The bells began before the sun.

  The first toll did not ring so much as it pressed—low and iron-heavy—into the walls. The sound traveled through mortar and stone, through timber beams and narrow cots, through wool blankets thinned by years of washing, until even sleep surrendered.

  A boy lay awake before the third bell.

  He did not move when the others stirred. He lay flat against the narrow mattress, hands folded loosely over his chest, eyes open to the cracked ceiling above him. His breath rose in pale threads against the cold. The air in the eastern dormitory always held the night longer than the rest of the Church. Frost edged the inside of the windowpanes in delicate fractures.

  Around him, boys rolled over and groaned. One whispered a half-remembered prayer. Another coughed into his sleeve. A third clutched his blanket closer as though warmth were something that could be bargained with.

  The third bell sounded.

  Only then did he sit up.

  His movements were unhurried. Deliberate. He swung his legs over the side of the cot and let his bare feet touch the stone floor without flinching, though the cold climbed sharply through his skin. A small wooden box rested beneath his bed—identical to every other box in the room. Empty of anything personal. No letters. No trinkets. No names carved into its lid.

  The Church preferred its children unadorned.

  Uniform.

  Replaceable.

  As he bent to retrieve his boots, his fingers brushed against something hidden beneath the thin mattress lining. A cord. Worn but intact.

  He slipped it free just enough to feel the weight of the pendant resting against his palm. It was simple—unremarkable to anyone who did not look closely. A small metal plate, slightly dulled with time. No crest. No decoration.

  Just a name engraved in careful lettering.

  Harry Goodwin.

  He had been told it was his. Nothing more. No explanation of who had written it. No story of who had given it. The Church did not encourage questions about what came before.

  He slid the pendant back beneath his tunic, letting it rest cool against his skin.

  Then Harry Goodwin reached for his boots and began lacing them with careful precision, tightening each knot as though the act required thought.

  Across from him, Rav was already upright, pushing unruly chestnut hair away from his eyes.

  "You're awake," Rav muttered, a grin forming too easily for a place like this. "I thought I'd have to drag you up."

  "You wouldn't," Harry replied evenly.

  Rav stood and stamped warmth into his feet. "I would. You'd complain. Quietly. Then thank me later."

  Harry did not answer. He finished tying the laces and stood.

  The fourth bell rang.

  The dormitory door opened without haste. Brother Halven stepped inside, robes immaculate despite the hour, white fabric trimmed with restrained gold. A silver pendant bearing the Radiant Sigil rested at the center of his chest.

  "On your feet," he said calmly. "The Light does not wait for the idle."

  Nearly all of them already were.

  They formed two straight lines without instruction and filed into the corridor. Oil lamps burned low against the dark stone, their flames trembling as if uncertain they belonged there. The ceilings arched overhead like the inside of a ribcage. Sound carried sharply in these halls.

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  So did attention.

  Harry kept his gaze forward.

  He had learned early that observation was safest when it went unnoticed. He saw enough without turning his head. Which boys were slow to rise? Which were watched more closely? Which names were remembered by the priests, and which were spoken only when necessary?

  The procession descended the spiral staircase, hands brushing the railing worn smooth by years of obedience. At the base, the corridor widened into the main chapel.

  Here, the Church displayed its mercy in marble and Light.

  Tall pillars reached toward a vaulted ceiling painted with saints crowned in gold. Stained-glass windows depicted angels in radiant ascent, though at this hour they remained dark, their colors waiting for the sun. The altar gleamed faintly beneath rows of prepared candles, polished each evening by small hands.

  Later, the townspeople would fill these pews. They would kneel beneath painted heavens and speak of gratitude.

  For now, only children and clergy occupied the space.

  The boys took their seats on the right. The girls gathered on the opposite side under Sister Arlena's watchful eye.

  Harry allowed himself one glance across the aisle.

  Yvanna stood near the front. Her silver hair fell in a loose cascade down her back, catching the faintest hint of dawn like Light on water. Against the muted tones of wool and stone, she seemed almost too bright for the room. The tips of her ears curved subtly through her hair, delicate but unmistakable—proof of blood that did not entirely belong to this world of carved saints and disciplined prayer.

  Some of the girls kept a careful distance from her.

  Yvanna kept her hands tightly folded, her posture composed beyond her years.

  For a fraction of a second, her eyes met his.

  She gave the smallest nod.

  Harry looked away first.

  The side door opened. High Priest Malrec entered.

  He moved without hurry, hands folded within his sleeves, expression softened into something that resembled warmth. His pale gray eyes, however, did not soften. They moved slowly over the children—measuring, cataloguing, pausing briefly as if committing certain faces to memory.

  When his gaze passed over Harry, it lingered a fraction longer than coincidence allowed.

  Then it moved on.

  "Children," Malrec began gently, "the Light watches over those who are faithful."

  The prayer began.

  Voices rose together—thin, disciplined, practiced. Harry spoke each word at the proper moment. He bowed when expected. Lifted his gaze when required. He had memorized the cadence years ago.

  Faith here was repetition.

  Not feeling.

  As the voices filled the chapel, Harry listened to what was not said.

  Brother Halven's hand rested a moment too long on a younger boy's shoulder. Sister Arlena moved two girls closer to the front row. A ledger lay half-concealed near the altar, its corner visible beneath folded linen.

  The pages had been marked recently.

  Patterns repeated.

  Patterns mattered.

  The bells ceased.

  Silence fell.

  Malrec stepped down from the altar and walked between the pews, his robes whispering against stone.

  "Today," he said softly, "some of you will be permitted to serve."

  A ripple moved through the children.

  Permitted.

  The word carried approval, though it was never phrased as choice.

  Malrec paused beside a thin, dark-haired boy in the front row.

  "You," he said. Then another. "And you."

  They rose slowly.

  "You will accompany Brother Halven after breakfast."

  They tried to look honored.

  Rav shifted beside Harry, tension tightening his shoulders.

  Service meant leaving the Church grounds. Sometimes those chosen returned weeks later in better clothes, cheeks fuller, voices quieter. Sometimes they did not return at all.

  The word service suggested gratitude.

  The system suggested allocation.

  No one spoke of the difference.

  After dismissal, the children moved in orderly lines toward the refectory. Breakfast waited in iron pots: thin porridge, coarse bread, measured portions.

  Measured.

  Always measured.

  Harry and Rav sat along the wall.

  "You think they're lucky?" Rav asked under his breath.

  Harry tore a piece of bread and dipped it into his bowl. "I don't know."

  "They say nobles pay well for good workers."

  "They say many things."

  Across the room, Yvanna sat upright, gaze lowered. Sister Arlena stood behind the girls like a silent boundary.

  Harry ate slowly. Methodically. To look ordinary was to remain unexamined.

  As the selected boys were led through the side corridor, Harry felt the pendant cool against his chest.

  He did not know why it had been left with him when other children arrived with nothing.

  He did not know why Malrec had once studied it so closely before declaring that personal belongings required safekeeping.

  He only knew it had never been returned.

  The door closed behind the chosen boys.

  The tightness in his chest was not fear.

  Not yet.

  It was awareness.

  The bells rang again, calling the rest toward labor.

  As he followed the line into the courtyard, dawn finally struck the stained-glass windows. Color burst briefly across the chapel walls—gold, crimson, sapphire—transforming stone into something almost holy.

  From the outside, the Church of Radiant Mercy would soon glow in full Light.

  Inside, the cold endured.

  And within that cold, unnoticed by most, something quiet and watchful had begun to sharpen inside a ten-year-old boy who was learning that Light did not fall equally on all who knelt beneath it.

  Not here.

  Not in these halls.