Willow woke before dawn.
He took one last look around his room. It was ordinary in the way a Maplewood home could be ordinary: wooden tiles, wide floor space, sun-faded drawings on the walls, the old vanity in the corner. Elm's bed was empty, the blanket folded with her neat, unfussy care. He stretched, yawned, and padded into the washroom.
He would miss the sight of all this.
Their washroom counted as a luxury in a town like theirs. It was only a small chamber, a crudely carved tub, a rinsing pail, and a shelf of soaps and pastes, but in Maplewood that was comfort enough. The world liked to pretend to be medieval. It rarely managed to be that simple.
He reached for the toothbrush and squeezed a line of blue gel onto the bristles. His father swore it was rendered from slimes. The thought had horrified him the first year he learned it, but then he remembered what shampoos were made from back in his old world and decided his dignity could survive this too.
His heart would not settle. Veins thrummed in his wrists. His stomach flipped, again and again, as if trying to climb out. Even the mindless rhythm of brushing could not drown the truth humming through his bones.
Today was the day.
The Awakening.
Every child who reached sixteen stood before the Humlic clergy or an Emblemsman and called the soul out into shape. Some tried to do it alone. One girl had lost her arm. That memory alone kept him obedient to the ritual.
Below, his parents' voices rose and fell, half excited, half anxious. He could picture it perfectly: his mother reorganizing the ceremonial garments for the fourth time, his father fussing with the little talismans as if arrangement could shelter a son. The sound made his chest ache in a way he refused to name.
He rinsed, patted his face dry, and raised his eyes to the mirror.
Beauty stared back. It always did. Beauty he had never asked for.
"One day," he muttered, "I am finding a transformation spell."
If the gods wanted a joke, they had committed to the bit. Not only the face. The whole frame. His hands traced the lines he no longer recognized. The hips had widened again, the waist drawn in like someone had tied it with ribbon, the shoulders refusing to broaden no matter how diligently he trained. His cheeks had the slightest soft roundness that made people want to cup them. He had stopped bargaining with height months ago. Some humiliations were simply permanent.
He blew out a breath and set his jaw. Enough of that. There were things he could control.
His stomach rumbled. Right—breakfast. At some point in the last year he had become the household cook because he refused to eat bland porridge when good spice and a warm pan could turn morning into something worth waking for. Judging by the groans and mutters drifting up the stairs, his family had remembered this at the same time.
He took the quickest of baths, dressed, and descended the steps.
Cheers rose the instant he appeared in the doorway. His mother clapped once, bright and proud. His father lifted a ladle like a scepter and declared the kitchen officially open. Even Elm, leaning against the jamb with that calm, unreadable face, let the corner of her mouth tilt upward by a breath.
Willow rolled up his sleeves, tied on the worn apron that fit him far too well, and stepped to the hearth.
"If the gods insist on drama," he said, mostly to the pan, "they can at least eat well."
* * * * * *
The sun began to rise, bleeding gold through the mist that blanketed the town. Morning dew clung to rooftops and the smell of wet earth filled the air. Even through the haze, people gathered — their steps hurried, their voices hushed. Excitement ran through the crowd like current through water.
Parents clutched their children's hands tightly, fearful of losing them to the press of bodies. All eyes turned toward the young men and women parading down the main road in a single, solemn line — the new generation, ready to face the judgment of the gods.
Yet among them, two figures stole the crowd's breath.
The first was the boy of Olivia's — the one they called the Flower of Maplewood.
Dressed in a simple white robe and a crown of wildflowers, Willow looked like something born of spring itself. The delicate wreath around his neck caught the morning light, making his blue eyes gleam like carved sapphires. He was ethereal, a strange and fragile beauty that didn't belong to this world.
Beside him strode his younger sister, Elm — the town's little dragon. She wore the same robe, yet somehow made it look like armor. Her golden hair caught the wind, her posture straight and sure. Even with her expression unreadable, the villagers could feel the quiet power radiating from her.
