[POV: Mike]
Hope is on my head again, enthroned like the holiest of queens, her tiny claws buried in my hair like she owns every strand and pecking insistently at my forehead with that sharp little beak whenever I dare ignore her for more than three seconds.
"Hope, behave," I mutter, tilting my head back just enough to glare upward without actually seeing her. "For once in your life, can you act like a dignified dimensional entity?"
She answers by pecking harder.
A tiny body no bigger than my fist, yet somehow carrying the ego of a full-grown war beast, she shifts on top of my head and lets out a smug chirp, wings fluttering once for emphasis.
Hope is a four-letter word, and most days it feels like all four letters stand for trouble.
Silver Promise Doves are supposed to be gentle. They are common juvenile dimensional entities, harmless enough that ordinary people barely bother calling them by their proper classification. Most just call them monsters because that's easier, because anything born through dimensional seams gets that label eventually.
But Hope doesn't feel like a monster.
She feels like a permanent attachment.
I've been with her for as long as I can remember. Longer, maybe. My earliest memory is an egg cupped in both my hands, warm and fragile, shell shimmering silver-white under the orphanage window light. Back then she never made a sound. Never fussed. Never demanded attention every waking second.
I miss that version of Hope.
"Be patient," I tell her, reaching up and carefully lifting her off my head before she can stab my forehead again. "The contract ceremony's about to begin."
She resists for exactly half a second before settling into my palm, still offended.
In my hand, Hope looks almost too delicate to belong in the same category as creatures that tear through dimensional breaches. Her feathers are soft white brushed with a faint silver sheen that catches the hall's overhead lantern light, every tiny contour clean except for the slight fluff around her neck where she always forgets to groom properly after eating. Her black eyes are bright and accusing, and her pink feet curl around my fingers like she's making sure I don't dare put her down for long.
I scratch gently beneath her beak.
That usually works.
Today it earns me a quieter trill, her feathers puffing as she leans into my thumb despite pretending she's still upset.
"Yeah, that's better," I murmur.
I break off a tiny corner of the crackers I saved from lunch and offer it to her. She snaps it up immediately, pecking my fingertip afterward as if demanding more tribute.
Around me, the plaza is filled with restless voices and shifting feet.
The venue is crowded with far more people than I expected. Rows of aspiring Tamers gather in uneven clumps, most of them sixteen, maybe seventeen, dressed in clean uniforms or polished coats that practically scream 'someone prepared this for me.'
I don't recognize most of them.
Then again, why would I?
I'm the only one here from the orphanage, and it's not like I spend my time making friends with people who already decided they're better than me.
A boy near the pillars groans loudly, checking the great clock above us.
"How late are they planning to be? We've been standing here forever."
A girl beside him folds her arms. "Seriously. If they want us to become Tamers, maybe start by respecting our time."
Another snorts. "Maybe they're waiting for someone important."
Their complaints drift through the room like gnats.
Doesn't bother me.
Honestly, this is my element, standing here with Hope in my palm while everyone else clutches polished carriers, engraved cages, and velvet-lined satchels. I move through the crowd like I belong more than they do.
And maybe I do.
Hah.
A little pride curls in my chest at the thought that I might actually be too mature for most of them.
Hope chirps, quick and knowing.
"I know, I know," I tell her under my breath, feeding her another crumb. "I'm too good for them."
Her wings twitch approvingly.
As an orphan, there aren't many paths upward. Most doors stay shut before you even touch the handle. For someone like me, becoming a Tamer isn't just a byproduct of ambition, but also survival.
To become one officially, you need at least one contracted monster.
Without it, a monster is just a beast waiting for instinct to win. Teeth, claws, hunger, fear. No loyalty, no restraint, no reason not to hurt whatever stands too close. The contract changes that, both symbolically and practically.
A Tamer shares part of his soul, and that shared soul reshapes the creature into something else: a Guardian. Still dangerous and otherworldly, but carrying humanity where there was none before.
My fingers tighten slightly around Hope's tiny body.
A laugh cuts through my thoughts.
One of the boys nearby notices Hope and nudges his friend.
"That's what he brought?"
Another leans closer, openly staring. "A Silver Promise Dove? Seriously? That's the most basic thing here."
A girl wrinkles her nose. "Common-tier. Barely worth contracting."
"Looks trashy too," someone adds. "Did he even groom it?"
They laugh.
