Children of the Elorian

“The Wellspring only flows into the broken.”

That’s what my father used to say when I was gasping for air, lungs seizing, vision narrowing. He’d whisper a prayer to the kiln as he shaped the air around me, coaxing the breath back into my chest.

I’m lucky then. The Wellspring must flow freely through me.

That was years ago. Before the Seventh Order. Before the Elorian came calling on my family.

I can still hear my brother’s voice in my head: “Not everyone who has a mark enrolls on Commission day. They’ve got plenty of recruits. Just stay in the Isles. Don’t risk it.”

I might’ve listened, if he wasn’t such a stubborn hypocrite. Why train me in the pits for years, beat me till I’m bloodied and bruised every day, if he was just going to tell me to sit this one out?

Not today, big brother. Today I make your greatest fear come true, today I become like you.

I’ve made my choice; there is no turning back now. I made this decision against my best judgment, my brother, my father. My freaking body even feels as if it is screaming no, but my heart and mind have made up their minds. I blame Maverick for my stubbornness. Having a Commanding Officer as a brother doesn’t help with reason or cooperativeness. Neither does having an ex- Elorian soldier as a father.

The wind screaming in my ears snaps me out of the existential dread that has flooded my head since takeoff.

I’ve never been the most graceful girl, but flailing midair like a wounded bird is not exactly the first impression I want to make on my future unit mates.

My dad’s Dorai has saved me from suffocation and near-death more times than I can count. But right now? I regret not taking the train or boat like everyone else.

The flight is not a soft breeze carrying me to my destination, it is more like a brutal hurricane. He’s been out of the Order for over a decade, and clearly, ‘gentle landings for your daughter’ hasn’t been at the top of his priorities.

When my boots slam into the ground with a bone-rattling thud, it takes everything in me not to drop to my knees and kiss the dirt in gratitude.

My dad’s smug smiles makes it almost impossible for my eyes not to roll. “You really should’ve practiced in the pits with Maverick,” I say, brushing the imaginary dust off my coat. “He could teach you a thing or two about finesse.”

He turns to me with mock surprise, as if he hadn’t just flung his daughter out of the sky like a sack of grain.“I think this experience will be good for you,” he adds, softer this time. “Might even make you a grateful daughter.”

I don’t answer right away, instead I trace his gaze to the towering white gates, shielding the pristine marble walls that will be my home for the next year. The Elorian, Home to the Seventh Order. The place where you either become a soldier...or break.

He looks back at me.

“You know it’s not too late, right?”

There’s no sarcasm in his voice now. Just the father I remember from before, the one who carried me to the fire when my lungs collapsed. The one who still whispers her name when he thinks no one can hear.

My mother’s death carved something out of him that never quite filled back in. A spark that won’t reignite.

I have her face. I know that. I am a constant reminder of what he has lost and what he could lose again.

And now I’m standing here, one breath away from walking through gates that will take me further from him than death ever could.

I want to tell him I’m ready. That my lungs will hold. That I won’t collapse on my first day. That I won’t break.

But I can’t promise him that, I am not sure I totally believe it. I press my shoulders back finding the confidence. “I can do this, Dad,” I say. My voice shaking a little, “I have to do this.”

He looks into my eyes one last time and pulls me into a hug. Not a casual embrace. Not a ‘see you soon.’ He hugs me like he might never get the chance again. That’s… real encouraging.

When he pulls back, his hands firmly grip my shoulders, pulling us back to the reality of the moment.

“Remember everything Maverick and I taught you,” he says, voice low. “And don’t be afraid to lean on him. He may be a Commanding Officer… but you’ll always be his little sister, alright?”

I nod, because I don’t trust my voice, and arguing won’t change anything.

But inside, I am protesting.

I didn’t come here to ride my brother’s coattails. I came to prove that I belong here without anyone’s pity, especially Maverick’s.

My father knows that, but it was worth a final shot. He straightens himself out; the mere essence of the Elorian turning him into a soldier once again.

My boots crunch on the gravel as the gates, and the restless flock of recruits crowding them loom ahead. Half of them look like me, saying tearful goodbyes to their parents, hugging their siblings, giving them one last embrace. Dedicating your life to the Order is not to be taken lightly. Every recruit here has something to prove. Once you’re in, you’re in. Every fiber of your being is dedicated to the Seventh Order and it’s mission.

Stepping into the Elorian, on the other hand, is the most intimidating thing I have done.

The white marble walls covered in ivy stretch endlessly upward, flames flickering from their arches, the lush greenery hiding all the horrors and dreams an Elorian recruit could imagine.

Despite the misleading pure appearance, they look like they could devour me whole.

One shaky, shallow breath and then a step.

I look back, just once.

He’s already in the air, wind curling beneath his boots, watching his baby girl walk into the masonry of recruits. A breeze rushes past my ear, warm and sharp like a whisper. A final reminder, a father’s prayer.

