The orphanage had returned to its usual rhythm after Sister Elara's resignation.
Children ran through the halls, nuns went about their duties, and the sun cast warm, dappled light across polished floors. To everyone else, Ostina remained the small, fragile girl they had always underestimated—a "Trash Saint" too weak to do more than stumble through daily chores.
But in the quiet corners of the orphanage, Ostina's mind was far from idle. Her teal eyes flicked across the rooms she passed, scanning for objects, materials, and tools she could use in the coming months.
Every scrap of fabric, every small vial, every forgotten bit of rope or cord was a potential piece of her carefully laid escape plan.
Her first target was the storage closet beneath the dormitory stairwell. The door creaked slightly as she opened it, but she had already prepared a thin thread of shadow to nudge the lock, ensuring it remained silent.
Inside, she found rolls of cloth, small jugs of oil, and old scraps of rope. Each item was examined, measured, and tucked into the folds of her hidden pockets, carried invisibly by subtle threads of mana.
Next, the kitchen.
Supplies here were trickier, constantly in use by the nuns. Ostina waited for moments when attention was elsewhere, slipping between shadows and under tables. She collected small, lightweight items: a pair of knives, a handful of dried herbs, a small oil lamp.
Each object was carefully cleaned, wrapped, and moved into her secret stash beneath a loose floorboard she had discovered in the attic crawlspace weeks before.
Even the chapel provided resources. Candles, wax, and small ropes used for minor maintenance were silently gathered over several days.
Ostina ensured that every movement appeared natural: helping with chores, carrying items in plain sight, never drawing more than a glance.
She relied on the blind spots she had discovered, moving along narrow beams, behind furniture, and through hollow walls, never once leaving evidence of her collection.
By midday, she had created a mental inventory of everything she had gathered:
Rolls of cloth and rope for climbing or tying.
Small knives and tools for emergencies.
Candles, oil, and lanterns for light and signaling.
Herbs and dried food for sustenance.
Every night, Ostina carefully organized her supplies beneath the floorboard, shifting items with her mana shards to make space for the next addition. Nothing was left exposed; nothing was taken too quickly. She had learned the value of patience and subtlety from her weeks of misdirection with Sister Elara.
Her movements were not without challenge. Occasionally, a careless child would wander too close, or a nun would pass at the wrong moment.
Each time, Ostina froze, blending into shadows, letting the moment pass, then continued her task as if nothing had happened. Her small body, her quiet steps, and her invisible magic had become tools of survival, ensuring she remained unnoticed even while building the foundation for something much larger.
By evening, Ostina curled beneath her blanket, shards of mana dissipating softly around her fingers. Her stash was growing, her inventory expanding, and her confidence increasing with every secret acquisition.
They see nothing. They suspect nothing. And soon… everything will be ready.
The orphanage hummed softly around her, unaware of the careful, invisible threads being laid beneath its floors and within its walls. Ostina was no longer just surviving—she was preparing.
Every hidden corner, every blind spot, every subtle movement was part of a plan that would unfold perfectly when the time came.
The stage is set.
The game continues…
and I will win.