Frost came on the second morning.

  It traced the edges of stone like quiet possession, settling into mortar lines and window seams, silvering the courtyard below before the sun had risen high enough to challenge it.

  Harry woke before the bells this time.

  The cold had settled deeper during the night, pressing through stone and wool alike, turning each breath into pale smoke above his cot. He lay still for a moment, listening to the low hum of sleeping bodies around him. Rav lay across the aisle, one arm hanging loosely over the edge of his bed. Somewhere near the far wall, a younger boy murmured in his sleep, his voice thin and uncertain.

  For a brief stretch of seconds, the dormitory felt almost peaceful.

  Still.

  Unmeasured.

  Then the first bell rang.

  It began as a distant tremor—a low vibration that traveled through the tower's bones. A heartbeat later, the sound expanded into a slow, deliberate peal that carried authority rather than urgency. The bell did not rush.

  It declared.

  Harry closed his eyes briefly, then opened them again.

  The second toll followed. Then the third.

  The rhythm was exact, steady, unchanging. It marked their days with more precision than the sun ever could. The bells did not respond to the weather or the mood. They did not soften in the frost. They did not pause for grief.

  They regulated.

  Around him, the dormitory stirred. Blankets rustled. Wood creaked. A cough broke the quiet, followed by another. Rav groaned and rolled onto his back, blinking up at the ceiling.

  "I was dreaming," Rav muttered. "Warm fire. Real bread."

  Harry pushed himself upright. The pendant beneath his tunic shifted slightly against his chest, cool and grounding.

  "That sounds dangerous."

  Rav turned his head toward him, eyes heavy with sleep. "You don't dream?"

  "Not about bread."

  The fourth bell rang.

  As if summoned by the sound itself, Brother Halven entered the dormitory. His robes were crisp despite the early hour, his expression composed and unreadable.

  His gaze swept the room with practiced assessment—not checking for wakefulness, but compliance.

  "Up," he instructed calmly. "The Light greets the faithful at dawn."

  Harry stood immediately. He had learned that moving without hesitation avoided both praise and scrutiny. Praise created visibility. Scrutiny created records.

  The boys formed two lines and exited the dormitory. The air in the corridor felt sharper than inside the sleeping quarters. The tower stones still clung to the night's chill, unwilling to surrender it even as dawn approached.

  They descended the spiral staircase in silence. Through narrow slit windows, Harry glimpsed the faint gray outline of the town below. Frost blurred the rooftops into pale shapes. Thin columns of smoke rose from early hearth fires, wavering against the morning sky.

  Above it all, the Church stood untouched by the frost that clung to the lower streets.

  Untouched.

  Elevated.

  Inside the chapel, the oil lamps burned brighter than the previous morning, casting long shadows across the stone floor. As dawn strengthened, the stained-glass windows began to glow faintly, bleeding muted color into the walls like restrained flame.

  The children took their seats without speaking.

  High Priest Malrec was already present.

  He stood near the altar with his hands clasped in front of him, speaking quietly with Cardinal Veylan. The cardinal's thin frame seemed swallowed by layered robes, his sharp eyes flicking occasionally toward the gathered children—not with warmth, but calculation.

  This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

  Harry noticed Malrec's slight tilt of the head toward the ledger resting on the altar table.

  A list.

  There was no ceremony before the prayer began.

  "Radiant Father," Malrec said in his measured, gentle voice, "we give thanks for the light that guides our steps."

  The children responded in unison.

  Harry spoke clearly, his tone neither leading nor lagging. He knew when to lower his voice, when to lift it, when to bow his head, and when to look upward toward the painted saints above.

  But this morning, as the Light behind the stained glass intensified, he focused on something else.

  The boys chosen the day before were absent.

  At sunrise, their beds had been empty.

  He had noticed.

  He had also noticed that their wooden boxes had already been reassigned—shifted quietly to the foot of other cots before dawn. The Church wasted nothing. Not space. Not supplies. Not names.

  The final line of prayer faded into silence, and the children rose.

  "Remain seated," Malrec said softly.

  A ripple of tension passed through the pews.

  Malrec stepped forward, the morning light catching briefly on the silver pendant at his chest.

  "Our benefactors continue to bless this holy house," he said. "Their generosity ensures your food, your shelter, and your education in the Light."

  His gaze moved slowly across the children.

  "In return, some of you will serve beyond these walls."

  There it was again.

  Serve.

  The word was polished smooth through repetition, stripped of edges.

