Lorne crouched in front of a low cabinet at the deepest part of the library.
The cabinet was very old, its edges worn pale from centuries of careful hands.
He held an absurdly thick book in his arms.
Introduction to Tavara, Beginner Level.
Blue background, silver trim.
On the cover, a dragonfly spread its wings—transparent and delicate, refracting light like a promise of renewal and quiet transformation, a messenger from hidden realms.
He turned to the page titled “The Calling Stage.”
Very slowly.
So slowly that every line of text seemed on the verge of being swallowed by the paper.
His lips moved slightly, but no sound escaped.
He flipped to the section headed “Karahia: The Calling Stage.”
“Karahia is the first time a mortal reaches out a hand toward the divine. As you extend your hand through the Araki—the sacred current—you may grasp the hand of a god; you may catch only a severed strand of thread; or, perhaps—you find nothing at all.”
He stopped there.
Looked up.
Beyond the window stood the Twin Towers of the North Wind.
They were tall.
Farther still rose the ridgeline of Stargazer’s Reach.
A thin mist clung to the mountaintops, like a mark that hadn’t been wiped clean.
The sight held him for a brief moment.
A classroom from his previous life flickered in his mind.
Red paper plastered on the wall.
“100 Days Until the College Entrance Exam.”
The homeroom teacher’s chalk tapping the blackboard, writing “Multiple-Choice Strategies.”
Back then, he had believed
the biggest gamble in life
was choosing which major to apply for.
Now he knew better.
In this world,
you placed your bet at the age of eight.
And there were no do-overs.
He lowered his head and kept reading.
“The Calling ritual requires a symbolic item.
Feathers, shells, beast fangs, volcanic stone…
The symbol is not power; it is only a signpost.
It tells the gods: ‘I am here.’
If the signpost is not clear enough,
the gods may not find you.
Or they may find you—
but not the one you were looking for.”
Lorne turned the page.
A table so simple it felt almost cruel stared back at him.
? Using a holy relic →
Extremely high chance of connecting to an established deity
? Using wild symbols →
Less than half chance of an established deity
A significant proportion → unclaimed divine office
His gaze lingered on the three words after “unclaimed divine office”:
“Echo Bearer.”
The annotation beside it was in very small print.
“Echo Bearers cannot enter the Vaeluru (Walking-with-the-God).
Their power is weak and unstable.
Most naturally dissipate due to overuse.”
He closed the book.
The pages met with a dull thud.
He leaned back against the bookshelf and slid to the floor,
clutching the book tightly to his chest.
Another image surfaced.
A gacha interface.
Ninety pulls for pity.
The lucky ones hitting it in a single draw.
The unlucky grinding all the way to the end.
There was no pity system here.
Pull the best, and the price was a lifetime lock-in.
Pull the worst, and you might lock away your entire future.
Worse still—
the best pulls were monopolized by the Church.
Footsteps echoed in the corridor.
Light.
Familiar.
“Lorne, did you find the book you wanted?”
He looked up.
Ian stood outside the low cabinet,
holding a worn copy of Green Valley Agriculture.
The cover was frayed from countless readings.
“I found it.”
Lorne stood, his tone soft and obedient.
“Then let’s go.”
Ian tilted his head slightly.
“Don’t keep the teacher waiting too long.”
“Mm.”
———
Ryan Shardlight stood beside the long table, his gaze resting on the dragonfly.
Transparent wings. A slender body. Under the indoor light, it refracted an almost unreal blue.
He knew exactly what it was. The sacred beast of the Sky God. One of Vali’s foremost symbols.
If the Starcrown family hadn’t invited him to teach in Valian City for a short term, he would likely have only encountered it in illustrated tomes.
He took out paper and pen. The pen was simple in design. Its nib carried its own ink.
One of the Knowledge Church’s proud recent inventions. Ryan had tried it once and never returned to quills.
The nib had just touched the page when a mechanical sound came from the library’s main doors.
The stone doors were pulled open. The guards moved with their usual precision.
Two children ran in.
Silver-white short hair. Blue eyes. Identical clothes. Steps almost perfectly synchronized.
At first glance, it was easy to mix them up.
But Ryan didn’t hesitate.
His gaze settled first on the one clutching the thick book.
“Lorne.” A hint of a smile touched his tone. “Borrowing such a big book again—aren’t you afraid you won’t finish it?”
The other child blinked and stood quietly to the side.
Ryan thought to himself: As expected.
He smiled, closed his notebook, and took the twins’ books.
