A satisfied smile threatened to spread across Ayil's lips as he inspected his clothes. He wore a navy blue blazer accentuated with sharp, golden patterns on top of a white shirt. The ankle-length black trousers fit slimly and perfectly complemented his leather shoes.
'Don't get too excited, now... You can appreciate the attire at another hour, ' he thought, remembering the reason he was dressed up in the first place. He fished Pae out of his pocket, the little device took on the form of a silver-black medallion with an ever changing crest. 'Is it time?'
Pae slowly tiled countless geometric shapes on its surface; once one type of shape would completely fill it's face they would switch to the next shape. 'It is time. You may leave for your first class.'
A simple map of the premises painted the canvas of Ayil's mind, it was slightly fleeting but he managed to follow it to his supposed destination.
Ayil stopped, trying to relax his high-strung nerves, and failing horribly. He had been 'resting' to recover the fatigue suffered in the white room—at least that's the reason Pae gave him when asked if it was fine to sleep peacefully for three days straight. But now that peace was gone.
Death could be imminent on the other side of the door he was about to knock on.
In his left pants pocket, Pae emitted loud and short vibrations. 'Tardiness is frowned upon.'
Ayil let out a trembling breathe, carefully opening the door. The room was spacious and had a pitched floor with several seats, however, only seven children filled the first row.
Addressing them at the front, was a sylphlike woman who seemed to be in her early twenties. She had bright auburn hair falling down to her slender waist, and caustic hazel eyes which demanded respect.
"You're barely on time," she said, arms folded beneath her modest chest, a brow twitching ever so slightly. "Sit. I was about to begin."
Nodding dumbly, Ayil found a seat behind the front row, feeling uncomfortable with the thought of sitting next to strangers. He did notice Eira sitting amongst the foreign faces—as she tried to wave him down discreetly—but promptly decided to ignore the airheaded girl.
"Now," the woman at the front said, glaring at everything as she spoke, "I ask two things: absolute silence, and your undivided attention. Are these things I can acquire?"
A perfect silence permeated the hall.
"Splendid," she said with a frigid smile. "My name is Cyrill. But you are to never refer to me by using my name. No. You are to refer to me using my title: Arlath."
'...Arlath? Isn't that what the Ancients called Kallomancers?' Ayil thought, briefly browsing his memories. He only heard the term once, so he didn't know what exactly it meant.
"Oh? This is interesting," Cyrill suddenly said, her tone of voice changing to mild curiousity, and her deathly gaze trained on Ayil's soul. "How do you know of that? The true Ancient world is not something people can freely touch upon within the Zorithean Empire."
"...My father," Ayil croaked out, barely managing to bite back the venom in his own words. His surprise at the obvious mind reading tucked in the far corners of his mind. "He had a keen interest in the arcane."
Cyrill frowned, as if she expected more. "Care to elaborate on this hobby your father had?"
"I'm afraid there is nothing to elaborate on," Ayil said firmly. It was then that he first caught the woman's scent. The synthetic smell of burning oil, pungent to a nauseating degree.
All the rooms occupants tensed visibly.
"I see," Cyrill said nonchalantly, pacing a few steps back and leaning on a table. "Well, you are wrong about one thing. Arlath does not mean Kallomancer or Kallomancy. It roughly translates to the common tongue as: World Shaper or Devourer of Worldly Chaos. Can anyone tell me why this is fundamentally different from what Kallomancy means?"
"...Kallomancy is the act of forcefully bending and or absorbing nature—the Essence of God—using your Will," a dark-haired girl with a pale skin tone said. Her posture slowly shrunk as she spoke.
"That is somewhat correct now, but during Ancient times, there was no God." Cyrill said matter-of-factly. Pausing, she let her words hang in the air. "Only powerful mages called Arlaths, the World Shapers, and Enthils, the World Binders."
Cyrill stopped talking, and scribbled letters only she could see in the air. "Kallomancers feed of not 'nature', but the miasma left behind by Arlaths who did not accept TaraLaths arrogance when he achieved Apotheosis. They Feed of KalloSyth. A nonexistent entity of their negative emotions," she mumbled mechanically, moving her hand subtly to her hip. The next second, the air creaked with black energy and gave birth to large hunks of glistening gold. "Arlaths reach beyond that miasma; to Chaos. And then they forcefully make sense of it, morphing it to whatever it is they desire... Do you know why God hates you all so passionately?"
