When dawn broke, the forest seemed calmer, almost serene. The shifting trees stood still in the pale morning light, and the path appeared unbroken. It was as if the night's horrors had been nothing but a bad dream.
But Rovan knew better.
He woke the children, his voice gentle but firm. "We're moving again. Stay close. Don't wander."
They nodded, their trust in him unwavering despite the fear in their eyes.
As they continued along the path, Rovan couldn't shake the feeling of unease. The sanctuary had to be close—had to be. But what if it wasn't? What if Driafin had sent them into this cursed forest to die?
No. Rovan clenched his jaw, pushing the thought away. He had come too far to turn back now.
The stones marking the path gleamed faintly in the morning light, leading them deeper into the forest. With every step, Rovan's resolve hardened. He would find the sanctuary, no matter what dangers lay ahead.
Because if he didn't, the children had no future. And neither did he.
The path ended at a strange stone carving set into the ground. It was weathered, with deep grooves forming intricate patterns that Rovan couldn't make sense of. The children gathered behind him, their faces weary but curious.
"Is this it?" one of them whispered.
Rovan didn't answer. He placed a cautious foot on the carving. For a moment, nothing happened. Then, the ground beneath them began to shift.
The stone groaned as it slid apart, revealing a staircase spiraling down into the earth. Cool air rushed up, carrying with it the faint scent of flowers and something metallic, like iron.
"Stay close," Rovan said, his voice low.
The children nodded, gripping the hems of their cloaks as they descended into the darkness. The stairway led to a vast underground space, lit by glowing orbs that floated near the ceiling. The air was still and heavy, the silence almost oppressive.
All around them were women dressed in pale gray robes, their heads covered by hoods. They moved with purpose but made no sound, their faces expressionless. Not one of them looked at Rovan or the children, as though they weren't there at all.
Rovan's instincts screamed at him to stay alert. Something wasn't right.
As they stepped further into the sanctuary, a strange voice echoed through the chamber. It wasn't loud, but it carried weight, commanding attention.
"Welcome, wanderers. You have come far."
Rovan froze, his eyes scanning the room. None of the nuns had spoken. Their mouths were closed, their movements uninterrupted.
"Who's there?" Rovan called out, gripping the handle of his hammer.
The children huddled closer to him, their eyes wide with fear.
One of the nuns stepped forward—a young woman with a delicate frame and an unchanging face. Her hood barely hid her soft features, and her hands moved fluidly in the air.
The voice came again, clear and calm.
"It is I," it said, though her lips did not move. The voice was hers, but it seemed to come from everywhere at once.
Rovan stared, his grip tightening on his hammer. "You're the one speaking?"
The nun nodded, her hands making more gestures.
"You are safe here," the voice continued. "This is the sanctuary promised to the blessed. You and the children are welcome."
Rovan relaxed slightly, but not completely. "Why didn't anyone speak earlier?"
The nun's face tilted, a gesture that seemed almost playful, though her expression remained fixed. "We have no need for words. The sanctuary listens. It speaks for us."
The nun's gestures quickened, and the voice spoke again. "You look tired, blacksmith. Would you like to rest before continuing your journey?"
Rovan blinked, confused. "What journey?"
He hadn't told anyone here about his plans. How did she know he intended to leave?
The nun tilted her head, and though her face remained still, it felt like she was smiling. "The sanctuary knows many things. You have done well to bring the blessed here. But your path is far from over."
Rovan's brow furrowed. "I don't understand. What path? What do you mean, far from over?"
The nun didn't answer directly. Instead, she gestured for them to follow her deeper into the sanctuary.
"This way," the voice said. "There is much you need to see."
Rovan hesitated. The children tugged at his sleeve, their eyes pleading for him to follow. Reluctantly, he nodded.
"Stay close," he said again, his voice firm.
The nun led them through a series of narrow corridors, the glowing orbs casting eerie shadows on the walls. The silence was absolute, broken only by the soft shuffle of their footsteps.
They entered a large chamber filled with more robed figures. In the center of the room stood a massive stone tablet, its surface covered in ancient runes that glowed faintly.
The nun gestured to the tablet, and the voice returned.
"This is the history of the pact," it said. "The truth the emperor would bury."
