Author's Note: This story is an original work. All rights are retained by the author. Please do not reproduce, adapt, or repost without permission.
The torches always seem to dim when I walk past.
They bend, flicker and grow a little less brighter. It's like they know that there is something wrong with me. The only sound is the echo of my boots on this polished academy floor. Sharp, hollow and far too loud for halls meant for crowned footsteps.
I walk, with books and parchment under my arms. Ink bottles clink in my satchel as I make my way to deliver this equipment to one of the academy Scholars. Crownspire Academy, where the chosen attend, those who have manifested a Lightscar, a pledge to sin. Being anonymous and unseen is the best way to get around when attention always seems to welcome danger, especially for someone like me.
''Scarless.''
The word sliced down the hallway, making my chest burn and head swim. Before I knew it, he was there. One of the older students, a show off, a bully. As I try to ignore the walking cliche but he stops me in my path. I can see his Lightscar manifesting around his fingers and hands, green vines, thorns and smoke envelop his hands like moving scars. Deceit. I know what is about to happen even before he speaks once again.
''Why don't we see if scarless, means useless.'' He announced, loud enough to catch the attention of his peers, and faculty who are in the vicinity. The instructors or scholars will not intervene. I am scarless.
''How many times must you do this, Balden?.'' I ask, trying to keep my voice steady.
The boy just smirks, like he knows absolutely no one will stop him, with a thud my back slams against the stone wall and his palm pushes into my chest. My strength bleeds from me instantly, my knees buckle and I drop the books, parchment and satchel. A smash rings out and my satchel starts to bleed, black. My ink, staining the polished stone floor. A single blemish no scrubbish will ever erase. I know how to get out of this, I always do, I bow low until my head touches the stone beside the bleeding ink. Laughter erupts, piece by piece I am chipped away as the sound of laughter grows out of his mouth. It is not long before I bore him, he spits then leaves me on the floor. Bowed and broken.
By the time I make it to deliver the books and parchment, my hands are black with ink and my strength is missing. It took me a while to collect the items from the floor with trembling hands. It feels as though the marrow in my bones has also been stolen. I place the items on the desk, and the scholar tells me I may leave. He makes no effort to look my way, just the sound of quill to parchment and my unwanted presence. Disturbing his peace.
My tasks are finished for today, I only have chores in the scholars quarter to finish. I miss my bed. The quiet and absence of these people. As I leave the room, I stop for respite close to a window, overlooking the eastern courtyard. This one of 4 courtyards and this is one of the sparring arenas allowing the Crowned Students of Crownspire hone their skills, and their sins. The yard erupts with fire, steel and smoke. Students clash in the ring as their Lightscars are on full display. Bursting with light, fists of flame, swords, spears and shields constructed from golden light, the onlookers roar out with excitement loud enough to be carried through glass. I lean against the sill of the window, breathe still shallow and body wrung out and aching from books that were never my own.
I stay, watching. Transfixed on the display before me, their scars glow bright, their movements shouted they belong here, that they are worth seeing. I despise them for what they have, envy it. But I hate myself more for wanting it. If I had what they have, maybe I could have been standing in that ring, people would look upon me with respect and chant my name. I am reminded of reality when my reflection catches my eyes, my hair is wild these days, dark, unkept and Long and forgotten. My complexion matches the interior of this castle. Pale and gaunt, my eyes are dim, hollow with faint shades of violet.
The laughter outside feels like a band around my neck, choking me and reminding me where I stand. The long bell tolls, 7 rings for 7 sins. That only means one thing. Prayer, once a month we are reminded of the kindness and charity bestowed upon us, and our duty to the Cradle.
The prayer hall is a vast circular structure. It sits at the very centre of Crownspire academy. Intimidating and encompassed in gold. A monument to devotion and a mausoleum for the truth. Seven faceless statues surround the hall. Looming over us as a reminder of who we are, Sacred crowns they were called. Sacred sins, each statue bears a different mark: A polished mirror, blade engulfed in flame, a chest chained shut, a mask split into two, scales with one side weighed down, entwined vines around a heart and a serpent eating its own tail.
They loom over our heads, wrapped in blind authority and carved into silence. Sacred crowns, Sacred bullshit. The hall reeked of incense, sweet and sickly, like overripe fruit has been left out in the sun too long. It clung to my skin and pressed into my lungs making me feel heavy, maybe that was the point.
