The orphanage buzzed with activity, but Ostina moved like a ghost.
Her pack was lighter now, carrying only essentials she might need for quick maneuvers, and her shards of dark magic hovered softly, unseen and ready.
It began in the chapel. A candle had been left too close to the draped cloth, threatening to scorch it.
Most children would have noticed too late, but Ostina's shards nudged a gentle breeze, tilting the candle just enough to prevent disaster. When the head nun passed and saw nothing amiss, she muttered in annoyance at the "strange coincidences" and moved on. Ostina allowed herself a faint smile.
Unseen.
Perfect.
Later, in the kitchen, a tray of utensils toppled precariously from a counter. The older children gasped, but before a hand could touch them, Ostina guided a shard to subtly shift the center of gravity, ensuring nothing broke and no one was hurt. Whispers of gratitude passed among the children—but no one noticed her. No one ever did.
Her next test was the courtyard. The head nun had planted a new flower bed, delicate and vulnerable.
Ostina traced a thread along the water lines, nudging them just enough to give the saplings extra water without overflooding. A guard inspected the garden, frowning at how perfect the soil looked. Coincidence, he muttered, unaware that a tiny figure had orchestrated every detail.
Even the dormitories were not safe from her quiet orchestration. A mislaid broom threatened to trip a younger child.
A flick of shadow, a pulse of mana, and the broom shifted to a harmless angle. The child continued without incident, oblivious. Ostina observed from a corner, her teal eyes glittering. Each small act built her confidence—and reinforced the idea that she was invisible, powerless, harmless.
By midday, she was moving through the orphanage with practiced ease, testing each escape route she had mapped.
She climbed the back stairwell, slipped into attic crawlspaces, and even crossed narrow ledges along the roof without leaving a trace. Each route was a potential lifeline, and she tested them all under the gaze of the Church, ensuring she could disappear at any moment.
But the most important lesson came quietly. A guard, distracted by a noise in the storage room, began to investigate, moving faster than anticipated.
Ostina felt a thrill of alertness pulse through her shards. Without hesitation, she nudged a thread of shadow, creating a flicker of movement in the opposite hallway. The guard followed, completely unaware of the tiny figure who had orchestrated his every step. Ostina slipped past, heart steady, mind calm, every escape route rehearsed and ready.
By evening, Ostina sat beneath her favorite window, the fading sunlight brushing her black hair.
Her pack rested beside her, her shards dissolved into invisibility, and the orphanage seemed ordinary once more. But in truth, it had changed. Every hallway, stairwell, window, and hidden hollow answered to her knowledge. Every accidental "coincidence" she created had subtly reminded the Church and its guards that order could shift without warning—yet none suspected the architect.
She traced her fingers through the air, feeling the invisible threads of her domain, and allowed herself the faintest smile. One day, these threads will be more than small accidents. One day, they will bend the entire orphanage—and its masters—to me.
For now, though, she was patient. Invisible.
Harmless.
Perfect.
And in that invisibility, Ostina—the so-called "Trash Saint"
—was freer than anyone in the orphanage could ever imagine.