Future Paths

The wind hums low outside, brushing against the wooden walls like a whispering thief. Sunlight filters through the cracked windowpanes, catching specks of dust in the air like floating ghosts. Inside, the air smells faintly of hot iron—Anara’s cast iron pan heating up for lunch—and old wood soaked in years of quiet struggle.

Days pass like this.

Me and Elara, weaving ourselves into the lives of the church orphans—slowly, deliberately. Games, laughter, small touches of warmth. I let them call me “big brother.” Let them believe I’m safety wrapped in a smile. Trust. Loyalty. Obedience. It starts with affection.

“Elara! Come, let’s go,” I call out, fastening my cloak at the shoulder. A gift from Morgana—sturdy, plain brown, but I’ve stitched silver thread into the lining. Subtle. Mine.

“Not so fast, mister,” comes Anara’s voice, sharp as flint.

I pause mid-step. Her tone isn’t playful today.

“You guys are not going anywhere,” she adds, stepping into view with her sleeves rolled up, hands still damp from scrubbing vegetables. She doesn't even look at me—just points a wet hand toward the hallway. “Uncle Darius is coming. It’s important. You're staying here until he's done talking.”

I don't respond. There's no profit in resisting. Not here. Not now.

Predictably, Elara groans. “Why, Mom?”

“Because he’s coming to discuss important matters,” she repeats, voice firmer now as she disappears into the kitchen. Pots clink. A kettle hisses.

Elara turns to me immediately, pout blooming like a stormcloud. “Orii…”

That drawn-out tone. Whiny, accusatory. I don’t want to wait. Why now? It’s all there in her eyes. She’s a child, but not stupid. She knows Darius means business. She also knows how to nudge me.

I sigh, just loud enough to let her feel my disappointment too. “We can do nothing, Elara.”

I turn, cloak swaying behind me as I walk toward the bedroom.

The floorboards creak beneath my boots—familiar music in this house. Shadows stretch longer across the hallway, cast by the slanted sunlight bleeding through the curtains.

She follows me in with a theatrical sigh and flops onto the bed. “Uhhh,” she groans like the world just ended.

Then silence.

Then counting. “One… two… three…”

I don’t answer. Just lean against the wall, arms crossed, eyes drifting to the warped ceiling. A crack runs diagonally above the bed—Anara says it’s from the last monsoon. I think it’s from something older.

“Four hundred seventy-three… four seventy-four…” she continues, voice light but distant.

A sound—firm boots on stone outside. I glance toward the shuttered window.

“He’s here,” I say, eyes shifting to Elara, who hasn’t even blinked.

“Four seventy-five.” She hops up with a triumphant grin. “Now Uncle Darius has to give me four seventy-five candies. Let’s go!”

She grabs my wrist and yanks.

I let her.

And walk out, just as the door creaks open.

The scent of boiled roots and cumin lingers in the air as we step into the dining room.

Anara spots us instantly. Her sleeves are still rolled up, her brow damp with kitchen heat. “Come on,” she says, wiping her hands on a cloth and nodding toward the table. “Sit on the chair.”

Her voice is clipped, but not unkind. Just focused. Serious.

I glance at Elara. She shrugs and skips ahead, dragging a chair with a grating squeak. I follow, more measured, and take the seat across from her. The chairs creak beneath us. The wood groans like it remembers the weight of harder times.

Darius is already sitting. He gives us a half-smile, but his eyes are already calculating.

Morgana sits next to him, quiet, her fingers clasped on the table, knuckles pale.

“So,” Darius begins, leaning forward slightly. “You two. What’ve you been doing these days?”

His tone is casual, but his eyes are sharp. Testing. Not truly curious—he’s opening the gates slowly, easing into something bigger.

“Playing,” Elara says before I can speak. “Helping at church. And I counted to four hundred seventy-five today.”

Darius chuckles. “That’s impressive, little storm.”

Elara beams.

I give him a mild nod. “We’ve been… observing. Learning. Getting to know the village. The people.”

He arches an eyebrow. “You always talk like a little lord, Orion.”

A compliment? A warning? I can’t tell. Maybe both.

“He sees you,” murmurs The Fear, crawling in from the shadows of the pyramid. “He’s watching too closely. Slip. He wants you to slip.”

Darius exhales and shifts in his seat, posture subtly adjusting into something more formal. The conversation’s turning now. The real purpose unfurling.

“I’ve been speaking with the elders,” he says, voice low but deliberate. “Most kids your age are heading to the schoolhouse. Or becoming apprentices. We’ve got blacksmiths taking in hands, even the herbalist’s asked for help.”