In the very centre, a single light poured through the oculus above, a single holy beam directed at the headmaster, who stands atop a golden dais.
Aldros Veyth, Crown of pride.
The man does not wear armour, he does not need to; his presence alone is a weapon. His robes are shadowed midnight, with elegant gold threading. His beard is silvered, his Lightscar flickers on his forehead like a third eye, glowing soft and steady. He looked like a man who cannot age, like he forces time itself to kneel. Too prideful to grow old. He raises his hand in the air, and then silence. The murmurs of hundred die at one, torches still and flames held captive by anticipation.
''Crownspire academy.'' he begins, Low and absolute.
''You stand on the precipice of greatness, you harbour the light of the seven within you. Your Lightscars are blessings, but also burdens. Chains, meant to hold you upright and life you above.'' He let the words linger, students breathing them in like smoke.
''There were once eight sins, not seven. You know the story, you know their deeds. The Eighth sin was darkness incarnate, they steal, kill and eat light.
Our sins were not originally holy, only through vanquishing this evil were our deeds rewarded, and you too can be rewarded. With hard work and loyalty will you rise and become great.'' The words seem to cast a spell over everyone. They all take it to heart and find conviction once again.
''Their sins became light.
Your body becomes service.
Their thrones were earned.
Your chains are gifted.''
''Repeat'' He directed.
All at once, a hundred voices mine not included thundered back, repeating the words with absolute faith and conviction.
Then Aldros spoke the names, the names of the sacred 7.
''Pride - The image perfected, the self sanctified.
Wrath - Flame made fury.
Greed - Devotion forged in iron and gold.
Deceit - The unseen blade is sharpest.
Sloth - Motion is vanity, Endurance is law.
Lust - Desire made chain, touch made tether.
Gluttony - That which devours, becomes divine.''
As Headmaster Aldros names each one, the statues come to life with light, each sin glowing in their respective colours. The chamber now burns with their light, 7 beams of light. 7 sacred sins. Students weep, some bow in reverence but I stand. I will not be indoctrinated into a system bent on using power to lord over the helpless, over me. Some of the students Lightscar's flicker in response to the holy light illuminating the chamber in an array of colours. As beautiful as it may be, I feel no reason to believe.
''To manifest a Lightscar is sacred, an honour regardless of sin.
To manifest two is rare, holy. One twenty thousand.
But three? Only once. Our current leader of our Paladins of Crownspire, the Paladin Prime. Remember his name, his deeds and his loyalty, and remember what happens to those who forget theirs.'' He Asserted.
I stay in the chamber as everyone leaves, gathering my own thoughts and hoping the hallways quiet down before I return to my station back at the scholars quarters. I may not be a student, but I am required to attend as I'm the same age, 18. Crownspire Academy is all I know, all I have ever known. I have no parents or family. I was abandoned and found by the head Scholar, Orien. He is my one and only tie to this place.
He treats me normally, he sees me. The only pair of eyes that stop long enough to see past the ink stains. This place is a gilded lie dressed up as education to bend the mind into submission.
There is an old stump in the corner, an old statue or piece of ruin taken from the Eighth sin. It is there to remind people of what we endured and what we overcame. The air around it shifts slightly, ripples of pressure that makes sure no one ventures too close. The torches flicker and bend, they extinguish and die out and return unexpectedly. I think it's a trick of the light, a ploy devised by the Academy to scare the brainless and treat them like children with a scary bed time story.
I leave the Prayer room, the glowing lights still burning into my head long after they dissipated, if I'm lucky I will be able to make my way back, unnoticed.
''Quick, Wrath's broken scar is sparring Lucien again!''
The voice rings out loud and performative, thank the peaks it wasn't me. I keep my head down and make my way towards my location. But of course, nothing goes the way I want it to. The hall shifts in an instant, bodies surge forward for the exit into the East courtyard. I have no choice but to stumble along, carried by their momentum. Too many people surround me, I have no room to breathe. The air is being squeezed out of my chest as I feel dizzy and my head seems to swim.
By the time the doors are open and clear and I was pushed outside, I seem to be on the ground again. The heat swallows me, like a warm breath against my cold skin sending shivers down my spine. I glance upwards, towards the ring and it clicks. Wrath's broken scar, It's Seras Doirneach.
