Sylia, the Dark & Light Saint

Erlankor, Irdalenvi Province, Nagasmar

The cold gnawed through Sylia's threadbare cloak as she scrubbed the stone tiles of the chapel floor. Her fingers, raw and red, trembled—not from lack of strength, but from the biting air that slipped through the ancient stone walls. The Daranzela Chapel was a place of worship, but for the handmaids-in-training, it was a place of trial.

Despite her age and frailty, Sylia worked in silence, enduring the verbal lashes of Sister Annel, whose voice was as sharp as the frost outside. Yet even Sister Annel, with all her sharpness, could not deny Sylia's efficiency. The child never stumbled through her basic magical skills. While the others fumbled to conjure even a flicker of heat, Sylia's basic magical skills crackled with vitality. Her Mana reserves were deep, her Magic—steady, precise. She wielded it like instinct, not labor.

Not that it mattered. The Church was not a place that rewarded talent. It rewarded obedience. Though Sylia had plenty of Mana and Magic, she was not taught any real Spells—those were reserved for the Noble Clergy within the Sheltered City. For now, she was only allowed to use basic magical skills, like the rest of the lower clergy.

After weeks of back-breaking chores and whispered prayers in the frigid dark, Sylia was moved to the Dranigla Orphanage. It was warmer, kinder—at least in comparison. Here, the instructors allowed her to use Magic freely for cleaning and kitchen work. She soon learned to brew soups with warming basic magical skills and lift heavy pots without lifting a finger. Cooking came naturally. Seam-stressing, however, did not.

She pricked her fingers too often, and even her enchanted threads tangled at her touch. Her first apron was a disaster, and her third skirt warped into uneven folds. The seamstress family quickly passed her to Mathias Herves Dwarions, the merchant head of the house, who had observed the girl for a while.

"You're late," Monique told her brother, not looking up from the bolt of fabric she was folding. "The girl's in the back. She is not mine to keep. I did tell you on the first day she wouldn't make it. I should have sent her back then. She is unskilled and too arrogant. Almost rude."

Mathias Herves leaned against the doorframe of her cramped workspace, arms crossed. "You're the one who asked me to come. On a Monday morning no less. You know it is a busy day for the trade negotiations."

"Because she is not a seamstress. No sense in pretending." Monique finally glanced up, brushing a loose strand of hair from her brow. "Fingers too clumsy, mind too wandering. She is the sort that asks questions instead of watching my hands. Nearly burned a hem trying to 'improve' it."

Mathias Herves arched an eyebrow. "And that's a problem?"

"In my line of work? Absolutely." She shook her head. "But I watched her sort five drawers of trims by size and thread weight without a word. And she caught Mila's mistake on the order log faster than I did. The girl's quite clever. I give her that. But she is not meant for stitching."

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"You're thinking trade?" Mathias Herves asked.

"Books, numbers, maybe more." Monique sighed. "Whatever our dear uncle thought he was doing sending her here, it is not where she belongs."

Mathias Herves did not respond right away. He suddenly noticed a frail figure in the corner of the room.

Yully was her name, if he remembered correctly.

He had seen the girl with Sylia several times before—quiet, watchful, never begging for praise.

Yully quickly slipped behind a row of fabric shelves, vanishing from sight.

She had the eyes of someone used to losing things.

Her adoptive sister Sylia had just started three weeks ago (four if you counted the week she spent working at his shops) and she had already been helping at his shop and Monique's workshop half the time.

His store Manager Assistant Manuelo Morgona had taken a liking to her and her sister Yully.

Mathias knew Sylia's sister could read and write. He just did not know how much but judging by Manuelo's feedback, she seemed lectured. He will have to come back for the girl or Sylia would return and cause trouble again. But for now he needed to take care of the most urgent matter. Sylia had likely caused many problems while she was here.

"All right," he said at last. "I will take her."

***

Monique did not raise her voice when she called, but it carried through the workshop like a bell.

"Sylia. Come out. He is here."

Sylia stepped out from behind the fabric shelves looking upset. Her sister Yully trailed behind and kept her gaze down, hands still smudged with chalk and thread wax, already expecting more rejection. Her shoulders stiffened when she observed the tall man beside Monique—his presence calm, unreadable. The others within the shop watched fully expecting the little monster to unleash her power once more and make their employer float in a bubble of soapy water.

"You remember my brother, Mathias Herves," Monique said, smirking. "He has agreed to take you in. You'll help in the front room of his shop. Books, deliveries, counting. No thread."

Sylia looked up briefly, startled. Her voice caught in her throat. "I—I was not sent to be a clerk, m'am."

"You weren't sent to waste everyone's time, either," Monique replied evenly. "You can do this. I won't keep you where you don't fit."

Mathias Herves studied the girl quietly. She was smaller than he remembered, skin pale, fingers twitching with nerves. But her eyes were sharp—dark green and too wary for her age. He suddenly wondered what kind of Spell she casted on herself to appear that way.

"Do you read?" he asked.

Sylia hesitated. "Some. A little."

"Good." he said simply. "We will teach you the rest."

She blinked, unsure if she had misheard.

"Pack what you have. We leave in five minutes," Mathias Herves added, already turning toward the door.

Sylia lingered for a moment, her eyes drifting toward Monique. The seamstress gave a single nod—nothing warm, but not unkind this time.

"Don't waste it." Monique said.

Sylia clutched her worn apron tighter and nodded back.