Anara nods beside him, arms crossed. “It’s time to start thinking about your future.”

I stay silent. Let them speak. Let them reveal.

Darius looks at Elara, his expression softening. “You’ve got a spark in you. The way you played last week—those floating stones, the shimmer in the air…”

Elara straightens a little. “You saw that?”

He nods. “I did. And so did the Adventurer’s Guild.”

Anara clears her throat. “I’ve been thinking… maybe it’s time she started formal training. They’ve got mages and mentors there. She’ll have real spells in her fingers before the season turns.”

Elara’s eyes are wide now. “Like… real magic?”

“Real magic,” Darius confirms.

Her hands press against the table. I can see it already—her mind racing, dreams building. Power. Freedom. Wonder.

“She’ll outgrow you,” The Dark says lightly, swinging from the higher steps of the pyramid like a child on a rope. “Sooner or later, they all do.”

“Let her believe she’s running ahead,” Greed whispers back from the throne—my voice, my will. “I’ll own the road she runs on.”

I turn my attention back to Darius, who’s now looking at me. That unreadable expression again.

“And you?” he asks. “You’re sharp. Always watching. You could apprentice too. Scribe, merchant, tactician…”

He trails off.

But I hear it.

There’s hesitation. He doesn’t know where to place me. Doesn’t know what I am. That means I still control the narrative.

I don’t answer.

He waits.

Anara shifts beside him and glances at me, concern behind her firmness. “We want you both to have something real, Orion. A future.”

“They mean safety,” says The Love, almost apologetic. “Not ambition.”

“They mean chains,” snaps The Rage, low and hot. “Chains dressed like comfort.”

“Their plans are too small for you,” Pride growls. “They want a boy. But you are an empire.”

Then I say it, voice calm, cold, and steady:

“I want to learn Holy Magic.”

The words drop like a stone into a well. Everyone stills.

Even Elara tilts her head.

Darius frowns, brows knitting as he leans back in his chair. “Holy magic?” He laughs under his breath, confused. “That’s not exactly something you… pick like fruit. You know how rare it is?”

I don’t respond. I simply look at him.

Darius leans forward again, squinting slightly like he’s trying to read something on my face. “Orion… you’re not even a mage. You’ve never channeled a spell in your life.”

I don’t blink. “Who said I’ll use it?”

He pauses.

“I said I want to learn it.”

His mouth opens. Closes. He leans back slowly, visibly trying to understand what kind of angle I’m working. He won’t. Not yet.

“You’re toying with him,” Love murmurs

Outside, a dog barks once—sharp and distant. The wind presses against the window again, gentle but persistent. A faint bell chimes from the church spire in the distance, calling the evening watch.

Anara shifts in her seat, arms still crossed. “Orion,” she says, voice quieter now. “Be realistic. That path… it’s not for everyone. And not for anyone outside the Church’s approval.”

Her tone isn’t dismissive—more… protective. Like she wants to shield me from disappointment.

I finally look at her. “I didn’t say I want to become a priest.”

She blinks, caught. I press forward, voice still calm, still smooth, but firmer now.

“I said I want to learn. That’s all.”

They don’t get it. They won’t. But I’m planting the seed.

Darius rubs his chin, thinking. He glances at Anara, silently asking for backup.

She exhales. “Maybe… maybe we think about other things too. You have options, Orion.”

I nod slowly, eyes already drifting away.

“I need time.”

Anara and Darius exchange a glance, then both nod at me.

“Alright,” Darius says, standing and smoothing out his coat. “Take your time, Orion. But don’t waste it.”

Darius claps his hands once. “Anyway, today’s a good day to start something.”

He grins, already shifting gears. “Let’s head to the Adventurer’s Guild. Elara, Orion—come on.”

Anara doesn’t argue. “Fine. Let’s go,” she says, standing up and adjusting her scarf. Her eyes flick to me for just a second—searching, maybe—but I give her nothing back.

We step out into the street. The afternoon sun hangs low, casting long golden rays across the village stone paths. The wind is crisp but not cold. A few birds flutter off the rooftops as we pass. Somewhere in the distance, a hammer strikes metal—blacksmiths already back at work.

Elara skips a little ahead, her boots clapping lightly against the cobblestone. I follow at a measured pace beside Darius, watching everything. Every open window. Every whispered conversation. Every gesture from villagers who glance at us and move on.