I've heard her name before, I knew who it belonged to but not the nickname. Her last name belongs to the current Crownlord of Wrath, Valkean Doirneach. Everyone knows that name. One of seven rulers of the cradle. One for each sin.
The yard boils with heat and voices. Lucien Solbrax, Who Seras is going to spar is also known, he is of House Solbrax, the last name which belongs to the Crownlord of Pride, whose domain is here, Crownspire. Lucien's hands gleamed with golden light, small chains that seem to wrap around his fingers and hands. He is feared, respected and entitled, and doesn't he know it. He wears the entitlement with every smirk. Prick.
Both of their houses are on par with each other, neither more important than the other but Pride would say otherwise. As they begin, Lucien stands there, looking unamused and bored like he knows he's going to win. Seras ignited her Wrath Lightscar, two molten lines that run vertically from her temple to her cheeks. Her hands ignite with glorious flame, the colour a dark beautiful orange. The colour compliments her eyes, which I see clearly for the first time in this moment. Two pools of Blue, deep like a frozen river in the middle of winter.
Her fists blaze with purpose, but hot and raw like she couldn't decide if she wanted to burn him, or herself. She lunges when Lucien moves with practiced ease. Two golden chains form from his hands and drop to the floor and he snaps them with precise precision, he blocks every blow. Embers from the impacts scattering harmlessly onto the dirt below, every counter is perfect, every move planned. Like he could read her mind.
The crowd reacted with every blow and every counter, Golden orange sparks lit the arena up in glory.
Seras pushes harder, trying to sweep and grab but has no luck. Lucien laughs taunting the Wrath scarred into attacking more, she stops as it looks like she's given up. Flame erupts from her head, it forms a molten circlet around her head, almost a crown but not. For a heartbeat, the yard froze, even Lucien hesitates because manifesting a crown is extremely rare, even more so at her age.
As the fight progresses, it's more of the same. Lucien taunting, dodging and attacking. Seras's hands seem to tremble and her flames spilling too far, licking her arms making her wince. Her breathing becomes ragged, she has too much power but no control. Lucien wraps his golden chains around her arms and her fire is put out with a hiss. Lucien sends her sprawling onto the dirt as the yard erupts into laughter. Lucien raises his hand in victory, smirking.
''Damaged goods.'' He declares.
His voice was enough to cut stone.
''I told you, darling. You burn yourself faster than anyone else.'' He jeered.
The crowd erupt once again into hysterical laughter, none of this is funny. Seras moves herself upright, her jaw set and eyes still focused. She does not speak, she can't, not as Lucien basked in his glory to his little fan club.
His Lightscar pulses golden light, matching his gold shaded eyes that look like a morning sunrise and hair, which is blonde so light it almost looks white. It's short and messy at the front, but he has a long braid that dangles over his shoulder and capelet of his uniform.
Lucien was not born a Solbrax, he inherited it. Blood does not matter when it comes to power. Blood means less than brilliance. You do not have to be born into a family to bear its name, you just have to be strong enough to earn it, and keep it.
There is a small catch, born children are not exiled for failures. Adopted children must be at their best, the strongest because they are discarded when they fail, that's the difference. The weight of pressure, that's why I believe some people behave the way they do, especially Lucien. Every action and interaction is a performance, because deep down if he stops shining, he stops mattering.
I feel the envy burn sharp into my chest, Seras has too much power, Lucien has too much control, but me? Nothing. I wanted to look away from the spectacle but I couldn't.
''Well well, it seems the Scarless has crawled out of his hole to observe, be careful friend. You might end up learning something.'' Heat prickled at my ears and I found myself hugging my satchel closer to my chest and lowering my head on instinct. I was hoping he would let me go, and leave it but it seems he is not moving. Shit.
''Tell me, worm. Who do you envy the most? Me? Or damaged goods over there? He says while looking around at the crowd, waiting for their reaction.
My mouth dries, words caught in my throat. If I stay silent, they laugh. If I answer they laugh.
''I… I don't envy anyone.'' I whisper back, like a prayer. Unsure if I'm trying to convince him or myself. Keeping my voice low enough so no one would hear how badly I wanted to believe it.
