Ink and Ember

Three days passed before Koda could rise on his own.

Each morning, the light came in through the crooked slats of the orphanage window, catching in the threads of old curtains and the dust that hung like breath in still air. And each morning, he tried. First to sit. Then to stand.

By the third, the ache in his ribs was bearable. The swelling in his arm had gone down. His body, bruised and stitched by fire and mud and instinct, was healing.

Slowly. But it was healing.

He swung his legs over the side of the cot, feet meeting the cool floorboards with a muted thump. Every motion was stiff—like his limbs weren't his—but he moved.

The drawer was just a few steps away. The same old pine one that creaked when opened too far, with the tiny handle that had always stuck in winter. The children had once stored candy in it, folded paper birds. He'd hidden his first broken dagger there when he was eleven, the tip snapped clean in a street duel he wasn't supposed to win.

Now, it held something far more delicate.

Koda slid it open.

Inside was a folded envelope of pressed parchment, edges faintly smudged with the thumbprint of someone who had clutched it longer than they meant to. His name was written on the front in careful, slightly tilted handwriting.

He sat back on the bed. Unfolded it.

And read:

⸻

Koda,

I meant to leave this with a smile. But you looked too proud, and I looked too scared. So I kept it in my hand too long, and the words never came.

So here they are.

You were always stronger than me. Not just in the way you fought off bullies behind the bakery or how you could lift the water crates without groaning—but in that quiet way. That way where you could see the whole world fall apart and still put yourself between it and the people you love.

I think that's what makes someone brave. I think that's why the Guide chose you—even if no one else understands it yet.

When we were little, I used to think the gods had forgotten us. That maybe we were born in the wrong city, at the wrong time, to the wrong people. But I was wrong.

We were exactly where we were supposed to be. Because I met you.

And when you got that error across your status screen, I didn't feel fear. I felt something bigger. Like the air had shifted. Like the world had blinked.

You were never meant to be ordinary, Koda.

So don't let the ones who can't see that dull the edge of who you are.

The temple will change me—I know that. It already has. But I'll write. And if I don't, I'll still be thinking of you.

Keep your promises. Train hard. Eat more. Sleep sometimes.

And don't you dare die before I see you again.

— Maia

of the Holy Mother

⸻

Koda let the letter rest in his lap for a long time.

He didn't move. Didn't speak.

The room was quiet, save for the wind outside tapping against the shutters.

His fingers curled softly around the edges of the parchment.

It wasn't just ink on paper. It was a tether. A weight. A warmth.

And a reminder that no matter how dark the road ahead would get…

He wasn't walking it alone.

The days blurred together after that.

The ache in Koda's body dulled, but the restlessness beneath his skin only sharpened. He trained as he could—small movements at first, pushing his muscles against the weight of healing—but even those brought fresh pain. Pain he welcomed.

The letter stayed folded on his nightstand, smoothed and re-read until the ink felt carved into his bones.

By the second month, the whispers of his strange Awakening—the error, the dark glow—had quieted beneath newer rumors, fresher gossip. Scars were stirring near the east ridges. The churches had sent out scouts. One of the richer guild heirs had collapsed mid-ritual, his body unable to withstand a particularly heavy blessing. The world had kept moving, as it always did.

And Koda, left behind in its wake, felt it pulling ahead of him.

So when the knock came—sharp and sudden on the orphanage's front door—he felt it in his chest before he heard it.

The matron was away at the market. The children were napping, their soft breaths like tides in the next room.

Koda answered it.

The man standing outside was tall, robed in charcoal layers that blended into the city's soot-streaked stone. His hood was up, face shadowed by its fall, but it was the hand—gloved in black leather—that Koda saw first, resting at his side.

On the palm: the emblem of the Order. A black imprint, like an inked starburst of fingers outstretched.

The same as before.

"You've recovered," the man said, voice smooth but unhurried. It wasn't a question.

Koda stepped outside, pulling the door gently behind him. "Somewhat."

"Good." The man tilted his head faintly, the motion more animal than human. "You've been watched."

Koda tensed, eyes narrowing, but the figure raised a hand—not in warning, but as if to settle air.

"Not in threat. In caution. You are… reckless."

Koda said nothing.

The man's hand lowered. "You hunt like a soldier, not a seedling. If we hadn't silently intervened, your body would have been left in that marsh for the crows."

Koda's jaw tightened. "I need strength."

"And you nearly bartered your life for a handful of numbers." The man's voice didn't rise. It didn't need to. "You are not ready to face the open wilds alone."

He reached into the folds of his cloak and pulled out a sealed scroll, bearing a red wax insignia—the embossed shield, crossed by two blades.

"The Shield Guild," the man said. "You've been added to their outer unit roster. Hunters division. They'll expect you by morning."

Koda stared. "I'm not—how?"

"The Order sees what others choose to miss." The figure stepped closer. "We've pulled strings. Soft ones. Quiet ones. You'll be watched, but not known."

Koda took the scroll. The wax was warm, as if recently pressed.

"Why help me?" he asked.

There was a pause. Then—

"You are not what they expected, Koda of Oria. But you are exactly what we were waiting for."

The figure turned, cloak rippling with the wind. Just before stepping away into the street's shadows, he paused once more.

"One last thing," he said over his shoulder. "You must tell no one about your patron. Not the guild. Not your comrades. Not even those you trust."

Koda's voice was low. "Why?"

The man's hood shifted, but the face beneath remained hidden. "Not all those in power will be happy to see a new name rise. Especially those of the Guide's church."

And then he was gone, swallowed by mist and the hum of a city that didn't know what walked among it.

Koda stood alone, scroll in hand, the weight of a second chance settling on his shoulders.

Tomorrow, the hunt would begin again.

This time, not alone.