Ayil found himself nodding his head breathlessly; heart thumping against his chest. Gold? From thin air?
"It is because He can never make something out of virtually nothing," she explained. "Enthils were powerful indeed, but they could only influence the physical world! As in move mountains and make plants grow faster. That hasn't changed, even after the petty bastard became one with everything."
Ayil sat back, thoroughly shaken by the implications in the self-proclaimed Arlath's words. Was she trying to say he could do sorcery?
"I will teach you," Clair continued, plunging her hands into the pockets of her tight-fitting trousers. A smirk hanging from her pale-pink lips. "How to make sense of Chaos, and how to organize what's left into anything you can imagine. But before that, prepare your hearts, because it will be a path stained with blood."
Just then, a loud ringing sound came from outside. Cyrill glanced at her watch, then gesture for them to leave.
Head spinning with a thousand thoughts, Ayil walked out, strolling aimlessly in the hallway, when a sharp sound drilled through his consciousness. 'Through the door behind us, is your next class, Master Ayil.'
He suppressed the whirling in his mind, and went through the door; as per Pae's guidance. The room closely resembled the previous one, except it was teeming with anxious teenagers.
"Would you cease following me, little brat?" Ayil said, finding a seat in the very last row. He stared at Eira with much exasperation. "I have no business with you outside the cafeteria..."
"That's just it," she said cheekily, taking the vacant seat beside him. "I am not following you, kind sir. I simply cannot withstand the thought of sitting at the front again... It's quite terrifying."
"Be that as it may—"
"Silence! Silence!" the man at the front said in a booming baritone.
He had quite the sophisticated image; garbed in a black, three piece suit. Ayil had never seen one that well tailored, perhaps it was what nobleman wore? But what stood out most wasn't the man's clothes, rather his well trimmed wheat blonde hair and serene gaze. His incredibly sturdy physique, and straight posture. All these things blended wonderfully to create a dignified air.
"I am sure you are all reasonably excited from finding out you have the potential to do magic," he continued, hands behind his back. "However, believe me, that is not something extraordinary; at least for the most of you. Even if you can perform Kallomancy, what of it?"
A wave of suppressed whispers shot through the room. But the middle aged blonde man didn't seem bothered.
"If you desplease your master by not serving him properly. Would you be able to stop him from lashing out and killing him?" He asked, then without waiting for a reply he said: "I'm sure most of you are thinking, 'with Kallomancy, I would'. But what if Kallomancy does not affect said master?"
Silence.
"Exactly, your only hope would be to not offend such a being in the first place," he continued. "That is what I will teach you. How to be subservient and proper etiquette."
Ayil's eyelids twitched and he immediately tuned out the man's droning words. Subservience? His heart throbbed, thumping behind his eyes and in his ears. The world darkened and he found it hard to draw breathe into his stiff lungs.
'Calm down,' he told himself, clenching his fist. 'You seemed to have forgotten because of the sudden luxuries. The fear you felt that night. You can't afford to deviate from Desoll's will. He can kill you at any moment, strip you as he so pleases. Because... let's not forget, this is all his...'
Ayil felt a tap on his shoulder, a beeping bouncing in his ears. '...il... Master...Ayil...!'
"Are you doing all right?" Eira asked, her frail hand on his shoulders. "You've been out of it for awhile now."
Frowning at her hand, which now had all its digits attached, Ayil pinched the bridge off his nose. "I'm fine," he said, standing to leave the now empty room; only to have Eira follow him. "Look—!"
"My, a little more refrain would be appreciated," Eira said, interrupting him. The apathy in her emerald eyes making way for mischief. "It's lunch time. Sir Raimon said so..." She gestured for him to take the lead. "Please, after you."
Ayil groaned, but did just that without making a bigger fuss.
Moments later, as they enjoyed the light meal. Ayil couldn't help but mutter, "Brat, just how how old are you to be this annoying?"
"Am I really that bad?" Eira asked, slurping her meatless stew. Then she scoffed, as if just remembering something unpleasant. "And what nerve; to ask for a maidens age so blatantly?"
Ayil couldn't help but roll his eyes. "Please go away..." he said, dropping the topic entirely.
Of course, she didn't listen and continued to bother him until their next appointment.
"All right," a man dressed simple leather armor said, sounding as annoyed as Ayil was moments ago. The scar on his face moving as he spoke. "Name's Armon, you little fucks. I have one job. And that is to give you armed fighting lessons. Whether you survive my regiment...Well, that's entirely up to your resolve."