I walk down the wooden halls, taking slow, guarded breaths. I glance out from behind thick, polished wood columns, glaring at the noisy construction of another quarter of the almost complete square where all Westerian students live. Including me.
We stroll out of our block when the sun winks at us over the horizon. Across from us is the teachers' block, and to the right are stairs leading up to the institute building, shaped like a C. It embraces us in its malicious hold.
Every day, I feel nervous and uneasy, always looking for ways to sabotage something or assassinate someone. But there are eyes everywhere, watching, so I need to think of something else. The problem is, I don't know what.
I pass a group of girls in the green, cleared courtyard heading to the lecture and pretend I don't hear what they say about me. The low-borns and high-borns spit venom on my name.
"Ayet." Mudblood.
I am direly infamous for not even knowing the basics of Spell-weaving. My knowledge of craft, thanks to General Tobu being a Caster herself, saved my life, but mages and casters are two different things, so I learn from scratch.
"Now, let's revise what we've learned so far on Spell-weaving, Mr. Boros," my instructor says matter-of-factly, drawing a diagram. "There are different types of spells in warfare: summoning spells, attack spells, support spells, siege spells, and area spells. Attack spells can be done in many ways, and one you will learn is sigils with utterance."
"With an athame, you will carve the sigils in the air, like these." She makes a point to show the symbols so delicately drawn. They glow, waiting to release their power into our realm. Without a catalyst (our life essence), they cannot.
She continues on the four symbols, "Hel, tide, tempest, nature: These elements can be combined and manipulated for different things." She drawls.
And I yawn.
"Sorry, madam instructor, but I already know these things. No need to go any further. I will begin my examination." I interrupt.
She shoots me a look, which I wave off. "Really, then? I suppose I cannot hold you back any longer, young man. Your peers do anticipate you catching up to them." She puts her hands behind her back and marches slowly to the door, waits, then looks back at me.
"Come along, then." She clicks her tongue at me to follow.
"Writing it here would do well enough, however."
She smirks. "Writing? No, my sirrah. You are not taking a written test... It's a practical test."
Bloody mare...
--
At the base of the defiled mountain of the institute, I am in the pit. No servant comes to dress me in armor or hand me a curved blade, letting me feel its familiar weight and shape that reminds me of home. I don't stand on stony sand, but packed dirt crunches under my feet instead.
Before me, a girl in the same attire as me stands 30 paces off. The same wooly grey coat drench cascades over her shoulders, hardened leather tunic carved with the same institute emblem of a crossed eye on her swelling breast, a long leather skirt drapes to her knees, and nimble boots complete the look.
She volunteered to spar with me so I may be judged. She is a high-born, the hue in her eyes bright, flickering flames that tell of a pure heritage. She's here to test me too, or maybe it's my grey eyes that made her jump at the chance.
The instructor perches in a seat, looking down at us in the pit, glaring at each other. Others watch too, waiting, anticipating the words that will break our shackles of passiveness. Unlike Vatu duels, there is a herald to begin the battle, but it is random and unpredictable.
My hands grope the varnished wooden handle leading to a bound black blade tapering to an ivory tip, carved from a dragon. I can do spells, but the simple ones I cast are gluttons and eat at my soul. Even now, the wood drinks my essence, and I miss the blade and bow I would rather cast instead.
"Begin."
The voice is low, and we almost don't hear it. We almost don't believe it until we look at the instructor, then at each other. We heard the same thing, and we surge with movement.
I sprint toward her, trying to close the distance. She flourishes her own athame, and the air crackles. I am fast, but her spell-weaving is faster. So I don't head for her in a line; instead, I circle around her, drawing nearer.
The spell is complete, and the horror I face is immense. The air pops and scrapes as long, thin branches of lightning flash and lick at her grasping hands.
Bloody mare, a lightning mage.
I grit my teeth in fear, watching carefully as she directs the spell at me. If it hits me, I die. It doesn't come in the form of a bright, fast, crooked spear, but a column of power I can taste in the air, feel.
My hair rises, and my body is seized by a pulse of an otherworldly, sharp sensation of pain. I am stopped instantly, and my muscles twitch, failing me as I fall into the dirt.