Of course they do.
Their own creatures gleam with brushed scales, polished horns, ribbons, metallic tags, and things chosen by people with money, parents, tutors, and recommendations.
Yeah. Must be nice.
Hope stiffens in my palm. Her black eyes narrow, and then she lets out an angry chirping bark. Her cry is sharp, rapid, and absolutely offended.
A tiny threat from a tiny body.
Ugh.
Yeah… who am I kidding?
I definitely understand that feeling. She pecks off another crumb, then unexpectedly pushes half of it back toward me with her beak, chirping insistently.
A little offering, huh?
I snort.
"You cheering for me now?"
Another chirp, louder.
"Yeah," I say, taking the crumb and pretending to eat it. "At least I have you. We're gonna make it big someday, Hope."
Behind me, someone mutters just loud enough to hear:
"Weirdo."
Hope immediately chirps again, louder this time, like she's ready to fight them herself.
"Mike!"
The voice cuts through the restless chatter of the plaza before I even turn, familiar enough that I already know who it is.
"Seriously, how in the world is it so hard to find you? Your hair should be sticking out like a sore thumb!"
I glance over my shoulder and spot Rena weaving through the crowd toward me, dark hair tied back in a loose knot that already looks half-undone from how fast she must have been moving. Even in a gathering this crowded, she has that same expression she always wears when mildly annoyed at the world with half glare and half disbelief like she expects life to inconvenience her personally and keeps being proven right.
I shrug, shifting Hope higher in my palm before she can attempt another climb toward my shoulder.
"You must need glasses."
That earns me a flat stare.
At Rena's feet, her prospective creature reacts faster than she does.
The Snowy Blue-eyed Hare launches forward in an offended burst of white fur, no bigger than a beer bottle but somehow managing to carry military-grade indignation in every movement. Long ears pinned back, bright blue eyes narrowed, he rushes straight at my leg and starts thumping his forehead against my shin in quick, soft impacts.
Thump. Thump. Thump.
Not painful. Just aggressively insistent.
"Yeah, yeah, I can see you, Sarge," I tell him, looking down.
The hare pauses, sniffs once, then gives another headbutt like my acknowledgment came too late.
Sarge.
A strange name for a rabbit, but that is exactly the kind of naming decision Rena would defend with absolute seriousness while offering no explanation that actually helps.
Hope leans forward from my hand and chirps suspiciously at him. Sarge immediately stiffens and lifts his head, ears twitching as if deciding whether this counts as a challenge.
"Don't start," Rena mutters to him, bending to scoop him up before he escalates his tiny protest into something theatrical.
Among everyone here, Rena is one of the few people I can tolerate for extended periods.
Maybe because neither of us arrived here polished.
She ranked near me in the aptitude exams, bottom cluster, same row, same long hours of waiting while instructors pretended numbers explained futures. We became seatmates mostly because nobody else wanted those seats.
Then we kept talking.
That part surprised me more than it surprised her.
She used to be from the orphanage too, the same place where I'm staying right now. Her story became common knowledge after a while: some relative from another City-State tracked her down, proved enough blood relation to matter, and suddenly she had a family again.
A real one.
A door opening where most of us never even get to knock.
The younger kids used to follow her everywhere before that happened. For a year, maybe two, she was practically their unofficial older sister, breaking up fights, sneaking food, patching uniforms, and teaching letters to the ones too stubborn to ask adults.
Then she left and enough changed that when she came back, she no longer belonged the same way.
The others grew distant, clearly uncomfortable with her.
Rena pretends not to notice.
The plaza quiets before either of us says anything else.
It happens gradually, voices thinning until even Hope stills in my hand.
Everyone turns toward the raised stage beneath the towering bronze statue of Hamilton the Wind Tamer, Tempest City-State's greatest local hero. The statue catches morning light along the outstretched spear and the great winged silhouette carved behind him—Tempest, his primary Guardian, immortalized mid-flight.
Under that monument, the city mayor appears.
Chris Henshaw looks smaller every year.
An older gentleman now, thin shoulders wrapped in ceremonial dark cloth, seated in a wheelchair pushed carefully onto the platform by an attendant. Age has hollowed his face, but not erased the presence in it. Even from here, there is something steady about him that keeps every eye fixed forward.
He has been mayor of Tempest for three decades.
Long enough that most people can't remember a city without him.
Old friend of Chadwick Hamilton.
