By the time Dovian returned, night had settled over the city. He made his way to the small house tucked into a quiet corner. It wasn't grand or lavish, yet every beam and joint carried the mark of care—too fine a dwelling for an orphan. But then, Dovian was no ordinary orphan.

From the day he was pulled from the floodwaters, the people had known he was the chosen one. The Divine Messenger before him, with her dying breath, had left behind a message from the Gods: "The next will be one who survives the river."

Dovian paused at the threshold, uncertain of what to say, when the door opened.

A young woman stood there. She was not what anyone would call beautiful—her forehead was flat, her teeth slightly forward, her chin broad. The firelight behind her cast sharp shadows across her stern features, making her look even plainer than usual. This was Dana, the maid sent by King Hugan to care for Dovian—known across Varland as the plainest girl in the land.

Only a head taller than Dovian, she stared down at him, her expression sharp.

"Where have you been? Do you know how worried I was?"

"I'm sorry..." Dovian murmured.

Her scowl softened. Dana never stayed angry long. She stepped aside, ushering him in, her voice turning brisk as she set the table.

"His Majesty sent supplies for you earlier. He also asked whether you've received any signs from the Gods."

Dovian sighed and collapsed onto the bamboo cot. As the Gods' Messenger, his role was vital. Among the Hundred Tribes, Varland had gone generations without a chosen one, and now the hopes of an entire people hung on his shoulders. King Hugan spared no effort—home, provisions, a caretaker—treatment fit for a noble.

But Dovian found no joy in it. Weighted by expectation, he longed to give his people something in return. Yet he had nothing.

His hand rose instinctively to the necklace at his throat. He drew it out. Strung on a simple red cord were four plain tokens: a lump of stone, a hollow seashell, a tiny bamboo flute, and a dull scrap of gray metal. Crude, almost ugly—yet each pulsed with quiet power.

"Do not think of misusing the relics."

Dovian stiffened, then exhaled. His fingers toyed with the necklace.

"You're mistaken. I only want to use one—just once—to give them a sign. Something to strengthen their faith in you. That isn't misuse... is it?"

The Gods answered his thoughts, steady as ever.

"No excuses. What you seek is not their faith in us, but their affection for you. You fear they will turn from you if you fail."

"That's not it!" Dovian burst out, sitting bolt upright.

He paused, trying to calm down.

"All right..." he said quietly. "You're right. I'm sorry."

From the kitchen, Dana glanced over at his sudden outcry. As always, she said nothing.

Silence thickened in the room, heavy as fog.

Then the voices returned:

"You must understand—we will not act directly. We only guide, through messengers such as you. Through them, your people first learned to sow rice, to weave cloth, to drive back the beasts. You are life itself, born of the earth. We came only to nurture it while it was fragile—until the day it could stand alone."

Dovian whispered, "And when that day comes... you'll leave us?"

"Yes. You are the last messenger."

The voices faded.

When Dana returned, carrying a steaming tray of rice and side dishes, she found him still lost in thought. To her, he was no Divine Envoy—just a boy, quiet and burdened, who had no parents and too many questions. A younger brother in need of care.

She sat across from him. "Lorak came looking for you. Tomorrow, you're to join him on the hunts."

"Hunt?" Dovian blinked. "Me?"

"What's with that face?" Dana chuckled. "You're old enough. Time to start hunting and training like the other boys. They've got fathers and uncles to teach them. You..."

She hesitated, cleared her throat, then continued.

"His Majesty has granted you permission to train with the Princes and Young Masters, under General Foriel."

Dovian's eyes lit. "Foriel?!"

"Sir Foriel," Dana corrected with a smile. Then she remembered, and added lightly, "Oh—Mia came by, too."

Dovian froze.

"She lingered outside, fidgeting. Wanted to see you, I think. The moment I asked, she bolted. Looked... worried."

Dana's words made him forget his food. He sat dazed, dreamy, until her repeated calls dragged him back to the room.

___

After supper, Dovian walked to Elder Hakar's house, as he did each evening.

Once an advisor to the King, the Elder now lived simply on the edge of the capital—teaching children, mixing herbs, reading fortunes. He had taught Dovian many things, though only medicine held the boy's heart. Myths did not awe him—he knew the Gods too well. Fortune-telling made him laugh aloud. But Hakar endured his bluntness, softened by the boy's earnest desire to heal and save lives.

That evening, Dovian arrived just as a young couple was leaving, the wife pregnant, a bracelet of seashell beads on her wrist. They exchanged contented smiles as they walked past him.

Inside, Hakar sat with dried bones spread before him.

"You read their fortune?" Dovian asked.

"They sought a charm for their unborn child," the Elder murmured. "I gave them one."

"Then what are you doing now?" Dovian crouched beside him, curious.

"Trying to learn if the floods this year will be mild or fierce."

Carefully, Hakar laid the bones aside and unfurled a cloth marked with symbols and drawings. Dovian's eyes brightened at once.

Together, master and student bent over the cloth, working late into the night, chasing knowledge of healing.

Dovian did not yet know what awaited him the next day—on the hunt.