It didn't kill me. I can still taste copper on my tongue, hear the cheers and gasps. I was not taught to fall so easily. I was not raised to be put down by the enemy and embarrassed in front of their peers. I... am supposed to be a different breed.
With her back turned, I slowly shake for my athame, dragging the sigils along in the air and giving it everything I have. The spectators see this but are thankfully silent. Before she notices what's happening, she is struck in the spine by an erected, leaning pillar of dirt.
She is knocked into the air and rolls on the ground. I pull myself up and drag myself to her. The spell is what drags me, but hopefully the crowd doesn't know that. She is a mess of tears, arching her back out in pain. She tries to reach around for her back as if it will help.
Her gaping mouth starts mumbling an incantation of craft magic. It's a healing spell; its potency only kills pain. I shut her up, covering her mouth with one hand, and my athame blade hovers over her ember eyes, darkened by my shadow.
Her blade was lost, so instead of killing her, I pretend to be softer than I really am. I make my hands shake, heave heavy breaths as I sheepishly plead, "Please give up."
In Westerian duels, it doesn't end until the herald says so, or one of the duelists yields. Death is sufficient too, but she didn't kill me, so I will not kill her. I lift my hand from her face, glowering in pain. She utters the spells and shudders in relief. We rise up slowly.
She looks deep into my eyes and must see something. I do too. It's respect, I think.
"I am bested," she declares, and the crowd does not cheer for me like they did for her. I am rewarded with awkward applause.
"A biased audience, I see," I mutter to myself, not really.
"You fought well," she responds, her voice steadier now, though I can see the fatigue etched across her features. "You caught me off guard."
I nod, not entirely convinced. She was skilled; that lightning spell had nearly consumed me. Had she not turned her back to me for so long, I would have stayed down.
The instructor's voice cuts through the lingering tension. "Well done, both of you. This was a test of not just skill, but adaptability."
She looks disappointed, like she wanted someone to bleed or worse. The crowd doesn't stay long, though a few girls linger, waiting. But for some reason, she talks to me.
"Where are you from, mudblood?" she asks as she rolls her shoulders back, the spell wearing off.
"I am of the mountains and snow, now I am Boros," I lie, pretending to show my 'true self.' She eats it up.
We both limp together out of the pit. She asks more and more questions about me than I do about her. I am surprised myself at how many lies I can spill from my lips.
What's your family name?
Boros, and my name is Boros too.
When did you learn magic?
This year.
It carries on until we reach the dorms. One side for girls, the other for boys. She insisted that I walk her to her room. I don't protest. Once we reach the place, she keeps blabbering, but I cut her off. "My turn. What's your name?"
"Liora," she answers.
"Why are you so friendly to me? What do you want?"
"Understandable, it seems unusual, doesn't it? Well, I want a rematch and a practice dummy. I have a reputation to uphold, good fellow."
"I suspected as much."
"What's in it for me?"
"Knowledge. I know craft and spell-weaving alike, as well as how to use your essence wisely. You drain yourself too much on one spell. I can help you cast more than a few spells or even lightning spells." She replies with a fiendish grin.
I drool over the idea. "Deal."
She nods, satisfied. "Good choice. I will meet you here then, ayet."
"Boros." She raises an eyebrow. "My name is Boros. I'll see you." I turn and leave.
As I walk away, my thoughts race. Liora's offer is tempting, and her knowledge could be invaluable in my mission. But I can't shake the feeling that there's more to her interest in me than just a sparring partner. I'll have to keep my guard up, even as I learn from her.
I sit on my bed, staring at the athame in my hands. It's a reminder of my enemies power I wield, even if I'm not the same skill as the high-borns. It's a reminder still, why this place should fall, why I should fell it quicker.
These people are not idiot and I was not trained for this, if I die Tobu will be to blame even if I concocted this scheme. So I'll have to be a step ahead.
I hide the athame under my pillow and lie back, closing my eyes. Tomorrow, the real work begins. I'll train with Liora, learn what I can, and keep searching for ways to bring this institute down from the inside. It won't be easy, but I've never backed down from a challenge.
In a den of sleeping wolves I lie, it only takes a snake to kill a pack.
I will wait and I will bite, one by one.