Lucien barks a laugh ''You hear that good folks, the Scarless doesn't envy anyone. As if he could afford to not envy us, the chosen.'' he declares.
''No one here knows your name, no one wants to know your name. You are lucky you get to help here, an easy life compared to the rest of your kind. Most scarless are usually disposed of once they are no longer of use to their masters. Consider yourself lucky.''
The chuckles which were spreading has now sharpened into laughter, spreading like wildfire. Lucien steps down from the ring and walks towards me basking in the cheers and laughter of the other students. With a casual sweep of his hand, my satchel, books and parchment drop and scatter across the dirt. Lucien turns and laughs, walking away while once again, I'm on the floor broke. I want to be seen, but not like this.
I bend low, lowering my head so my forehead is pressed onto the floor hoping they all leave. Lucien's name rings out like a hymn, mine? Known by one person, a name so easily erased and forgotten. As I raise my head my eyes find Seras. She strides past the huddle of students, her red hair like a wild blaze of flame erupting from her head as it catches the sunlight. Her Lightscars are now long since faded but residual marks still scar her. She pays no attention to the boisterous crowd and her gaze lands onto me, why me? She stops as she is walking past me.
''Every bow has made you smaller, rise and let them see how tall you are.'' She declared.
Then she keeps on walking, out of the courtyard standing tall as if the defeat did not touch her. Seras has never spoken to me, never even looked my way from what I could remember, so why now? At least she does not mock me, that's reassuring.
I stay bowed, it's instinct. I collect my belongings from the dirt as silence settles with the departing crowd, a large shadow cast over me as I pathetically scrape parchment, he crouches beside me and hands over the remaining scuffed parchment he collected from the floor.
''Where I was raised, if you walked past a struggling man on the ground, you would answer to your mother before sundown and trust me, she hit harder than anyone here.'' He says jested.
''Thank you.'' I hesitated.
The tall stocky student nods at me, with a kind smile and makes his way out. I stay, crouched. Wondering why the words of strangers weighed more than a thousand prayers. This is the first time I've been spoken to and not at, by a student. After I have collected my thoughts I make for the scholars wing. Hoping I'm not seen, invisible. It's safer that way. Closer and closer I get to my destination. My heart calms and my mind soothes. I enter Oriens study, the torches on the wall still seem to be repulsed by me as I pass.
''Late.'' Orien mumbles, without looking up. His glasses sliding down his nose and bits of food still decorating his beard.
''I…'' I stutter bowing immediately. ''I dropped some items. I will copy the damaged ones.''
''Mm'' he says as he finally looks at me, eyes sharp behind his glasses. ''How many times did you bow today, before you here hmm?'' The scrolls shifted in my arms. My mouth opens, then closes as I did not answer, couldn't. He sighs, setting his quill to one side and then without a word, slides the half stale bread that looks like the softness has been beaten out of it over to me. My stomach twists with hunger and shame.
''Eat.'' He mutters. ''Ink doesn't fill a boys ribs.'' I listened, I chewed and I ate. I look up and find his eyes are still upon me. ''Remember this Veyrin, a crown does not make a king. It is but a trinket that bids lesser men, and you were forged for more than bowing to smaller minds.''
The words press heavy into me, heavier than all the parchment, ink and books I carry. ''Yes master.'' I bow instinctively and Orien smiles and shakes his head. I returned to my own living quarters, barely bigger than a storage closet but it was mine. Four walls, a bed as narrow as a coffin, a wash basin and a cracked shelf sagging with books and ink pots. A cage is a more fitting name.
I threw the remaining scrolls onto the desk, sank onto the parchment thin comforter hoping the world would swallow me up, My body aches, everything aches. The lone candle flickers illuminating the room, I turn onto my side with my head on overdrive remembering 1000 different things at once. My mind stops and focuses on Seras Doirneach, her voice has cut deeper than any feelings gnawing at my soul, those unexpected words igniting the small sliver of hope which lingers in this empty vessel.
Rise, and let them see how tall you are.
Rise, and let them see how tall you are.
Rise, and let them see how tall you are.
I pulled the blanket tight around me, as if I could smother the words because having hope is dangerous for a boy like me. The longer her words echo in my skull my eyes grow heavy. Even as sleep drags me under, she lingers.
Rise, and let them see how tall you are.