The morning sun barely pierced the high, stained-glass windows of the orphanage's chapel, scattering fragmented colors across the cold stone floor.
The hall smelled faintly of incense and dust, mixed with the lingering scent of yesterday's failures. Ostina sat on the edge of a wooden bench, her small hands folded in her lap, fingers trembling. The world seemed far too big for someone her size.
She could hear them before she saw them—the footsteps of the head priest echoing down the corridor, the whispers of nuns and older children sharpening with anticipation.
Here comes another lecture, she thought, her heart tightening. Her body was small, weak, starved from years of insufficient meals, her limbs frail, her muscles almost nothing. Every movement felt like lifting the weight of the world.
"Again?" The priest's voice cut through the quiet. "Do you expect to become a saint with such pitiful skill?"
Ostina's gaze fell to the floor. She had been trying all morning—no, all her life—but her holy magic stubbornly refused to answer.
The glow that should have sparked from her palms was absent. She felt the sting of humiliation creep through her chest, mixing with the ache of hunger and the dull pain of scars etched into her arms and back. Scars she could not forget, reminders of punishment for mistakes she had not fully understood.
The other children snickered. One whispered, "The Trash Saint fails again." Another tapped her foot impatiently, rolling her eyes. Ostina's tiny frame seemed even smaller under their gaze. She swallowed hard, forcing down the lump in her throat. "I… I'm trying," she whispered, voice barely audible, almost drowned by the echoes of mockery.
No one noticed the shadow that twisted beneath her fingertips. A swirl of dark magic, hidden and patient, hovered quietly. It formed into a ring-shaped shimmer, delicate and unassuming, a small secret only she could feel. The Church saw only a weak child—but Ostina knew differently. Every object around her, every corner of the room, could bend to her will if needed. But for now, it remained still, invisible, waiting.
The priest leaned closer, eyes cold. "A saint must shine, Ostina. You… are nothing.
Her chest ached—not from his words, but from the constant expectation to be more than she was. Her body could not match the demands, and yet a quiet fire stirred within her. A leaf quivered at the far edge of the hall, a spider froze mid-step on the stone floor, unnoticed by anyone but her. Even the shadows seemed to hesitate. They do not see me… and they never will.
Her lips curved into a faint, almost imperceptible smile. They'll never know.
The bell for the morning lesson rang, echoing through the stone hall. Ostina rose slowly, her small feet moving with practiced caution, keeping her back straight despite the weakness she felt in every limb. The nuns watched her approach the altar with thinly veiled disdain. She could feel their scrutiny like ice against her skin, waiting for her to falter.
But as she knelt, a small sound caught her attention: a tiny rustle of leaves outside the window, a chirp from a bird perched on the sill. Her heart stirred. Perhaps the world was larger than this hall, and not all of it sought to punish her. Perhaps some things, some life, were quietly waiting, willing to lend their strength if she could only learn to ask.
Ostina closed her eyes for a brief moment, centering herself.
Her fingers brushed against the hidden shimmer of dark magic around her ring. One day, those who mocked her, dismissed her, and called her weak would learn exactly what she was capable of—but not today. Today, she would survive.
And survival, she thought, could be its own kind of victory.