“Come on, children.”
Lorne nodded. Ian nodded as well.
Ian reached out and took Lorne’s hand, in case he wandered off again.
———
The carriage came to a stop before the side door of the Church of Knowledge’s library.
The driver did not urge them on, only held the reins steady. The flagstone road had been washed clean by rain, its color lightened, like a newly turned page. Most of the lamps in the library’s high windows were already extinguished; only one or two still burned, their light clinging to the glass without spilling outward.
Lorne looked back one last time.
The windows were too high; nothing inside could be seen.
He turned and stepped into the carriage.
When the door closed, the sounds outside were instantly cut off, leaving only the low, muted rumble of wooden wheels—crafted from wind-grained ironwood, their grain swirling like captured gusts.
The carriage rolled onto Academy Street.
It was a long, straight road. On both sides stood pale gray stone buildings, their windows tall and narrow, almost entirely devoid of ornament. The post-rain air was pushed along by the wind, carrying a faint chill. In the distance, the silhouette of the Northwind Twin Towers stood fixed at the end of the street, like an unmoving marker.
Lorne sat by the window.
He did not look at the towers.
His hands rested on his knees, fingertips lightly rubbing the edge of his clothes. It was a gesture he had made in a previous life as well—on the subway, on buses, in every moment of waiting when leaving was impossible.
Back then, it wasn’t that he didn’t believe in gods.
He wasn’t deliberately opposed; he had simply never treated the question of “whether gods exist” as something that needed an answer.
Prayer was only an outlet for emotion, a spiritual support, not something visible.
The carriage jolted slightly.
Lorne came back to himself.
This world was different.
Tavara—
touched by divine will—
If there really were gods,
would they care about someone like him?
Someone who doubted again and again in his heart, constantly comparing, never willing to give himself over completely.
And if there were no gods—
then why did the Church hold power, permeating every aspect of life?
Lorne knew this world possessed wondrous forces. His parents had shown them; his mentors had shown them. So that power must, to some degree, be widespread.
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He just didn’t understand the principles behind it.
And rarely would anyone explain such things to a child.
Lorne lowered his head and closed his eyes.
The carriage turned onto the Twin Towers ring road.
The street suddenly narrowed. Tower shadows pressed down, the wind amplified, rebounding again and again between stone walls. Through a gap in the window, one could glimpse the lower levels of the towers—rows of orderly, sealed windows, their purpose invisible.
He knew that was the maternity ward.
The place where he had been born.
The thought brought no emotion, only a fact, lightly brushed past by the sound of the wind.
———
On the other side of the carriage, Ian sat perfectly straight.
He was close to the door, his gaze occasionally sweeping past the window, as if confirming the rhythm of their movement. He had traveled this road many times; there was nothing that required special attention.
Ryan sat opposite him, his outer robe neatly folded on his lap.
“The afternoon class,” Ian asked, “still theory?”
“Half,” Ryan answered easily. “The other half is something you ought to know.”
Ian nodded without pressing further.
The carriage left the Twin Towers behind and began climbing the gentle slope into the inner city.
The streets grew quiet, walls replacing shops. The buildings here were restrained and closed off, without excess markings, leaving only just-right distances between doors. The walls were built of pale silver-gray stone, their surfaces faintly threaded with coral-like veins—the result of inner-sea reef rock ground up and mixed into the mortar. After rain, they glimmered slightly, as if breathing.
“About the calling ritual,” Ryan continued, “you’ve both turned eight. With your parents’ consent, you can begin at any time.”
He looked at the two children.
Ian reacted immediately, his gaze focused.
Lorne sat quietly, as if listening, or as if simply letting the words sink into somewhere deeper.
“You will learn,” Ryan said, “how to call upon a god.”
Lorne’s hand tightened unconsciously.
Ian followed up,
“Will you tell us, teacher, what kind of symbol we should use?”
Ryan did not answer at once.
Sunlight sliced in through a gap in the curtains, wavered across the carriage floor, then stretched out as the carriage moved forward.
“I will tell you,” he said at last, “that the symbol itself does not decide everything.”
“Your choices do.”
The carriage stopped before the side gate of the Starcrown family estate.
Attendants were already waiting. The stone gate stood quietly, without any showy insignia. The doorframe was made of wind-grained ironwood, its texture like captured whirlwinds of air; when lightly knocked, it produced a deep, resonant echo.
