"My name is Cyril Celestine, and I turn fourteen this year." Cyril smoothed the coarse cotton collar of his white robe, his voice barely a breath against the damp cave walls.
In the still pool of rainwater gathered near the threshold, his reflection wavered under the pale dawn—a boy framed by an untamed halo of fluffy, pure-white hair, with striking crimson eyes that held neither malice nor deceit.
His entire existence spanned the dimensions of this limestone hollow on Grenfell Village's rocky outskirts. Old Man Ward, his lifelong guardian, filled those years with endless instruction. Letters, arithmetic, and the rigid postures of noble conduct were drilled into his bones. The villagers lauded his penmanship, though Cyril cared little for sums or etiquette. Scripture, however, anchored him.
The mere mention of the Celestial God didn't spark the 'sacred dread' or 'euphoric enlightenment' Ward so strictly demanded. Instead, the divine verses washed a cool, crystalline authority over his skin. It felt nothing like bowing before a tyrant. Rather, the presence knelt in his shadow—a colossal, ancient entity lowering its head to quietly await his command.
Cyril slapped a hand over his mouth, eyes darting across the shadows. Arrogance. Ward promised the rod for any pride taking root in his heart.
He hurried onto the terrace. The bronze sundial cast a long, morning shadow. Sunday. The single day Ward descended into the village.
He pivoted toward the treacherous path, then stopped. Ward's morning instruction echoed in his mind: The robe in the cedar wardrobe. Cyril fetched the garment. It lacked gold threading or silk lining—just stark, immaculate cotton. Swapping it for his daily wear, he bounded down the hillside.
Grenfell clung to the earth, a patchwork of thatched roofs and sprawling crop rows knitted together by packed dirt trails. Poverty hung in the air, yet every fence stood straight, every threshold swept clean. The village carried a quiet, enduring dignity.
Today, the trails lay deserted. In the central plaza, the entire village sat cross-legged in the dust, forming a massive ring around a towering, ancient oak. At its roots stood a man draped in white, his beard a cascade of spun snow against his chest.
Cyril halted at the crowd's edge. He eyed his pristine hem, glanced at an empty wooden bench, then assessed the barren dirt bordering the villagers. Bypassing the timber, he sank directly into the dust.
Old Man Ward's gaze flicked to the boy for a fraction of a second, before his gravelly sermon marched on.
Closing his eyes, Cyril let the rhythmic cadence of Ward's voice carry him. The world fractured into blinding, luminous geometry. An ember ignited against his sternum, blossoming into a searing heat that skirted the edge of agony, only to shatter into profound weightlessness. Gravity surrendered. Anxiety and the mortal dread of the dark evaporated, leaving behind an impenetrable, glass-still serenity.
As the sermon's final syllable died, the light receded.
"Thank you for the sermon, Sir Ward," the villagers chanted. They rose, slapping dust from their breeches, and dispersed.
Cyril blinked, the divine afterglow fading to reveal Ward towering over him.
"Old Ward?"
"Come," the ascetic rasped, pivoting toward the boundary line. Cyril scrambled to follow.
They didn't climb toward the cave. Ward carved a path straight through the village perimeter, bypassing the final thatched cottage, marching through the wheat, and plunging across the river shallows.
Cyril's breath hitched. The boundary. Ward had spent years etching terrifying tales of mountain beasts and shadowed horrors into Cyril's mind to ensure he never crossed the water. Is he finally lifting the veil?
When Grenfell's rooftops sank below the horizon, a monolithic silhouette shattered the pastoral quiet. Cyril froze. A colossal, gleaming carriage dominated the trail. Ivory lacquer reflected the high sun, laced with heavy gold filigree twisting into a radiant sunburst. A titan forged in white plate armor gripped the reins, statuesque and utterly silent. Even the four massive draft horses wore matching steel barding, their breaths pluming in the cool air.
The heavy oak door unlatched. Three women descended.
The trio shared identical golden hair and white, gold-hemmed robes, yet their armaments escalated. The first walked unburdened by steel. The second wore a sleek breastplate and greaves. The third thundered forward in imposing, heavy cavalry plate. Moving as a single organism, they snapped their hands together and folded at the waist.
"Dame Lucia," the unarmored woman declared. "Dame Justina," the lightly armored woman echoed. "Dame Marcella," the heavily armored woman finished.
They lifted their chins, their voices harmonizing into a reverent cry. "We greet the G—"
Ward raised one calloused palm. The tiny gesture struck them like a physical blow. Their mouths snapped shut. The women darted nervous glances at Cyril, then bolted upright, suddenly fascinated by the dirt.
Cyril tilted his head. What title were they about to utter?
"Board," Ward commanded, vanishing into the velvet interior.
"You're actually letting me leave, Old Ward?" Cyril plastered his face against the crystal window as the cabin lurched forward, devouring the scenery. "What about the monsters?"
Dame Lucia's laughter chimed through the cabin. "'Old Ward?'" She leaned forward, eyeing the dust staining Cyril's knees. "A modest little thing. Just like Sir Mentor."
She aimed a manicured finger at his chest. "Cleanse."
A warm, pressurized ripple snapped across his skin. The plaza dust evaporated into thin air. Cyril gasped, touching his spotless fabric.
"Rest easy," Lucia winked. "No beast dares hunt while Sir is on the road."
Cyril beamed. "Mentor? You must be his former students, just like me!"
"Watch your mouth, brat. Who are you calling 'former'?" Dame Justina snapped, crossing her steel-clad arms. "You're practically in diapers."
Cyril blinked, tilting his head. "Really? Exactly how old are you, then?"
Justina's cheeks ignited. "You little—!"
"Stand down, Justina," Marcella rumbled, her heavy armor clinking as she shifted. She offered Cyril a composed, diplomatic smile. "Forgive her. She's reliving the trauma of Sir Mentor's training. Since he clearly skipped etiquette, I'll provide a lesson: never interrogate a lady on her years."
"Oh, Old Ward taught me that," Cyril replied, sincerity dripping from his voice.
Three armored heads snapped toward the ascetic in sheer disbelief. Ward kept his eyes sealed, meditating through the chaos.
"I just didn't care!" Cyril chirped.
A vein throbbed at Justina's temple. "You insolent—"
"I'm sorry!" Cyril waved his hands frantically. "You just looked so young, I wasn't sure if I should call you my senior or junior sister."
Justina froze. The fury evaporated, replaced by a smug, chest-puffing pride. "Hmph. Good eyes. But I'm no junior. I survived his training a decade ago—when you were still eating dirt. I am a Grade 1 Inquisitor. The absolute peak of the division."
Cyril nodded sagely, then instantly dismissed her. He twisted toward the heavy-plate warrior. "Your armor is incredible, Senior Sister Marcella! Are you a Holy Knight?"
Marcella's stoic facade cracked to reveal a proud gleam. "I am. Grade 1. A graduate of the same decade."
Lucia leaned across the aisle, her eyes practically sparkling. "And me, Cyril? Grade 1 Priest. Cool, right?"
Cyril stared at her. His bright expression flattened into a deadpan void.
One second bled into two. The carriage suffocated under the awkward silence.
Suddenly, Cyril punched the air. "The coolest, Senior Sister Lucia!"
"Brat!" Lucia wailed, burying her flushed face in her palms. "Why the hesitation?!"
"Control yourselves," Marcella hissed, shooting them a warning glare. "We sit in Sir Mentor's shadow."