The Lunar Sanctum was many things at once: a monastery, an academy, a fortress, and—if Orion judged by the sheer volume of chanting that echoed through its corridors during the holy days—an immense organ pipe through which thousands of cultists attempted to summon the favor of the Moon-Mother.
The outer wall alone, a dark grey parabola of basalt blocks fused together, could have enclosed four Roman Colosseums end to end.
Orion had triangulated the measurements from within, but without a frame of reference beyond the distant peaks, it was challenging. In three full years of his new life, he had never stepped outside the Sanctum, so he had plenty of time to ensure that his observations were accurate.
The sheer number of people who attended the services, the rumble of provisioning wagons far below his nursery balcony, and the flow of pilgrims coming and going during processions indicated to him that the institution was large, wealthy, and—most vexingly—utterly convinced it wielded true miracles rather than the effects of a machine so vast that it seemed a planet unto itself.
He wasn’t a stranger to mistakes. His last one had resulted in… well, hopefully the singularity hadn’t managed to remain stable for long. The university was likely toast, but from the flashes he could remember, the Equalizer had already broken down too much to sustain it.
Shaking his head, Orion resumed his observations while waiting for his mother to finish grading some papers.
He knew that courtyards were arranged in hanging gardens encircled by defensive fortifications, as he often had to endure his new mother’s attempts at socializing him. Watching two armed soldiers march along the nearest wall reminded him that the garrison was composed of at least a hundred men, and capable ones at that. He had yet to hear a single one move out of sync with the others.
He would have thought there would be more, but Asteria—his mother— had made it clear that they were there more for appearances than for a genuine need for protection. After all, the real power within the Sanctum lay with the witches.
And he deduced an annual budget rivaling that of a small nation from the fact that she discarded cracked sapphire vials the way a mediocre grad student would discard plastic pipettes.
Overall, the Sanctum seemed impregnable. No one ever suggested the possibility of being in danger.
But walls are not built for aesthetics. They are built to keep things out.
Asteria called it “the cradle of Lunar Enlightenment, the best place for witches to explore their blessings.” Orion thought of it as a cult with excellent logistics.
Either way, he was certain of one thing: the Sanctum held a fanatic belief that its rites shaped reality, that incantations and prayers could change the world with nothing but the power of their faith. And belief, when shared by thousands and funded by gold, could do much. Especially when the people here seemed intent on ignoring every basic law of physics. If I have to see another teenager do hoops on a flying broomstick, I will lose it.
He had already endured several indignities. Everything from his hair—the color of freshly fallen snow, curling in unruly waves—to his eyes—pure purple. Whoever heard of purple eyes? Ridiculous.
Nappies and breastfeeding were aspects he was very glad to have gotten through quickly, and he was confident he had set a new potty training record.
But the worst offender was his new name. He had already been subjected to a melodramatic name once and had managed to change it upon escaping his idiotic parents; Orion Amadeus Voidwalker sounded like the kind of handle a rebellious undergrad might choose for an online forum.
The fact that an infinitely complex computer had bestowed it during his induction rite into a cult did not improve his opinion. Worse, the System refused to reveal anything beyond a sparse stat block despite his attempts to beg and cajole it, and his mother found nothing strange about that.
He alone seemed to care about it as anything more than just a useful informational tool. From what little he had been able to glean, people needed to pray or meditate deeply for their status to appear, and few ever bothered except during important ceremonies or after significant achievements. To the locals, it was something the gods granted to make life easier.
Asteria hadn’t entertained his questions for long, merely explaining that he would learn more once he started his lessons and that it would only really become relevant once he got a real class.
Orion couldn’t forget what he had seen on the day of his rebirth, even if he wanted to. It took almost no effort for his status to appear.
Name aside, everything else was quite interesting. His class wasn’t anything special, considering that every other kid born within the Sanctum received it, but when he had asked what E-rank meant, he was met with a surprised stare.
“It usually takes a lot of dedication to see that much. You must have a talent, moonbeam,” his mother had murmured with a smile, before gently steering him away from asking any more questions.
Not that it takes a genius to get the gist of it. The class is basic, and the trait it provides—this Mana Manipulation—is equally simple, but from what I gathered, most people don’t even know that much.
Nine for Mind felt like a personal insult. “Nine out of what?” he had demanded in the privacy of the nursery. Nine out of ten would be acceptable, if arguable; nine out of a hundred would be blasphemy.
The System, unfortunately, declined to elaborate. Voice commands—Analyze! Expand! Justify your metric!—bounced off its Cherenkov blue overlay like photons off a dielectric mirror. Nor did gesture, whistle, or code-word pry additional data from the ethereal interface. He hoped that his “talent” would yield more information down the line, but so far, that wasn’t the case.
Nevertheless, he had been able to glean some insights on his own.
