around them.
The closer Elian walked, the quieter the world seemed to become.
When he reached the temple entrance, two priests were already waiting.
The same older priest from the morning stood at the doorway.
"You came," he said.
"You asked."
The priest stepped aside.
"Enter."
Elian crossed the threshold.
The air inside the temple was cooler.
The wide stone hall stretched ahead of him, lit by rows of candles placed along the walls. Their flames moved slowly, casting long shadows across the floor.
Symbols had been drawn across the center of the hall in dark ink.
Elian stopped walking.
"That's new," he said.
No one laughed.
Three more priests stood near the far side of the hall. One of them carried a small wooden box.
The older priest closed the door behind Elian.
The sound echoed softly through the room.
Elian turned slightly.
"That's a lot of preparation for a blessing."
The younger priest from earlier stepped forward.
"This blessing is important."
Elian studied the floor again.
The symbols were arranged in a circle.
He did not know what they meant.
But they did not look comforting.
"Where do you want me?" Elian asked.
"In the center."
He hesitated.
Only for a moment.
Then he walked forward.
The stone floor felt colder beneath his boots as he stepped inside the circle.
The priests moved slowly around him.
One lit another candle.
Another opened the wooden box.
Inside it lay a small silver blade.
Elian's eyes followed the motion as the priest lifted it carefully.
For a moment no one spoke.
The candle flames flickered.
Elian felt something inside his chest tighten.
Not pain.
Not yet.
Just instinct.
He looked from one priest to another.
"This is a blessing," he said slowly.
The older priest stepped forward again.
"Yes."
"Then why do you need a knife?"
The priest did not answer immediately.
He studied Elian with the same careful gaze from earlier.
"You were chosen," the priest said finally.
Elian felt the words settle in the air.
Chosen.
He looked down at the symbols beneath his feet.
Then back at the blade in the priest's hand.
And for the first time since entering the temple, a quiet understanding began to rise in his chest.
Something about this was very wrong.