3. Choice that begins everything

Light spilled gently through the high-arched window, golden and warm, stretching across the wooden floor like an unseen hand waking the house. A soft breeze stirred the lace curtain, carrying with it the scent of bread from the lower market and the faint tolling of the chapel's second bell.

Henry opened his eyes slowly.

For a moment, he didn't move—only blinked at the ceiling above, listening to the house breathe. Somewhere nearby, Mimi rustled in her blanket nest, tail flicking lazily in her sleep.

He sat up with a long sigh and rubbed his face. His limbs were still heavy from the walk and the weight of yesterday's emotions.

But today wasn't for sulking.

He had business to tend to.

Henry swung his legs over the side of the bed and stood, stretching as the wooden floor groaned beneath his feet. His satchel lay folded neatly by the corner, beside his university coat, the inked parchment of his results still rolled inside.

He walked to the washbasin and splashed cold water over his face, drying himself with a linen cloth. Staring into the small bronze mirror above the basin, he muttered under his breath:

"Time to look like someone who passed."

He dressed in a clean white tunic and grey-brown overcoat, buttoned neatly to the collar. Today, he needed to visit the Principal of Prada University—a formal meeting to receive his official passing certificate, a stamped transcript, and a letter of eligibility for employment within the realm.

It would be bureaucratic. Possibly dull. But important.

Still, something gnawed at his mind.

Not fear… but uncertainty.

Passing wasn't everything. The road ahead was wide and hidden in fog.

Before heading to the University, Henry glanced out the window toward the hill that rose gently behind the town—where the Church of Hazaya stood, proud and ancient. Its spire rose into the pale morning sky like a blade of light.

Hazaya—the Lady of Chance and Turning Fates.

There was an old tradition among students and travelers alike: If you go to her temple before the crossroads, she might lift the fog just enough to see your next step.

Henry smiled faintly to himself.

It was probably superstition.

But then again, everything real had once been called a myth.

"I'll stop there first," he whispered. "A little luck can't hurt."

He gave Mimi a soft pat on the head, grabbed his satchel, and stepped outside into the crisp morning.

Above him, the bells of Hazaya's hill-chapel rang—three soft chimes echoing across the rooftops, as if calling him home before the next beginning.

The morning sun cast long shadows over the worn cobblestones as Henry stepped onto the winding hill path. Prada slowly shrank behind him, its red rooftops and watchtowers blurred beneath morning mist. A few hawks glided above the old forest line, and somewhere in the valley below, bells from distant chapels echoed faintly.

It was a ten-kilometer journey to the top of Hazaya's Hill—a winding route of dirt, roots, and ancient stones that had been flattened by centuries of pilgrim footsteps. Henry walked with a steady, thoughtful pace. The air grew cooler as he climbed, and dew clung to the edges of his boots.

He had walked this path many times as a boy.

Not for faith, but for curiosity.

Even then, the Church of Hazaya had stirred something in him—not belief, but wonder. Perched like a crown on the peak, its white stone walls and high bell spire gleamed in the morning light. The air always smelled different here—cleaner, thinner, touched with a kind of stillness that didn't exist in town.

At the foot of the final climb, a staircase greeted him—weatherworn stone steps, overgrown at the edges with moss and mountain grass.

One hundred and twelve steps.

He counted them every time.

Henry ascended slowly, his breath sharpening with each step. His legs ached by the sixtieth. By the ninety-eighth, he wished he'd brought his cane. And by the one-hundredth, he remembered:

"…I forgot the damn fedora again."

He let out a dry chuckle.

It wasn't the first time.

When he finally reached the summit, the church stood before him like something half pulled from legend. Tall, still, and wrapped in that ever-present yellow and black ribbon—fluttering like tethered spirits in the breeze.

He paused, eyes narrowing.

He'd always meant to ask someone what the ribbons meant.

But the door creaked open before he could linger on it.

Standing at the entrance was a man Henry hadn't seen in years.

The Father.

Not aged at all, though he had surely crossed into his late fifties by now. He was tall, dressed in ceremonial grey robes, with neatly shaved beard and long silver hair tied behind in a ribbon of gold thread. His presence, as always, felt strangely unearthly—like the air around him was waiting for his voice to move.

"Still forgetting your hat, I see," the Father said, smiling faintly.

Henry blinked, then grinned. "Still watching from the bell tower, are you?"

The Father stepped aside and motioned for him to enter. "Always watching. But not with eyes."

The church's interior was cool and dim, lit by a hundred wax candles in wrought-iron cages. Mosaics of ancient symbols spiraled across the ceiling: spirals, eyes, sunbursts, and hands reaching toward stars.