First, the level increased on the anniversary of his rebirth during the Ceremony of Gratitude, which was held annually. His mother had given him a vague explanation that the Initiate class was a placeholder until he reached maturity and that it would only allow him to earn a limited number of experience points. She advised him not to worry too much about pushing himself until then.
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It may simply be that the Initiate Class earns a fixed amount for each religious ceremony I undergo. That means obtaining any answers is years away… No, I won’t just accept that.
Second, the interface would abort if he attempted to show it to others; no one else could see his HUD. Whether that was a security feature or a failure of his own, he could not yet prove.
They discuss the System very little. Mother certainly doesn’t mention it when her friends come for tea, and even in the rare instances it comes up, it is always referred to as a gift from the goddess. I am almost certain no one else saw what it actually is, or at least they do not recall it.
Thus, the System remained an opaque constant. Fortunately, not every aspect of this new life was as secretive.
Through liberal crib-side eavesdropping, he created a rudimentary organizational chart. The Sanctum’s government resembled a four-tiered pyramid. At its apex was the High Priestess, regarded by all as the most powerful witch in the country, whose word was seen as law, along with the Veil Priestesses—basically the equivalent of cabinet ministers.
One rung below were the Magistrae, a cadre of perhaps a hundred, each responsible for a College of practice: Potions, Warding, Liturgy, Astrology, and a dozen more whose names Orion didn’t care to remember. His new mother was part of this class, and despite her scatterbrained behavior, she was well-respected for her skill.
Lastly, there were the Sisters and Brothers—robed witches and wizards who either conducted basic lessons or fulfilled specific duties. Asteria, for instance, commanded a dozen such women in her role as Magistra of Potionmaking. They were referred to as Madame and Sir, respectively, and were regarded as the backbone of the Sanctum.
Below were the workers who washed clothes, cooked, and maintained the coven in pristine condition. Surprisingly, they were well treated and, as far as he could tell, appreciated for their help, despite not having “magical” classes. Among them were also the soldiers who patrolled the outer walls—the only instance of there being more men than women, as far as he had been able to tell.
The children, meanwhile, fell into two castes: the Initiates, who were born within the Sanctum walls to mothers already in service. They received the placeholder Initiate Class at birth. Orion belonged here.
Then there were orphans and foundlings saved, adopted, or tithed by the region that fell under the Sanctum’s command. They arrived at ages ten to thirteen from all over the province in hopes of receiving a magical class. Most would go on to become workers and helpers of the Sanctum, but a rare few would be accepted as members, if they were fortunate enough to receive a class that granted them direct access to mana.
That is what annoys me the most. Everyone refers to the Class Ceremony as something sacred, but as far as I can tell, they have no problem influencing it. From what I know, it’s very rare for kids outside the Sanctum to receive a magical class while almost every Initiate does, which suggests they are doing something to increase our chances. Additionally, after people receive their class, they are stuck with it until the next tier, which is very rare to achieve as a commoner. Mother told me the story of a Farmer who grew to be a Druid, but she made it clear it’s extremely rare to see such a huge shift.
The Lunar Sanctum proclaimed the Class Ceremony to be a matter squarely in the hands of the Moon Goddess, but they acted very differently. That hypocrisy, even if it wasn’t deliberate, grated on him fiercely.
Today, however, was different from the monotony he’d been subjected to so far as a toddler, because he would finally be able to conduct an experiment.
It wasn’t the first time his mother had taken him along for a lesson, but she usually focused on the older students who didn’t need as much supervision, and thus was able to pay too much attention to him to try his hand at potion making.
This was the first time she would take him for a first-year class, and he was almost certain he could avoid her notice, given how busy she would be ensuring that no one made their cauldrons explode.
Today’s lesson gathered two dozen newly classed teenagers in the subterranean laboratory she used for larger classes.
Asteria swept in, dressed from head to toe in violet, with him trailing behind her in his unnecessarily dramatic black robes. Who even dresses a three-year-old in swishy black robes?
Every inch of her attire conveyed that she was a woman of power: silver thread embroidered lunar sigils along the hem; a torque of hammered white steel rested against her collarbones, polished to a mirror shine; fragrant smoke spiraled from the incense she had set up, filling the air with resinous myrrh and creating the illusion that she was appearing from nowhere.
Yet Orion could not overlook the hard-won calluses on her hands or the ink stains at her wrist. He had seen her pour over cauldrons in the deep night and read through her students’ papers at every available moment. For all the nonsense she believed, he could respect her work ethic.
He toddled beside her, careful to match her pace. I can’t wait until I’m not at risk of being bowled over by just about anyone.
Asteria placed him in his niche, a hollow formed where one of the lab’s arching buttresses met the back of her lectern. From this spot, he enjoyed both concealment and a line of sight to every workstation. She presented him with a small bronze cauldron, half-filled with distilled water, and a spoon carved from cedar.
