The mist had thinned now, leaving the forest soaked in the soft gray light of early morning.
Ostina moved with the precision of a shadow, her tiny feet making no sound on the damp moss. Every tree, every root, every stone seemed to watch her, responding to the quiet pulse of her mana. She was no longer just a child in the eyes of the Church—here, she was a conductor, orchestrating life itself.
Her teal eyes caught a flicker near a hollow log: a rat, its whiskers twitching, skittered over the wet ground. It froze for a moment, sensing her presence, then darted back into the underbrush. Ostina allowed herself a small smile. Each creature she passed was a thread in her network of observation, a subtle extension of her senses.
Ahead, the Church's outer garden came into view. A new set of nuns had arrived for morning duties, their footsteps deliberate, their voices soft but sharp with authority. Ostina crouched low behind a bush, shards of dark magic hovering in her palm like tiny, obedient fireflies. A single thought sent them weaving between plants, invisible and unnoticed, nudging petals, leaves, and even the small sprinklers that ran too close to the sacred herb patches.
She observed the head nun approaching—a tall woman with a stern face and eyes that seemed to pierce through the fog. Ostina's lips pressed into a line. The nun would judge the garden, she would see imperfections, and she would blame some hidden hand… or perhaps the "Trash Saint" herself. Ostina didn't flinch. She had learned to let them see what they wanted: powerless gestures, a fragile girl who struggled to summon even a spark.
A crackling whisper ran through her shards. Someone was tampering with the sacred fountain, water spilling where it shouldn't.
Ostina's small body slid forward beneath the bushes, a shadow among shadows. Her shards expanded, weaving threads of water mana with the tiniest pulse of earth, shaping it into invisible conduits to guide the fountain's flow. By the time the nuns reached it, the water danced correctly, perfectly aligned, and no sign of interference remained.
One of the nuns frowned, muttering about "strange occurrences," but the head nun moved on, oblivious to the unseen hands that had corrected everything. Ostina allowed herself a tiny exhale, shards pulsing faintly around her like a heartbeat.
Then, a voice cut through the quiet.
"Ostina".
Her heart skipped a beat. She froze, glancing toward the tree line. A boy from the orphanage stood partially hidden behind a trunk, wide-eyed. He wasn't supposed to be awake yet, not for another hour. Ostina tightened her grip on her shards, ready to vanish, but the boy didn't move forward
.
"You… you did this?
" he whispered, nodding toward the fountain.
Her lips curled into a faint smile
. "No one sees what they don't expect,"
she said softly, her voice barely louder than the morning wind.
The boy's eyes widened, but there was awe in them now. For once, Ostina felt a spark of connection—not ridicule, not judgment. Someone had noticed.
"Be careful,"
she warned, shards hovering like tiny guardians around her.
"The Church… they will look closer tomorrow. And they always punish those who seem powerless."
The boy nodded, a shiver running through him. Ostina's gaze drifted back to the fog-laden forest beyond the garden.
The world was hers to observe, to shape, to bend in subtle, unseen ways. And soon, those who had called her weak, "Trash Saint," would see the truth—not in force, not in open displays, but in the silent threads of power that she wove quietly through everything around her.
The shards pulsed once, then hovered still, as if in agreement. Ostina rose, small and graceful, disappearing back into the shadows of the trees, her dark magic concealed beneath the guise of a harmless child.
The forest held its breath with her, alive and approving. She was learning, mastering, surviving—and the Church would never see her coming.