Henry took a breath. It smelled of wax, ash, and old stone.

"I came for the luck enchantment," he began, but the Father raised a hand.

"You passed your exam. Congratulations."

Henry nodded. "Was hoping to seal the luck, just in case."

But the Father's expression grew more serious, contemplative, like a man who had held back a truth too long.

"You're not here for an enchantment, Henry."

Henry blinked. "…I'm not?"

The Father walked over to the altar and rested a hand on it, fingers tracing one of the strange golden patterns inlaid upon the stone.

"You're here because the time has come. The signs have ripened. You feel it, don't you? That slight distortion in the air. The dreams that aren't dreams. The way shadows don't always fall the way they should."

Henry shifted uncomfortably. "…What are you talking about?"

"I want you to join the Miracle Invokers."

The name struck the air like a foreign wind.

Henry raised an eyebrow. "Miracle… what?"

The Father turned, his gaze unreadable. "We are a hidden order. We walk beneath the surface of belief. Beyond clergy and creed. We do not serve Hazaya alone. We serve the truth that precedes gods. When miracles go wrong—when they rot, twist, and unravel the fabric of reason—we are the ones who confront them."

Henry took a step back, waving a hand. "No offense, Father, but I don't do this whole religious stuff. I don't mock it. I just… don't subscribe."

"I know," the Father said, softly. "You're an unbeliever. But your doubt is a sacred thing."

Henry frowned. "I came here to light a candle and leave with a bit of hope. That's all."

The Father stared at him for a long moment, then finally nodded.

"As you wish."

He turned away, walking back toward the altar, but his voice echoed behind him—quiet, yet filled with the weight of stormclouds:

"The whispers from the beyond shall follow you, Henry. They always do. Until you listen."

Henry's blood chilled just a little.

He said nothing.

Moments later, he exited the church, the sunlight brighter than before. He stood on the top stair, staring out over Prada's rolling hills.

And then cursed under his breath.

"…Fedora. Again."

As he began descending the long stairway, his gaze lingered on the fluttering yellow and black ribbons twined around the church's spire and doorway.

A symbol of warning?

Or protection?

One day, he'd find out.

But not today.

.....

The sun had crept to its zenith, casting long, softened shadows over the cobbled courtyard of Prada Military University. The marble steps beneath Henry's boots still held the warmth of the morning, and the sharp scent of ink, dust, and parchment lingered faintly on his coat. In his hand, he clutched a small bundle—sealed scrolls tied with a crimson ribbon and stamped with the University's silver crest.

Official certification of completion.

Transcript of study.

Eligibility papers for civic appointment.

It was done.

The meeting with the Principal had been brief and formal, held in the upper chambers of the administrative tower, a room filled with bookshelves, record boxes, and maps of the kingdom. The man himself—Chancellor Wilham—had been courteous enough. Grey-eyed, balding, with a hooked nose and a sharp tongue softened only by years of dealing with too many students.

"…and what of your future plans, Ford?" the man had asked, peering over his glasses.

Henry had hesitated, then mentioned his morning visit to Hazaya's Hill.

The Principal had snorted. "Avoid those men."

Henry raised an eyebrow. "The Church?"

"No, not the Church. That Father. That order. They're not just monks. They meddle. They wrap superstition in poetry and call it divine order. And people who listen to them often end up buried under mystery and regret."

Henry had nodded politely, though something about the words made him more curious than cautious.

Now, standing on the steps with the sun on his face, he glanced down at the documents in his hand. A sigh escaped his lips—half relief, half uncertainty.

So… what now?

He could apply to the magistrate's office. The civic library always needed registrars. Or perhaps he could take a teaching post—low pay, but quiet work. He could even travel. Go east toward the border cities, or north to the capital, where nobles needed scribes and language tutors.

But none of it stirred anything in him.

He felt like a man given the keys to a hundred locked doors, yet none of them felt like home.

Still thinking, he descended the final step and waved to a passing carriage.

"South Gate, please," he said as he climbed in.

The driver nodded, flicked the reins, and the carriage began rolling forward—its wheels clicking along the stones in a steady rhythm.

Henry leaned back, the documents resting in his lap, and stared out the window at the passing town. Red-roofed homes, market tents, chimney smoke, ringing bells. All so familiar.

And yet, something distant tugged at him.

The Father's words lingered in the back of his mind.

"The whispers from the beyond shall follow you…"

Henry shut his eyes.

He didn't believe.

But belief wasn't always the door—sometimes it was the shadow behind it.