“Have fun, moonbeam,” she murmured with a soft smile. “If you impress the Moon-Mother just enough, you might get a Potioneer Class.”
He nodded, feigning innocence. Today was his chance to put his ideas into practice, and it wouldn’t do to reveal his hand too soon.
Then she rose. “Blessed day, children! Leave your bags at the back, still your tongues, and seat yourselves by pairs. There shall be no chattering in my class.” The last phrase came with a pointed glance at a neon blonde boy already elbowing his partner.
A piece of chalk floated from her desk to the blackboard and began to scribble the lesson title in graceful, angular script.
THE SAPPING BREW – FIRST PRACTICAL LESSON
Orion stifled the reflexive gasp that threatened to escape his lips. The spectacle remained impressive even after the hundredth time.
“Why,” she asked, “does the Sanctum choose the Sapping Brew as the first potion to be taught? You have all had introductory lessons, but until today, you haven’t been allowed to actually make anything.”
A dozen hands rose. Asteria pointed to the blonde boy.
“It needs only four ingredients, Magistra,” he chirped, “and it has no side effects even if the ingredients are put into the wrong order!”
Orion winced in solidarity with his mother. He had to deal with his own fair share of fools who were convinced they knew something while disregarding the very basics.
Asteria’s answering smile was kind, but a vein pulsed at her temple. “A surprising claim, young Pelian. Yet the Moon-Mother teaches that incomplete truth is a candle set too near parchment.” She tapped the desk once. “Who will speak the other half?”
A girl with proud pigtails stood. “Magistra, the Brew can still have unexpected results if the instructions aren’t followed properly. Too little salt, and it merely makes the drinker sluggish; too much acidwort, and it turns into a sleeping syrup. In both situations, it fails to achieve its aim.”
“Excellent, Bethany. A point will be added to your final score.” Asteria pivoted, her skirts swishing. “Remember, children: the Moon-Mother blesses our efforts when they are done with care. Every mis-weighted ingredient means negligence, and negligence is a lesser sin only than malice.” The chalk underlined the word care thrice.
Orion nodded. Aside from the religious nonsense, the emphasis on correct dosage paralleled medicinal chemistry. He knew several pharmacology professors who would agree that getting measurements wrong was a sin.
Upon Asteria’s nod, the class flooded into the rear storeroom. Its large oak doors groaned, and the heady musk of herb bundles mingled with the damp cellar air. Orion took the chance to slip from his nook into the tide, using his small stature to disappear among the robes.
He appropriated three moonberries—dark, nearly spherical, and faintly luminescent; one vial of silver wolf bile sealed with a wax stopper; a chunk of dried valerian root, a known sedative; a couple of wooden sticks; and a pinch of silvery powder he believed might be magnesium filings, judging by its plate-like gleam and low density. Reading the local language was still spotty, but he had come a long way, given that he had no frames of reference.
Escaping the crowd without being stepped on proved more challenging than obtaining the supplies. A knee nearly collided with his head. He ducked, pivoted, and re-emerged beside his cauldron just as Asteria turned.
“Bored, moonbeam?” she asked, keeping an eye on the chaos of kids returning to their stations.
“Not at all,” he chirped, adopting an angelic expression, and stirred the water. The motherly coo that followed was expected, and Asteria soon returned to watching her students.
“Listen and remember, novices. Fire magic is a potioneer’s best friend, but it can just as easily be your worst enemy. Ensure your chants are well-enunciated and your intent is clear, or you’ll have trouble with contamination. Now, repeat after me.”
“Lady of Crescence, grant us your breath;
Kindle in copper the hush of your depth…”
This was what passed for a spell around these parts. He knew that at higher levels, witches were capable of casting without speaking, but it was clear that every action carried a religious undertone.
Mid-prayer, tongues of fire erupted beneath half the cauldrons despite the absence of tinder or flint. The students who hadn’t achieved the miracle repeated the refrain until flames finally appeared.
Chanting makes it easier to remember religious conditioning, Orion mused. Effective, if ridiculous.
He would not humiliate himself by singing to light a match. He doubted it would work, anyway, given his lack of belief.
First, he carefully placed the magnesium below his little cauldron. Next, he dipped the cedar spoon into the water, lifted exactly one drop, and let it fall onto the filings. A faint pop—barely audible beneath the chatter—announced ignition. The reaction consumed oxygen eagerly, and a thin blue flame soon slithered along the cauldron’s underside, which he fed with a stick of wood.
He exhaled in relief. The fire, created through chemistry, was indistinguishable from the magical one at a distance. Not that anyone could see it, but if they did happen to, they would think he had managed it via chant. Very unlikely for a three-year-old to do, but it would be better than them questioning how I know how to create a fire chemically.
No one reacted. Asteria paced the aisles, stopping to examine Pelian's stir pattern.
Phase one was complete. Now came the real work.
It’s time to see if my theory about this “magic” being caused by the System is correct.
