A Prayer of Many

The candles flickered before the altar, their glow casting long shadows across the cathedral's painted walls. The scent of incense clung to the air like a ghost that had overstayed its welcome.

Hugo Bonaparte knelt at the foot of the Holy Trinity. His silver cross gleamed softly on his chest as he clasped his hands and bowed his head. He inhaled deeply, eyes closing.

“Pater noster, qui es in caelis…” he began softly. “Sanctificetur nomen tuum. Adveniat regnum tuum…”

He continued in Latin, a prayer learned by listening to monks, bishops, and every old woman who lived in constant fear of demons:

“…Fiat voluntas tua, sicut in caelo, et in terra. Panem nostrum quotidianum da nobis hodie… et dimitte nobis debita nostra, sicut et nos dimittimus debitoribus nostris… et ne nos inducas in tentationem… sed libera nos a malo…”

(“Our Father, who art in Heaven… hallowed be Thy name. Thy kingdom come. Thy will be done, on Earth as it is in Heaven. Give us this day our daily bread… and forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive those who trespass against us… and lead us not into temptation… but deliver us from evil…”)

“…Especially the evil that drools fire and wants to rip my soul from my body,” he added quickly, mumbling the last part under his breath.

With a quiet amen, Hugo stood up, gave the Trinity an awkward little salute, and turned on his heel.

“Alright,” he said to no one in particular. “Time for rooftop acrobatics.”

He sprinted down the center aisle of the cathedral, past rows of wooden pews that creaked as if disapproving his speed. An elderly priest coughed and raised a finger in protest, but Hugo had already vaulted out the main door and into the snowy streets.

Moments later, he was halfway up the side of a tavern.

See, Hugo wasn’t just your average medieval orphan with a tragic backstory and suspiciously clean teeth. No, Hugo had mana.

“I can hear you asking what mana is,” Hugo said, breaking the fourth wall as he landed gracefully on a snow-dusted rooftop.

“Let me explain while I do this backflip—”

He backflipped. Perfect form. 10/10. The audience (both literal and imaginary) applauded.

“Mana is basically the gooey stuff inside all living things. It’s not blood, but it might as well be. It fuels magic, miracles, and the occasional fireball to the face. Everyone’s got it. Even that guy in the bakery who smells like cabbage. But most humans? Pfft—barely a drop.”

He slid across the rooftop tiles and did a dramatic superhero pose. A loose tile slipped under his boot, sending him flying backward into a chimney. It echoed like a church bell.

“…Ow,” he groaned.

“Anyway,” he continued while brushing soot off his tunic, “the big exception to the low mana rule? Church people. Popes, bishops, cardinals—they're stacked. They train in secret. Massive mana pools. Battle rituals. Exorcisms. Sword-wielding nuns—well, maybe that one’s just a rumor. But the point is, they’re the frontline against demons. Guess who’s not?”

He pointed both thumbs at himself.

“Me. I’m twelve, I have zero training, and my only spell is the one I accidentally used last year that made a chicken explode.”

A puff of blue mist danced around his fingertips. Hugo wiggled them.

“But I do have this.”

He sat cross-legged on the roof and focused. The mist gathered and coalesced into a tiny orb of shimmering white-blue light—his mana.

It pulsed softly.

“Pretty, right? This is raw mana. Feels like warm water, looks like fairy vomit. Right now, I can’t do much with it. For actual spells—like barrier magic, holy incantations, or summoning a divine sword from the heavens—I’d need a grimoire.”

He made a dramatic gesture with his hand.

“A big, dusty, dramatic book that opens with a loud choom sound and starts glowing. Like… CHOOM!” He jumped up, mimicking a magical light show. “Grimoires are your training wheels until your mana is strong enough to do spells solo.”

He paused.

“…Or you’re just so good at faking it, everyone assumes you’re a prodigy. Which is also a strategy.”

The snow started to fall heavier now, dusting his brown hair. Hugo extended his hand and absorbed the falling flakes into the ball of mana.

“Oh, yeah, forgot to mention. Mana interacts with the world. Nature responds to it. Snow, rain, light, sound—they all bend a little around strong users.”

A bell chimed from the nearby abbey. Hugo looked toward it, then sighed.

“I should go home. Except I don’t have one.”

His voice softened slightly. The mana in his hand dimmed.

“But that’s okay. I’ve got stories. I’ve got a silver cross. And…” He looked down over the market square. “I’ve got work to do.”

Then he struck a ridiculous martial arts pose with one hand glowing blue, the other mimicking a sword.

“The demons out there don’t stand a chance!”

Just as he said that, the roof tile under his foot slipped again.

“OH COME ON—!”

He slid down the roof and crashed into a hay cart below with a loud thump.

A farmer leaned over and stared at him.

“Boy, you alright?”

Hugo raised a thumbs-up from the hay pile. “Perfect landing. I meant to do that.”