One of the few heroes from that era still alive.
In a world where monsters roam beyond every wall and humanity survives by building higher barriers around shrinking certainty, men like Chris Henshaw reaching old age feels rarer than hearing about a creature evolving cleanly into S-rank.
His helper lowers the microphone toward him.
No one speaks.
Everyone respects Henshaw.
Even the restless rich kids fall silent.
The old man clears his throat, then begins, voice rough but carrying across the plaza with practiced ease.
"It's been one thousand two hundred years since the old world fell to the dimensional rifts that summoned strange life forms from beyond the veil. We've adapted, tamed, and overcome. Nothing changed. We're still trapped in this small world that's no better than a gilded cage. I regret not living to see the day we are freed from the tyranny of nature and the wondrous monsters that we subjugated to fight a war that just wouldn't end. Ah, the dream. I sincerely wish you'll live to see the great dream, but I doubt that will happen."
Around me, nobody reacts much.
Mostly because he gave nearly the same opening last year.
I know because I was here then too, carrying crates for temporary pay and pretending not to listen while absolutely listening.
Grim words from Henshaw are practically tradition now.
He pauses only long enough to draw breath before continuing.
"We live in a grim world, and that's a fact. While I may regret now, I still hold hope for the future that a day will come the great dream will be fulfilled. The monsters we subjugated, the guardians, deserve better. We deserve better. Many interpret the great dream in different ways. Co-existence. Extinction. Neutrality. I don't believe there's a single path."
Hope shifts quietly in my palm, listening in that strange attentive way she sometimes has when voices carry weight she somehow senses.
"Heed my words, live a life you won't regret and die in a manner you won't regret. The problem is, we don't know what are the things we will regret. It may be attributed to the ignorance of the consequence, an accumulation of bad luck, or any manner of things. In the end, the most important thing is knowing what you want."
His eyes sweep over the gathered candidates.
Old eyes, but still sharp enough that it feels deliberate when they pass over us.
"Participating in this ceremony means you at least have a vague idea of what you want. If not, it's not too late to discover what it is, along the path."
Sarge's ears twitch in Rena's arms.
Even he seems unusually still.
"Now, I'm getting long-winded. I'll end this speech with a simple message."
The mayor leans slightly closer to the microphone.
"Who are you?"
The plaza remains silent enough that even distant banners fluttering against the wall become audible.
"This is a question I've contemplated over my long life. My name's Chris Henshaw, and I'm a Tamer."
Hope chirps softly after that, almost like applause.
His words never fail to leave that effect on me.
Maybe it is because Chris Henshaw sounds like someone who has already looked farther than everyone else and found no reason to lie about what he saw there. Maybe it is because old heroes are rare enough that every sentence they speak feels borrowed from history itself.
Either way, I keep watching even after the speech ends, following the slow movement as the attendant carefully wheels him back from the microphone.
The plaza remains respectfully quiet until he is fully clear of the stage.
Beside me, Rena stretches one leg, then the other, and yawns without the slightest attempt to hide it.
"My legs are getting numb from standing."
I let out a quiet sigh.
Of course that is her takeaway after hearing a speech people will probably quote for the next month.
Hope tilts her head toward Rena as if mildly offended on my behalf, while Sarge remains tucked in her arms with the expressionless stare only rabbits somehow manage to make look judgmental.
Rena is not alone, anyway.
The silence breaks quickly once the mayor disappears behind the side curtains.
"I can't believe it's finally starting."
"I heard this year they brought someone famous from the Circle."
"My brother said the parchment feels warm when it activates."
"What if someone evolves on the spot?"
"Shut up, that never happens."
Excitement spreads in waves through the crowd, voices climbing over each other until attention snaps forward again when another figure steps onto the podium.
This one immediately looks less ceremonial and more dangerous.
A middle-aged man, broad-shouldered, posture straight in the way only career fighters seem capable of maintaining without effort. A pale scar runs across his right eye, pulling slightly at the edge of his brow. He wears a dark coat marked with the insignia of the Tamer Circle over the chest: three interlocked rings surrounding a vertical spear.
The crowd quiets faster this time.
He does not wait for full silence before speaking.
"My name is Dean Colt, Tamer of the Second Order and representative of the Tamer Circle."
That gets immediate attention.
Even Rena straightens, sounding excited. "It's the Heavenly Soldier."
Oh, he sounds strong.