I step forward into the gates and begin to embrace the pain I signed myself up for.

I can do this

My own words taunt me as I gather myself together and head toward the long line forming to enter the orientation hall.

I really hope that wasn’t a lie.

Sitting patiently in line is the perfect time to practice the best survival strategy: observe my future allies and my competition.

A few kids look like they’re from the Isles, like me. I can tell by their tanned skin and bleached-out hair. They probably spent their days fishing, skinning game, or carving boats by the shoreline. Familiar and hardy but wild and unpredictable at times.

A cluster of recruits from the desert territories move in front. They shuffle awkwardly, like if any one touches them they might turn to ash. They’re more burnt than tan, thin and wiry, their bones sharper from a lifetime of surviving the harsh western dust. One of them, a boy who can’t be older than sixteen, is shivering despite the sun beaming on his back.

The most prepared are clearly from the central villages. They have strong resilient builds and weather-worn skin. They’ve seen hot summers, bitter winters, and everything in between. Broad shoulders from days spent laboring in the fields, arms corded with muscle from harvesting grain and dragging water buckets. They walk with quiet confidence, having no doubtful thoughts.

Then there are the ones from the Norhym, the frost lands. You can tell without even asking. They don’t talk. They don’t smile. They keep to themselves—their cold and calculating eyes scanning the rest of us like a battlefield. They’re already planning who they can eliminate first.

I can’t blame them. I’m copying the strategy. I would rather look calculating than caught unprepared.

My mother was like that—always observing people, always wanting to know their stories, where they were from, and how they came to be. She was a Mental. Not a strong Dorai like my dad or brother, but she could read emotions. She always knew what to say to people—how to understand them.

“MAKARI!”

A high-pitched shriek that sounds like my name jolts me from my thoughts. Through the crowd, I spotted a bopping ponytail and an overenthusiastic girl sprinting toward me.

Before I could say hi, she tackled me in a hug the General would been proud of. At least the first person to take me down is my friend, and not an opponent in the sparring ring.

“Lyra!” I wheeze. “I thought your dad talked to the General about letting you skip the Triunne?”

She waves a typical dismissive hand.

Most people would collapse under the weight of being the High Priest’s daughter;having half the Order bow, whisper, or scramble to please you. Lyra treats it like an inconvenience, something she trips over on her way to do whatever she actually wants.

“Eh, favor’s overrated,” she says breezily. “Plus, I wanted to check out our competition.”

Only Lyra could shrug off a privilege people would kill for and then show up anyway, vibrating with excitement.

“Oh yeah?” I ask. “What do you think so far?”

She throws her arm around my shoulder and immediately begins educating me on our fellow soldiers.

“See him in red? Bad left knee—look at how he’s shifting all his weight. Her, with long black hair, already has a crush on the big, muscular guard at the gate.”

She tsks shaking her head with disapproval, “Weakness at its finest. That guy from the woodlands over there? See that nasty scar on his face? I bet he got that from not keeping his hands up. So, in sparring, watch out for that right hook.”

I’m impressed but not surprised.

Lyra grew up with me in the Southern Isles. We’d always sit on the rocks where the tide pools were the biggest and watch the boats drift out to sea. From there, we had a perfect view of the fishermen working the beach.

Eventually, despite her father’s strict rules, Lyra started coming to the training pits with me and Maverick. Maverick was quick and strong—but Lyra could read him like a book. She never won a spar, but she did put him on his ass a few times.

Lyra and I joined the Order at the same time. She was born to join the order, every priest’s kin must answer Commission. She has trained for this moment since she took her first steps but never wanted it until Maverick. When he enlisted, that’s all she ever talked about—fighting for the good of the people.

I called absolute BS on that.

She always denied her fate; we would daydream about running off to the western isles someday, away from the Order, away from the pressure, and spend our days as old haggs weaving tapestries by the ocean. But there was one problem, she always had a thing for my brother. And her trainer, the same person, go figure. All those daydreams changed. I’m not surprised she followed him into battle. She’d follow him everywhere if he let her. Maverick is… protective, to say the least of both of us. He let us train with him because he knew we’d eventually end up here. The least he could do was make sure we survived long enough to be useful.

“Next!”

The line starts to shift forward, picking up pace as more recruits file in.

There are four checkpoints at the main gate, each run by a freshly graduated Elorian soldier. Which isn’t saying much since the last graduation year was seven years ago, my brothers class. The one we’re approaching isn’t what I expected from a seasoned Elorian. She’s short, maybe just past five feet, with a jet-black bob that cuts off clean at her nape. But her height and non-welcoming demeanor aren’t what catches my attention.

I glance at the Dorai mark etched along her hand. A swirling black cloud trails up her fingers and coils around her wrist.

A dark Dorai

“Next!”

I step up to her station.

“Mark, please.”