--
I walk into the familiar courtyard, and instead of listening to open gossip the girls are silent when I pass. No doubt they still talk behind my back, but there is some degree of respect there. After all, I walk with a high-born beside me.
Liora.
Word has spread fast since I waited outside for her, longer than I would admit.
She strides closer beside me, "Carrion birds, all of them. For what reason did you have to wait at my door?" I look at her confused, "Didn't you say to meet you there yesterday?" Liora stares long and hard into me, "No... I said I'll meet you later."
I burry my fingers in messy hair, "Ah... well later and here sound similar in Veltren."
She grins shaking her head but stays quiet.
I enter the building with a path that forks either side, to my lone lecture class would be to the left. I go right. Now I go to the place where real mages are taught, a theatre of theories, rules, strategies and spells.
It's boring.
I was never one for all the technicalities of battle, I am a simple soldier. I am good at following orders. I fill my pages with spells and strategies now to use against them later, I stifle a yawn and look around. Liora does not sit besides me, she sits far left and unlike me she doesn't write nor even bothers listening. Instead she talks to a fellow high-born.
Of course the lecturer doesn't bother and I'm left wondering if these students of this institute really plan on going to war.
Are they ready for battles where you have to step over your dead allies to kill the enemy to fight and watch your brothers and sisters fall beside you, to swollow fear and belch bravery. No. Why would they, these are mages they are mid and rear liners. They brew among Archer ranks and are but spectators to their vanguards demise, their screams. They will watch and on command loose their horrible spells on their enemies and allies alike because what they unleash is indiscriminate. When the battle is over, do they fall to their knees and watch the earth swollow their blood and stand because their work is not yet done? No. They flee.
I come to when my pencil snaps in half under my grip. I close my book, put it in my satchel and leave. Someone follows me out down the halls, "Oi, leaving without me." Liora voice echo's of the varnished wooden walls.
I turn to her, "When do we begin training?"
"Follow me."
--
I breathe the same stale air, feel the crunch of the same packed dirt. I look around at the all encompassing high walls and seat, I recognize this place but it's not familiar.
The pit.
I look forward and see Liora, her face pale and tapering sharp as a straight sword. She is closer than before much closer.
"Is there isn't anywhere else we could train?" I ask her as she ties her greying hair into a bun. "Mhm..." she hums around the rod in her teeth, she take it out, "It's challenging, this place. Circular and closed, I want to see how well I'll fair mid to close range. And you seem to like getting closer." She finishing her bun with a silver rod through it.
She sees me thumb my athame and continues, "But first I'll teach you how to use essence well." She clicks her finger, breathes into them and shakes then too.
I see this and ask, "Are your fingers cold?"
She shakes her while whispering something in a tongue I don't know, raise her her and freezes as if staring– looking for a insect I cannot see– then she reaches. A stream of light flowed like draping silk with the colours of a rainbow through her finger tips.
My lips part in a silent gasp of awe, "What is that..."
"This the essence of our realm... we can't cut it to write to the gods, our essence is too weak, our bones too dull." She pulls her hand away and now looks at me grinning with pride, "It has other uses though. Take off you cloths."
"Just the top half correct?" I ask as I sheepishly shed off my coat, then my tunic.
Now I am bare for scrutiny her eyes linger for longer than I'd like, it still does now she is close enough for the scent of freshly cut wood to linger in my nose in her hair. I flinch as her hand touches my arm and slowly works it's way to my arm, to my breast. I feel her essence dance with mine, it's a cold dance they make inside me. My body is decorated with superficial scars from reckless early years when I was a boy. I was soft then, I'm made of much sturdier things. If the boys of this institute were made of something, it would be delicately carved wood, I am made like worn chiseled cobblestones.
"Where did you get these from?" She ask, her fingers linger on a gruesome looking scar.
I stay quite and she see me finally and looks back down, "Fine, keep your secrets."
Why is my heart beating so fast? Why am I so breathless? Why do I feel so helpless with this feeling burning inside?
Her touch is now a dancing flame.
"Strange." She pulls away, stepping back. "You barely have enough essence to hardly be a mage who practices for a year." She looks at me again, there's something else in her eyes now. Her athame appears in her hand with a flick.
I've been caught.