Rovan stepped closer, his eyes narrowing as he tried to make sense of the runes. "What truth?"
The voice grew softer, almost reverent. "The pact between the gods and the emperor's bloodline was not one of favor. It was one of control. Power stolen from the blessed, bound to his line. But the pact was flawed. Should the blessed rise, the emperor's line will fall."
Rovan's heart raced. He thought of the children—their powers, their potential. Was that why the emperor hunted them?
"You brought the blessed to safety," the voice continued. "But you must prepare them for what lies ahead. The emperor's men will not stop. They will come."
The nun turned to Rovan, her gestures slow and deliberate.
"You have a choice," the voice said. "Stay here, rest, and leave the children in our care. Or stay with them, and fight for what is to come."
Rovan didn't answer immediately. He looked at the children, their faces filled with hope and trust. Could he leave them now? Could he abandon them to face a future he didn't fully understand?
The nun's expression didn't change, but the air around her felt expectant, as though she already knew what he would choose.
"I'll stay," Rovan said finally, his voice firm. "I'll fight. Whatever it takes."
The nun gestured again, and though her face remained still, the voice carried a warmth that felt almost like a smile.
"Then the sanctuary will prepare you. Welcome, blacksmith. Your journey has only just begun."
Rovan stayed in the sanctuary, throwing himself into the rigorous training the nuns offered. Each morning began with martial arts drills that left his muscles aching but stronger. By midday, he sat cross-legged in silence, learning to still his mind and focus on control—control of his thoughts, his emotions, and even the faint flickers of energy the nuns claimed were buried within him.
The sanctuary's days and nights felt strange, as though time moved differently underground. He wasn't sure how long he had been there, but by the thirtieth sunrise—or what felt like it—his skills had sharpened. He could dodge strikes he wouldn't have seen before and hold his thoughts steady, even under pressure.
The children trained too, their powers blossoming under the guidance of the silent nuns. One boy could create small bursts of fire, while a girl learned to move objects with just a thought. Watching them filled Rovan with pride and a deep sense of responsibility. He knew their safety meant everything.
The peace was shattered one morning when the enforcers arrived. Their heavy boots echoed in the halls of the sanctuary, their stern faces scanning every corner.
Rovan's heart pounded as he stood by the stone tablet, his hammer at his side. The children were gathered in a circle, their faces calm despite the tension in the air.
The nuns moved to greet the enforcers, their hands gesturing as the strange, disembodied voice spoke. "Welcome to the sanctuary. How may we serve you?"
The enforcer at the front, a tall man with a scar running down his cheek, looked unimpressed. "We've been told there are children here with... unusual abilities. The emperor's decree is clear. All such children belong to him."
The voice remained calm. "These are orphans, raised in the light of the gods. They are not trained for war, but for worship."
The enforcer's eyes narrowed, but he said nothing. His gaze shifted to Rovan.
"And him?"
The voice answered smoothly, "He is a blacksmith, brought here to craft sculptures and tools for the gods. His work is sacred."
The enforcer grunted, clearly not satisfied but unwilling to argue with the nuns. "We'll stay and observe. If there's deception, there will be consequences."
For three days, the enforcers lingered, their presence casting a dark shadow over the sanctuary. The children stayed close to the nuns, keeping their powers hidden. Rovan avoided the enforcers as much as possible, focusing on his work and staying out of sight.
But on the third day, as the enforcers prepared to leave, their leader turned to Rovan.
"You're coming with us," he said, his tone leaving no room for argument. "All men of age are required by the emperor. Your sacred work can wait."
Rovan's stomach sank, but he kept his face calm. He knew he couldn't fight them here. It would only put the children in danger.
The children gathered around him as he packed his tools. Their faces were solemn, their eyes filled with worry. One of them, a boy named Kael, stepped forward, holding a small bone flute carved with intricate patterns.
"Take this," Kael said, his voice soft. "If you ever need us, or if you're scared, blow it. We'll hear you."
Rovan's throat tightened as he took the flute. "Thank you," he said, his voice thick. "Take care of each other. And listen to the nuns."
Kael nodded, his small hands clenched into fists. "We will. Be careful, Rovan."
The enforcers didn't wait for long. They led Rovan away, their heavy footsteps echoing in the tunnels as the children and nuns watched in silence.