I turn around and lift the back of my shirt, revealing the small black circle inked between my shoulder blades. She pricks it with a sharp nod, jots my name down, and waves me through before moving on to Lyra.

Dorai marks are the lifeblood of the Order’s system. If you’re born with one, it means you have the potential to unlock a Dorai. It’s not a promise or a guarantee, just a chance to be a part of something greater. Until it’s awakened, it stays dormant, just a black circle.

It can appear anywhere on your body. From the center of your forehead… down to your toes.

Lyra’s mark is right in the middle of her throat. A target painted on for a kill shot.

“Mark, please.”

Lyra immediately starts to ramble. “I love your Dorai mark, that means you have a dark Dorai, right? I am so jealous. I hope I get something cool like you. Do you just fade into shadows and scare people—?”

Before Lyra can finish her very long thought, the soldier pricks her in the middle of her neck. It’s like the wind gets knocked out of her. She gives the soldier a side-eye that could gut a man, but it doesn’t seem to faze her.

Lyra stands up straight, trying to keep her composure, and walks towards me.

“You would think people would have the common courtesy to make small talk,” Lyra mutters.

I laugh at her obvious annoyance, but before we can step away, the Dorai holder blocks our path.

“A piece of advice: don’t ramble. It makes you an easy target.”

Lyra, stunned, shoves her way past the soldier into the courtyard.

She stomps and pouts like a child as we keep moving deeper into the Elorian.

I nudge her as we walk to find our seats. “She is right, you know. Not everybody here wants to be your friend. You have to read the room and pick your moments.”

She stops and grabs her heart as if I had stabbed her in the chest.

“Wow, Makari. From the emo shadow lover, I get it. But you... When did you lose your sense of wonder?”

I punch her in the shoulder to maybe knock some sense into her.

“You know what I mean. We have to stay on top of our game here. You can talk to all the people you want in the Foundry.”

Lyra suddenly gasps. “Don’t even speak that into existence! You know we will be in the Vanguard together.”

We walk past another checkpoint. Outside a sea of people has gathered beyond the gates. There is going to be a lot more competition than I thought.

My eye catches a boy checking in. He looks like he’s from the Islands—similar to the Isles, but way harder to get to. He’s got slicked back auburn hair and darker skin like he was forged from fire itself.

“Mark, please.” I hear the woman call.

This one is not like the little bundle of joy that we had. She’s tall and frail. You could probably blow on her and she’d flutter into the wind. What kind of Dorai could she have possibly unlocked?

The island boy glances at her and leans down.

“Uhh... It’s in a bit of a sensitive area.” He gives her a flirty wink.

The soldier stares at him as a firey blush creeps onto her face.

“...I can show you, but I feel like we should buy each other dinner first?”

The poor girl looks like she could crumble on the spot.

The boy doubles over in laughter, “I’m just kidding. I wouldn’t be that bad of a date, though.”

He pulls up his shirt to show his mark on his chest.

I turn to Lyra, “See, people like him are asking to be punching bags. Just wait till he pisses off the wrong person.”

We funnel into the auditorium, and the moment I step inside, the breath catches in my throat. The exterior was impressive, but the interior is a masterpiece.

Towering white pillars rise like ancient sentinels, veined with onyx and trimmed in gold. They draw the eye upward to a vast domed ceiling where hundreds of suspended lanterns flicker in midair. Their flames drift and sway stirred by an unseen tide, casting shimmering light across the polished stone floor, light that moves like fire dancing on water.

At the far end, above the elevated stage, an enormous mural has been carved directly into the black stone wall. The shadows sculpt the scene with such depth it feels alive. Angels and demons collide midair, wings torn, blades locked, faces twisted with fury and terror. Fire curls along the mural’s edges while ash rains from a sky of carved darkness.

Below it, a half‑circle of banners sweeps across the upper balcony, each representing one of the seven streams. Their metallic threadwork catches the lanternlight with a faint glow.

A blazing crown for Fire. A mountain pierced by a dagger for Earth. Crashing waves breaking against icebergs for Water. Intricate spirals of smoke and cloud for Air. A radiant sun with seven shimmering flares for Light. A swirling shadow devouring a blackened moon for Dark. And for Mental—a single hand reaching into a rippling mirror.

Each banner hangs like a silent promise of what is just beneathe the surface.

At the center of the stage stands the General’s podium, an obsidian and flameglass sculpture shaped like a broken sword driven into the earth. Behind it, an open kiln burns with a steady, living flame.

A tribute to the Creator.

The flamekeeper’s eternal vigil.

Every detail presses the same truth into me: this isn’t a school, and it isn’t a temple. It’s a battlefield waiting to happen.

The last of the recruits file in and settle. A hush ripples across the auditorium, thin but tense.

A single trumpet cuts through the room, sharp enough to slice the breath from our lungs.

The General enters. His stride has been carved by decades of command, designed to intimidate. And behind him—matching his pace and steely look—walks my big brother.