The carriage door swung open with a soft creak, the sound muffled by the wind-grained ironwood frame. Attendants stepped forward in unison, their dark robes whispering against the damp flagstones. Following the etiquette for honored guests, one extended a gloved hand to Ryan first.
Ryan descended smoothly, nodding his thanks. He adjusted his outer robe, crafted from pearlscale silk; the delicate threads caught the midday light, shimmering with a luster like shifting ocean waves—rare fabric woven from the iridescent inner lining of deep-sea shells, prized by the Knowledge Church for its subtle Mana resonance.
Ian hopped out next, his movements precise and brimming with energy. He landed lightly, blue eyes swiftly scanning the courtyard as if cataloging every detail: the low walls of pale silver-gray stone veined with coral threads, and the central fountain shaped like a spiraling conch, its water trickling in rhythmic pulses that echoed the tides of the Inner Sea.
“Lorne?” Ian called back, turning with a slight smile. He extended his hand into the carriage, palm upturned. “Don’t dawdle. Lunch will get cold.”
Lorne blinked, his fingers still instinctively rubbing the edge of his sleeve. He took Ian’s hand without protest and stepped down. The stone flags beneath his feet sent up a faint chill, accompanied by a subtle thrum of Mana—the residue of the family’s protective wards, etched into the foundation stones with starfall obsidian runes.
The attendants bowed shallowly, one murmuring, “Welcome home, young lords.” Their voices were low, carefully trained to blend into the wind rather than challenge it.
Ian squeezed Lorne’s hand once before releasing it. “You were thinking about that book again, weren’t you?” He tilted his head, silver-white short hair catching a stray beam of sunlight. “I can tell. Your gaze goes distant, like you’re staring at the mists of Stargazer’s Reach.”
Lorne shrugged lightly, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “Maybe. It’s… interesting.”
Ian laughed softly, a sound like wind chimes in the towers. “Everything is interesting to you. Come on—race you to the atrium?”
Before Lorne could respond, Ian darted ahead, his footsteps quick and sure across the courtyard. Lorne followed at a slower pace, looking up to survey the estate’s facade: the magnificent arches of Reefheart limestone, their surfaces etched with faint star maps—the family crests that honored the Starcrown name. Windthread ivy climbed the walls; even in the still air, the leaves trembled slightly, as if infused with lingering Araki.
Ryan walked beside Lorne with measured steps. “Your brother possesses the energy of a gale,” he observed mildly.
Lorne nodded. “He’s always been like that. I… I prefer to take my time.”
The side gate led into a narrow vestibule, its floor inlaid with polished volcanic stone that gleamed like black pearls. Servants moved quietly here, carrying trays of fresh linens scented with sea salt and herbs—a daily ritual to ward off the rainy season’s damp. Within a small altar niche stood a Taki: a simple whalebone cup filled with clear water, its surface rippling faintly as if stirred by an unseen breath.
Ian waited at the inner door, bouncing on his toes. “You lost! But I’ll let you pick the story tonight—as long as you promise not to choose the one about the Sun-Bringers again.”
Lorne caught up, his expression softening. “Deal.”
They pushed the door open together and entered the grand atrium. Sunlight filtered through high, narrow windows draped in sheer pearlscale curtains, casting silvery patterns onto the mosaic floor—a vast depiction of the Inner Sea tiled with shells and obsidian shards. Corridors branched off like spokes: to the left, the family quarters with their wind-chimed doors; to the right, the study halls lined with ironwood bookshelves; and straight ahead, the scent of roasted herbs and fresh bread wafted from the dining hall.
Servants bowed as they passed, one offering dampened cloths for them to wipe their hands—the traditional pre-meal purification rite.
Ian playfully tugged at Lorne’s sleeve. “Last one to the table has to do the homework tomorrow!”
Lorne rolled his eyes but quickened his pace regardless. The brothers’ laughter echoed softly through the halls as they approached the dining room doors—tall panels etched with silver stone veins, unguarded but humming with the resonance of protective wards.
Ryan followed behind, a solitary smile touching his lips.
Wind-grained Ironwood
Lore Expansion: This rare timber grows exclusively along coastlines ravaged by perpetual storms. As the trees mature, their inner rings warp and twist to record the trajectory of the gales they endure, resulting in a grain that resembles captured whirlwinds.
Utility in Valian City: In the city of Valian, it is the premier material for crafting high-end carriage frames and estate doors. Beyond its legendary durability, Wind-grained Ironwood possesses a natural affinity for wind-based enchantments and protective wards, allowing it to hum in resonance with a family’s security arrays.
