On the rooftop of an old, decrepit shop, where the wooden beams sagged as though bowing under the weight of forgotten years, a young figure sat at the edge.
One leg was tucked to his chest, the other dangled loosely over the drop, swinging just above the worn cobblestone street below. The roof tiles beneath him, slanted and uneven, glistened with a thin sheen of evening dew. Cold bit faintly at the air, yet he remained unmoved, his expression calm, as though he belonged to that silence between dusk and nightfall.
His gaze stretched far into the distance, where a sea of wheat unfurled, swaying gently under the embrace of the waning sun. The stalks moved like a great tide, the muted green of their bodies rippling beneath a dim horizon, whispering in the hush of the wind. It was a sound that seemed eternal, a murmuring tide that promised both life and death, autumn's end and winter's inevitable descent.
The boy's hair caught the final light. Golden strands—unkempt, unruly, and long enough to brush the line of his shoulders—gleamed as if molten, each stray lock gilded by the day's last warmth. For a fleeting moment, he appeared crowned by that light, as if mocked by the heavens with a radiance he could not claim.
Yet when one looked closer, when their gaze fell into his eyes, all such illusions dissolved. Black pupils, unfathomably deep, stared outward—so still, so quiet, they seemed carved from shadow itself. From time to time, a glint stirred within them. Subtle. Fleeting. The kind of faint gleam one glimpses in storm clouds before the thunder growls, before lightning cleaves the dark.
He was clothed simply. A faded blue shirt clung to his frame, its cuffs threadbare, its collar softened by overuse. His trousers bore patches at the knees, and over both hung a brown jacket frayed at the seams, each stitch like a testament to necessity rather than care. He was thin—frail even. His limbs bony, his shoulders narrow, his complexion touched by the sun in the way of those who worked outside without reprieve. Though no more than fourteen by count of years, there was a heaviness about him, the quiet impression of someone who had already walked too long down roads unfit for a child.
The air was cold. Each breath he let escape came white, curling upward in fragile wisps, as if his lungs exhaled the smoke of a dying fire.
Beneath him, the town stirred faintly. The street below, laid in cobblestone that had endured countless footsteps, carried the echo of one more set approaching. The rhythm was muffled but distinct, the measured stride of someone who did not rush but never lingered.
He did not stir. His mind had wandered far, drifting between silence and thought, the horizon blurring into something distant, unreachable. It was as though the dusk itself sought to swallow him whole, to drag him down into its vast stillness.
The spell broke.
A voice rasped upward, harsh yet oddly steady:
"Mika. It's getting cold. Why don't you come inside?"
The words rose through the air like smoke, punctuated by a faint crackle. A moment later, the glow of ember revealed itself below, a cigar held firmly between an old woman's fingers. She inhaled deeply, the red point flaring against the twilight, before letting smoke coil from her lips in a slow, curling stream.
Her tone softened on the last syllables, betraying concern beneath her brusque exterior.
"You'll catch your death out here. Eat something. You need to be ready."
The boy—Mika—turned his head slightly. Shadows stretched across his face, the last sunlight outlining him in pale relief. When he spoke, his voice carried none of youth's usual vibrance. It was dry, stripped bare, and heavy with a bitterness that did not belong on so young a tongue.
"Old hag," he muttered, the words rough but not truly cruel, "do you really think I have a chance?"
He looked down at himself then—at his thin arms, his calloused fingers, the threadbare clothes draped over a body starved of strength. A short, brittle laugh escaped his throat, harsh against the quiet.
"Shouldn't you be preparing my grave instead?"
The old woman did not miss a beat. Her free hand lifted and cracked across his head in a sharp smack. The sound echoed louder than her voice.
"Stop feeling sorry for yourself," she barked. "You know as well as I do that nothing is ever set in stone."
Mika winced, rubbing the struck spot, but his expression shifted only into weariness. "I've seen enough to know I won't make it," he replied, tone caught between resignation and frustration. "It's not like I don't want to survive, to leave this rotten place behind. But tell me, Nana—what do I have? No training. No schooling. No legacy. Nothing."
He paused, voice falling to a whisper. "Even my own paren—"
Another smack interrupted him, sharper than the first. The force nearly toppled him from the rooftop, and he had to flail briefly to steady himself.
"Hey!" he protested, eyes flashing with indignation. "That hurt!"
The woman smirked, lines deepening at the corners of her eyes. "Good. Let it hurt. Better pain than despair. Now get inside."
Her voice lowered, though it did not lose its firmness. "You've made it fourteen years. Don't you dare give up now. The Call is fair, and the Trial ahead is fairer still. Remember that."
For a long moment, Mika was silent. Then he exhaled sharply, shoulders slumping. "Fine," he muttered, tone filled with reluctant resignation.
He slid down from the rooftop, landing lightly on the ground before trailing into the shop behind her. She shook her head, lips pressed around her cigar, exhaling smoke into the growing dark.
The shop was as peculiar as it was old.
A Victorian structure worn thin by time, its wooden beams carried scars of rot, and the stone foundation seemed as though it sank a little deeper into the soil each passing year. Inside, the air grew heavier. Dust lingered thick, mingling with the scent of charred herbs and aged wood. Shelves pressed against the walls groaned beneath the weight of forgotten relics—cracked porcelain figurines, tarnished silverware, rusted tools, trinkets that seemed to belong to no one.
And yet, among the clutter, something else lingered.
Crystals. Small stones of varied shapes and colors sat scattered like careless additions, each one gleaming faintly as though lit from within. They hummed, silently, as though whispering truths too faint to hear, as though watching.
Mika lowered himself into a chair by the small table in the center of the room. Its surface had been worn smooth by decades of use. His posture was slouched, his eyes heavy with something that was not just fatigue.
At the stove, Nana busied herself, stirring a pot of stew. Steam curled upward, its aroma spreading warmly through the room, though Mika hardly lifted his gaze.
"It's seven," she said at last, voice matter-of-fact. "Five more hours to go. Eat well. Steady yourself."
Mika scoffed softly, eyes narrowing at the bowl she placed before him. "In five hours, I'll probably be dead. And you want me to calm down?" He let out a dry laugh, hollow. "I've been dreading this day for years. The feeling's grown dull. Don't worry. I won't make a fuss."
This time, she reacted not with a smack but with a sharp tug at his ear, her grip iron-strong despite her age.
"Will you stop already? Remember what I've told you."
Mika yelped, twisting away. "Alright, alright! Let go, you old hag!" He pulled free with exaggerated effort, though beneath his irritation was something else—something softer. It was the kind of defiance born not of hatred, but of a bond too long forged to be broken.
Outside, the night pressed closer. Shadows stretched long across the cobblestone streets, the wheat fields beyond swaying in restless whispers, as though they too awaited what was to come.
The boy stared into the bowl before him. The stew steamed faintly, yet he did not raise his spoon. In its surface, he glimpsed his reflection—distorted, trembling in the broth: a thin boy on the cusp of fate, a youth poised on the edge of something he could neither control nor escape.
The old woman stood nearby, cigar ember glowing faintly in the dark, her gaze fixed on him with a hard, unyielding steadiness. It was not pity she held, but the resolve of one who had seen too many vanish into the Trial without hope. She would not let him face it with despair.
Time crept onward, merciless in its march.
Every tick of the unseen clock seemed deliberate, savoring the tension of his final ordinary evening, as though the world itself took pleasure in prolonging the wait before the Call came.
And beyond the walls, the wheat fields swayed.
Their whispers carried on the night wind, murmurs of anticipation for the Trial that none could escape.