The scent of incense hung heavy in the air — copper and crushed petals, threaded through with something faintly metallic.
Riel sat cross-legged on the polished obsidian floor of the Ritual Hall, silver light from the dome above washing over the gathered initiates. The walls pulsed with faint script — living runes that writhed and reformed when unobserved, whispering prayers too old for words.
At the center of the hall stood High Ardent Lysara, priestess of the Thousand-Eyed Starlight. Her skin was traced with black ink that climbed her neck, arms, and spine, intricate constellations and lines of script. When she breathed, the markings seemed to shift. When she spoke, they glimmered faintly beneath her flesh, like distant stars.
"Rituals," Lysara said, her voice low and resonant, "are belief given shape, faith transfigured into will."
She moved among the students, her footsteps soundless against the floor. "They are not prayers to the divine. They are acts that demand the divine answer."
A flick of her wrist, and symbols of light shimmered in the air. "To shape a ritual, you must offer something — a fragment of blood, a relic, a piece of your strength. The greater your offering, the greater the response. In time, your own power may suffice."
Her tattoos brightened as she raised her hand. A ripple of light bloomed from her palm, the air bending around it like heat over metal. The glow condensed, forming a perfect sphere that hung in the air before dissolving into mist.
"Belief alone is useless," she continued. "Faith must be melded, refined until it becomes will."
With another motion, circles of silver dust appeared before each student, their faint lines humming with potential. The air seemed to thicken, saturated with quiet expectation.
"Begin," Lysara said. "Invoke. Offer what you can."
All around him, the hall came alive.
A dark-haired boy placed a curved talon into his circle — the claw of some beast he'd likely slain in the field. The air warped, and a faint ripple of heat shimmered above his hands. He gasped softly, eyes wide.
A girl beside him exhaled a single drop of blood and whispered a prayer. Her circle answered with a bloom of sound, a soft chime that lingered, and when she blinked, her pupils glowed faintly silver.
Further down the line, another student drew a breath and released it into the sigil. His hands shook as the circle brightened, and for a brief moment, the shape of a blade shimmered in the air before vanishing — a borrowed weapon, ephemeral but real.
Each success filled the hall with quiet awe. The faintest hum of divine resonance threaded through the air.
Riel's turn came.
He stared at the circle before him, intricate lines of silver dust, pulsing gently as if waiting for his command. He felt it beneath his skin, that faint pull from the world itself. But the warmth that should have risen in his chest refused to come.
He pricked his thumb and let a drop of blood fall. It hissed as it met the sigil, the light swelling for a heartbeat before stuttering.
Come on, he thought. Focus. Just believe.
The lines trembled, flickered, and began to fracture. He tried to steady his breath, to let the thought shape itself — but all he could feel was the weight pressing against his ribs, the memory of failure creeping in before the ritual could even answer.
The sigil collapsed.
The sound was soft, a hiss of dying light, but it drew the room's attention. The air went still.
Lysara's head turned. Her eyes glimmered faintly with starlight as she crossed the floor. The tattoos on her arms brightened as she neared him, constellations moving like living ink beneath her skin.
She studied the ruined sigil for a long moment, then looked to Riel.
"You believed wrongly," she said.
He swallowed hard. "I… I offered what I had."
Her expression did not change. "Belief is not a trade. You do not offer to appease. You offer to be heard. But before you began, you doubted it would answer."
Her gaze swept across the class. "Remember this. Doubt kills faith faster than corruption. A ritual held together by hesitation will always fall apart."
The room was silent except for the low hum of the runes on the walls. Lysara stepped back, her tone calm, absolute.
"Again," she said. "Until belief stops trembling."
–––
Riel tried again.
And again.
Each attempt faltered. The silver dust refused to hold its shape. The air around him grew heavy with failure, until even breathing felt like defiance. Sweat beaded along his neck. His fingers trembled, smearing the once-perfect lines into dull gray streaks.
Around him, other students finished their rites. Some left smiling faintly, still glowing with the residue of their success — sharper sight, steadier hands, a whisper of power that would fade in moments.
Some frustrated their offering not worthy of a response their faith not strong enough.
By the time the bell rang, Riel's circle was only dust.
He stayed seated long after the others had gone, staring at the faint residue of his failed attempts. The air still hummed with faint echoes of divine energy, but none of it was his.
Lysara had already left. Only her words remained, suspended in the silence.
Doubt kills faith faster than corruption.
Riel closed his eyes. The phrase looped endlessly in his mind, colder each time it returned.
And for the first time, he wondered if doubt wasn't something he could control — but something that had always been there, buried too deep to ever burn away.