The Adventurer’s Guild sits near the center of town, its exterior broader and cleaner than most buildings, with a large slate sign hanging overhead carved with twin swords crossed behind a mountain sigil. Inside, it smells of parchment, leather, and something earthy—sweat and mud mixed with burnt herbs. The reception hall is wide, with notice boards on both walls and a row of chairs lining the right side.

Behind the desk, a young receptionist blinks up from a thick stack of papers.

“Is Clara not here today?” Darius asks, brushing some dust from his shoulder as we approach.

The receptionist—short hair, guild uniform, too tired to be curious—shakes her head. “No sir. Ma’am’s on leave today.”

“Ah, I see,” he says, polite as ever. “Then I’ll trouble you instead. We’re here to ask about the mage apprenticeship track. Anyone currently taking students?”

The woman nods and pulls out a thick folder, flipping through with practiced fingers.

While she scans the files, Elara leans close to me and whispers, “Do you think they’ll let me shoot fire from my hands?”

“I think,” I murmur back, “they’ll be lucky if you don’t burn this place down.”

She beams.

The receptionist finally looks up. “There’s a mage—female, rank C—willing to take one apprentice. Lives up in the West End. Her name’s Ravia Sel.”

She scribbles the address onto a slip of parchment and hands it to Darius.

He nods. “We’ll visit her soon, then.”

“But before that,” he continues, turning slightly toward the desk again, “can you explain the other apprenticeships available? Especially the ones popular among boys Orion’s age?”

She tilts her head, pulling another form. “Yes, of course. There’s usually three common routes:”

She begins listing:

“One: Combat Apprenticeship—usually under a retired adventurer. Weapon training, survival, monster hunting. Toughest and most respected. Many boys choose this.”

“Two: Craftsmanship—smithing, alchemy, rune carving, tailoring. Requires discipline. Popular with those wanting steady guild work or merchant connections.”

“Three: Scouting and Courier Work—less glamorous, but useful for learning stealth, speed, and terrain. Some go into espionage or military tracking from here.”

I say nothing. I just watch. Listen. Weigh.

Darius adjusts the strap of his shoulder pack and turns to me with his usual directness. “Alright then, Orion. You heard the options. What do you want?”

I don’t hesitate. “Herbalist apprenticeship.”

Silence falls like a dropped coin.

Even Elara pauses mid-spin near the shop window. Darius raises an eyebrow so high it might take flight. “Herbalist?” he repeats, like he didn’t hear me right. “What about your sword training? That wolf kill? You think plants are more exciting than that?”

Before I can answer, the receptionist perks up. “Wait—you’re the wolf boy?”

She squints at me, then smiles like she’s finally putting the puzzle together. “You’re the one from the ridge, right? That story’s been going around the Guild all week.”

I don’t flinch. I keep my voice cool, like I’m talking about the weather. “I said I want to learn herbalism. I didn’t say I want to be a herbalist.”

The receptionist blinks, confused. “Then... what does that mean?”

“It means I want to study how things grow,” I say simply. “And how they die.”

Her expression tightens a little—she doesn’t get it. That’s fine. She doesn’t need to.

She flips through her folder anyway. “Even so, there’s no herbalist currently taking apprentices. If that changes, I’ll inform the Guild and send word.”

Anara lets out a soft exhale beside me. Darius mirrors it, both of them clearly relieved I won’t be digging in the dirt full-time.

Darius drops a small pouch of copper coins on the counter as the information fee. “Thank you,” he says to the receptionist with a half-bow. “Let Clara know I stopped by.”

With that, we step out into the street. The village has warmed since morning—the cobblestones radiate heat, and the market buzzes with movement. A farmer unloads crates of glowing root vegetables. A woman with a hawk perched on her shoulder sharpens knives at her stall. Elara hums to herself as she spins past a fabric vendor, distracted by the colorful silks dancing in the breeze.

“Alright,” Darius says, turning toward the West End. “Let’s go meet the mage.”

I cut in before he can take a step. “Actually, I’ll head to the church.”

Darius stops. “Now?”

“Sister Lenna promised me a few books today,” I say smoothly, placing just enough curiosity in my tone to sound believable. “She keeps older tomes in the back. I’ve been waiting all week.”

A lie—perfect and practiced. With a reason that sounds just curious enough not to question.

Elara doesn’t notice. She’s busy pointing out a dog dragging a loaf of bread through the alley.

Anara narrows her eyes slightly, thinking. “Books?”

Darius scratches his chin, glancing at the slanted sun. “It’s a long walk to the mage’s house anyway. He’ll get bored. Let him go.”

Anara thinks for a second longer, then nods. “Fine. But come straight home after.”

I smile. “Of course.”

And just like that, I’m free.