  Cardinal Veylan stepped forward and unfolded a small parchment. Names were read aloud.

  Three boys. One girl.

  Each stood as instructed, faces pale but composed. The girl's hands trembled faintly at her sides. Sister Arlena stepped closer and placed a firm hand on her shoulder—steadying or restraining, it was difficult to tell.

  "Be grateful," Arlena murmured.

  Rav stiffened beside Harry.

  "This isn't right," Rav whispered.

  Harry kept his gaze forward. "Not here."

  "They were chosen yesterday."

  "I know."

  The newly selected children were escorted out before the rest were dismissed.

  No farewell.

  No explanation.

  As the pews emptied, Harry glanced toward the door where they had disappeared. Outside, the frost would sting their faces. The path down the hill would be uneven and slick. He wondered if they had been told where they were going.

  If they had been promised advancement.

  If they had been warned.

  The mood in the refectory felt heavier than usual.

  Conversations were muted. The scrape of wooden spoons against bowls echoed more sharply in the subdued air. Portions were measured with the same consistency as always.

  Nothing changed.

  Everything changed.

  Rav leaned closer. "That makes six in two days."

  Harry gave a small nod.

  "They said nobles from the southern estates are visiting," Rav continued. "Maybe it's for apprenticeships."

  "Maybe."

  Rav studied him carefully. "You don't believe that."

  Harry chewed slowly before answering. "I believe we don't know enough."

  It was not deflection.

  It was a fact.

  For weeks, he had observed the pattern. Names called during morning prayer. Children were escorted away under supervision. Carriages were waiting just beyond the gates shortly afterward. Not always the same crest. Not always the same carriage.

  But always discreet.

  Always recorded.

  After breakfast, labor assignments were distributed. Harry and Rav were sent to the courtyard to stack wood. Frost glazed the logs with a thin layer of ice, making them slick and difficult to handle.

  The air bit at exposed skin.

  Harry worked methodically, stacking each piece with quiet precision. Rav swung the axe with more force than necessary, splitting wood with sharp, decisive blows that echoed against the courtyard walls.

  "Do you think they're selling them?" Rav asked abruptly.

  The axe struck the log with a loud crack.

  Harry did not look up. "Lower your voice."

  "No one's close enough."

  "That doesn't mean they're not listening."

  Rav leaned against the axe handle, breathing hard. "I've heard things."

  "From who?"

  "The kitchen boys. They say coin changes hands."

  Harry finally met his gaze.

  "And you think the Church would sell children?"

  Rav held his stare. "Wouldn't they?"

  The question lingered between them—dangerous and fragile.

  Harry returned his focus to the woodpile. "We don't have proof."

  "But you've seen something."

  Harry's jaw tightened slightly.

  "Yes."

  The admission carried weight.

  By midmorning, the frost had begun to melt beneath weak sunlight. The courtyard stones glistened faintly. Harry carried the final stack of logs to the storage shed.

  As he stepped back into the main corridor, he noticed Cardinal Veylan speaking quietly with Brother Halven near the administrative wing.

  A pouch changed hands.

  It was subtle. Quick. Efficient.

  Not the exchange of charity.

  Veylan slipped the pouch into his sleeve before noticing the children in the hallway. His expression remained composed, though his posture straightened slightly.

  Harry lowered his gaze at once and continued walking.

  His pulse quickened.

  Coin.

  Ledger.

  Names.

  Later that afternoon, scripture lessons blurred together. Words about divine compassion and holy stewardship felt hollow against the memory of metal disappearing into fabric.

  When the final bell rang for evening prayer, Harry sensed something shift inside him.

  Not anger.

  Not yet.

  Awareness settling into structure.

  The bells sounded again as dusk settled over the valley. Their tone remained unchanged. Steady. Measured. Authoritative.

  The children knelt in rows while candlelight flickered across bowed heads.

  Malrec's voice rose in blessing.

  "May the Light guide those who serve beyond our walls."

  Harry bowed—but not as deeply as the others.

  As the candles burned low and the chapel darkened, he lifted his gaze toward the stained glass above. The painted angels appeared serene in fading Light, their halos glowing faintly against the encroaching dark.

  The bells continued their slow toll into the night.

  From below, faintly carried on the frozen air, came the distant sound of carriage wheels along the hardened road.

  One carriage.

  Then another.

  Harry listened.

  And for the first time, the bells did not feel like comfort.

  They felt like a signal.