They whispered among themselves — about how she had surpassed even her mother's record during the Rite of Passage, about how she was destined to become something great. But it was Willow they couldn't stop staring at. For all the town's pride in their strong daughters, there was something disarming in the sight of a boy so unearthly, so untouchable, that even the mist seemed to shy away from him.
Willow tried to ignore the stares. His hand was clasped tightly in Elm's, and her palm was warm, steady — too steady for the way his heart was pounding.
"Are you alright?" Elm asked softly without turning.
"Yeah," Willow managed, forcing a small smile. "Just a little nervous, that's all."
"You'll be fine." She squeezed his hand. "If anything happens, I'll protect you."
Willow's lips curved into a weak smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. You always say that, he thought. And you always mean it. But guilt knotted in his stomach anyway. Because by the end of today, she would wake to a world without him.
He looked out into the crowd and caught sight of his father waving proudly, his face shining with joy. His mother stood nearby among the men assigned to guard the square, straight-backed and composed, though even from here Willow could tell she was smiling.
Sorry, Mom. Sorry, Dad. He swallowed hard. But this is the only way.
The procession reached the heart of the square — a grand marble statue of Tetis, Goddess of Harvest and Fertility. Her carved form loomed above them, hands outstretched, holding a bowl overflowing with stone fruit and wheat. The crowd fell silent.
The young initiates knelt in unison, lowering their heads in prayer.
"Goddess Tetis," they murmured, repeating after the clergy, "thank you for the harvest, for the soil, for the life beneath our feet. Bless our future as you blessed our past."
The air shimmered faintly as incense was lit. Then, one by one, they rose and continued down the cobblestone path until the towering white church came into view — its spires worn by time, its bells still proud.
At the entrance waited a man draped in the black robes of the Humlic Faith. His hair was neatly combed though streaked with gray, his kind face lined with years of devotion. The gold cross that hung from his neck gleamed in the dawn light.
"Children of Maplewood," he greeted, his voice calm yet carrying through the crowd. "You stand today before the eyes of Lord Hum, who grants shape to the soul and life to the flesh. Through this ceremony, your essence shall awaken — and you shall see who you truly are."
He smiled reassuringly. "I am Father John, and I will be presiding over today's Awakening. Fear not — the gods watch kindly upon those who come with pure hearts."
The crowd relaxed slightly, though Willow couldn't help but notice how the villagers' excitement only made the pressure in his chest worse. He forced himself to breathe evenly, pretending to listen as Father John explained the rites — even though he already knew every step, every word, every outcome.
This is it, he thought. The event. The trigger.
From the corner of his eye, he saw movement — his mother whispering to one of the guards, then being hurried away with a grim expression.
His pulse spiked.
Here we go.
He turned his gaze forward, trying to keep his face calm. Elm was standing just ahead of him, perfectly still, her eyes fixed on Father John. She looked every inch the hero she was destined to be — fearless, focused, radiant.
Willow wanted to warn her. To tell her what was coming. But one word, one wrong glance, and everything he'd planned would fall apart.
Father John's voice droned on, describing the nature of the Emblem — how it was the manifestation of one's soul, how it bound them to their god. He spoke of humility and service, of the strength to protect rather than destroy. But Willow barely heard him. His mind was already racing ahead.
The monsters will appear soon, he thought. The Emblems will react. The chaos begins. That's when I run.
"Brother?"
Elm's whisper brought him back. Her hand brushed against his arm, grounding him in the moment.
He blinked and forced a shaky smile. "I'm fine," he said. "Just... trying to look holy."
She gave him a sidelong glance — calm, unimpressed, but the corners of her mouth softened. "You don't have to try," she said quietly. "You already look like you were born for this."
Willow laughed under his breath. "Yeah, maybe too much."
The bells began to ring — three slow tolls that echoed across the town. The sound rolled through the air like the beating of a great heart.