Nights were never quiet in the ghettos. Seryani people bustled about as soon as the sun set below the horizon of the Kyanos Sea. The moon rose proud and radiant, the waves brought a fresh breeze, and the lanterns soared high in the sky. Nomads, merchants, and paisanos moved in the streets, selling, buying, preaching, and wandering.

  It was a domain for the people on the lowest rung of the ladder—a little kingdom no bigger than a city—for the lost and the found, the cheery and the sorrowful, the mystical and the infidels. There were no nobles in Seryani, no upper class, no governors, and definitely no priests—just pure liberty.

  Yet it's no place for the divine to live, the High Priest thought. Giuseppe had been following a bread trail for weeks now. His monks had thought he had gone insane. No blessed child would be born in the slum that is Seryani, they had told him. Giuseppe knew God's cruel irony. It was his holy duty to reunite humanity with God. He would find his saint and put them where they belonged— in my Church and in my hands.

  He was following his instincts, but the traces of divine aura were evident in the streets. A glow seemed to illuminate the night, reflecting the mercifulness of the people despite their terrible conditions. Everyone saw Seryani to be a slum inhabited by pagans, peasants, and sin. Yes, sin was evident. Debaucherous men and women drank in dark alleys, tarot witches spewed nonsense from their wicked mouths, moulding wanted posters plastered the walls. But every city and nation in this world was not free of sin, and Seryani thrived despite it.

  In a little rustic cabin, a fifteen-year-old mystic lived by telling fortunes and granting wishes. Rice paper was scattered across the Anatolian carpet she sat on, with various dyes, quills, brushes, and inks arranged around her. With care and grace, she bent the paper into a lantern. Her hands were stained with ink and flecked with paints. Moira, the Seryani people had called her, the child they cherished in the streets. She would write their wishes on a lantern, and they would let it reach the deities in the starlit sky.

  To her, it was a night no different than any other. She did her job for its reasonable pay. Moira never asked for money; the Seryani did not have gold, silvers, or coppers. They gave her food, supplies, and the cabin she lived in in return for her services.

  But when the cloaked man pushed past the curtain beads at the door with a cold, dutiful expression on his face the mystic girl knew he would offer her something new, something she did not want. Her eyes went to the uniformed people outside the cabin. Guards?

  The man noticed her glance. Observant girl. "Have no fear, child. I come in peace." His words were meant to convey warmth, yet no friendliness touched his face.

  He spoke with the condescension of a man who thought of himself as a charismatic saviour. Moira's eyes also went to the high black collar that covered his neck, peeking from underneath his dark cloak. Clergyman clothes. The guards outside were missionary paladins then, protectors of the Church. For a man who was around forty to fifty years of age, he looked as if he had never found out about the meaning of joy. Not with that solemn face.

  "High Priest Giuseppe," she greeted calmly as if knowing a man's name without any information was normal. It wasn't.

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  His dark sacramento eyes widened for a moment. The High Priest stared down at the cross-legged girl.

  A serpent's green eyes she realised. Giuseppe had a snake's soul.

  Her own violet eyes went back to the lantern she was making, her paintbrush painted shapes he couldn't see clearly onto the paper. What an odd thing. With her old bohemian dress, olive-toned freckled skin, and wild dark hair, she looked like some Kyanos nomad. Did the people of Seryani not know what she was?

  "Most would bow in respect, child." However, the insolence was understandable. There were no priests in Seryani, and she had probably never left these ghettos. "You have a name other than the mystic, yes?"

  The unbothered mystic kept her eyes on her craft. "I am already on the floor...your holiness." She added the title after a moment's hesitation. Another moment of silence passed. His stare was piercing the top of her head. "Moira," she said, wanting him to stop glaring.

  "Pardon?" he asked, not quite understanding what she said. It sounded only like an incoherent murmur. At least she knew what title to give him. He realised he needed to have a new church built in Seryani to educate these clueless people.

  "Moira," she repeated with a clearer diction. She looked up at him, holding out the finished lantern. "Take your blessing, light the wick inside and it'll float up." Quickly instructing him so he would get on and leave.

  Bewildered for a moment, he took the lantern in his hands. His gold rings glinted in the candlelight. "I did not ask for a lantern. I came here for-"

  The girl was staring dead into his eyes with a tranced look. Not my eyes...something beyond that, he thought.

  "Isn't it wrong for a priest to wear such jewellery? To show such wealth in front of peasants like the Seryani? Beyond the altar, you wish for power you have already spilled blood for..."

  Moira's hushed words caused his face to turn aghast. How did she know?

  "...yet you feel no remorse for your crime. After all, it wasn't you who held the blade, was it?"

  The High Priest turned his head, unable to face the mystic any longer. So the rumors are true...

  "I'll be back, mystic," he said suddenly, the anger clear in his biting tone. Not wanting to hear anymore, he turned on his heel, leaving the cabin without another word.

  His men knew not to disturb him as he mounted his horse. Giuseppe looked down at the lantern in his hands. It had gotten crushed slightly in his tense grip. Moira was either some psychic mage or she truly had some divine gift.

  "Stay in Seryani," he commanded his men, "Watch the girl and report any uses of...sorcery to me."

  His attention was fixated on some writing that was difficult to discern in this night. As instructed, the High Priest lit the wick, and the words wrapped around the lantern came to view.

  Beware of whom you owe. You have awoken a lion, and he will rise.

  This was not telepathy...the girl had seen the future. A prophetess. Soon to be ordained a saintess.

  He let go as if the paper was poisonous. The lantern floated slowly into the sky. This was no blessing, but a warning. Now the warning gleamed as clear as a star in the vast inky sky.