The Order

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The boy thrust his hands into his wool tunic as if to warm them, although the blaze from the fire was hot enough to curl the soft down on his cheek. He was narrow across the shoulders, and his face was thin and drawn even at this young age, so he looked far older than his eleven years. He wore a satchel across his neck made of deer hide with a heavy book tucked into one pocket, which pinched him and made red marks on his skin. He didn’t much care about that, or about what the others might have said about him. He had no real friends. He was a natural loner, at home with his texts, and he liked it that way.

The firelight flickered and danced across the other children, who sat with faces rapt and shining, upward-turned in spiritual ecstasy as if the figure telling stories before them were the archangel Auriel herself, come to walk among them.

No. That wasn’t right. The boy shook his head slightly in disgust. Perhaps a few years ago he might have made such a comparison, but not now. The figure who spoke with such confidence was simply his mother, a mortal with no higher knowledge than any other regardless of her bloodline, and if the archangels existed at all, they certainly would not waste their time coming to this forsaken place.

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