The air in the Scribes' Hall always tasted of ozone and old parchment, a blend that was supposed to inspire reverence. For me, it mostly just smelled like my own personal brand of failure, thick and suffocating. I hunched over my slate, the stylus trembling in my hand, trying to coax the barest, most pathetic shimmer from the Rune of Minor Illumination.
It was a basic glyph, the literal first thing they taught us, meant to make the ink glow faintly, a gentle beacon. Mine, however, remained stubbornly, defiantly dull. Just a smear of charcoal on stone, mocking me. Pathetic. Utterly, soul-crushingly pathetic.Around me, the hall hummed with quiet industry, a symphony of competence I was clearly not invited to. The rhythmic scratching of hundreds of styluses against slate, the soft, almost musical crackle of essence being channeled, the occasional satisfied sigh as a rune flared to life, bright and confident. Scribes like me were supposedly the architects of reality, the Grand Masters droned on.
We wrote our will into existence, inscribing complex runes that could reshape mountains, manipulate the very elements, mend flesh, or even glimpse the threads of tomorrow. Our power flowed from the Ink, the solidified essence of truth and intent, imbued with our mental focus – our mentality. A clear mind, a potent rune. A fractured mind, a volatile disaster. My mind, apparently, was less fractured and more like a shattered vase held together with spit and broken dreams."Still trying to light that damn rock, Xander?"The voice, slick as oil and just as irritating, belonged to Dian.
He leaned over my shoulder, close enough for me to smell the faint, cloying scent of his expensive essence-infused hair tonic. His own slate, naturally, gleamed with a perfectly etched Rune of Elemental Spark, a miniature lightning bolt already dancing within its lines, practically vibrating with smug energy. Dian was everything I wasn't: effortlessly talented, supremely confident, and annoyingly handsome with his sharp, chiseled features and eyes that glowed with an almost arrogant Amber. He was a natural Pyro-Scribe, his runes often manifesting with a fiery intensity that made him the professors' pet. The bastard."Piss off, Dian ," I muttered, my grip tightening on the stylus until my knuckles ached.
I felt a familiar knot of frustration twist violently in my gut, a bitter, acidic taste rising in my throat. It was a taste I knew well, the flavor of perpetual inadequacy.Dian chuckled, a low, grating sound that felt like sandpaper on my eardrums. "Temper, temper. You know, they say a scribe's mentality is reflected in their ink. Yours looks like it's been through a badger's colon after a particularly spicy meal." He paused, letting that sink in, then added, "Or maybe it's just reflecting your face this morning."I ignored him, focusing on the rune, trying to channel every ounce of my will into it. I closed my eyes, desperately trying to clear my mind, to banish the image of Dian's perfectly symmetrical, infuriatingly handsome face, the phantom echo of my father's perpetually disappointed sighs, the constant, dull ache of my own uselessness.
I pictured the rune, vibrant and alive, pulling essence from the air, shaping it, bending it to my will. I poured my frustration, my desperation, my sheer, unadulterated misery into it. Just glow, you useless piece of shit. Just once. Please.A faint, almost imperceptible tremor ran through the slate, vibrating up my arm. A tiny spark, no bigger than a firefly's dying gasp, flickered within the rune's lines, then died. Just like my hopes.Kael burst out laughing, a loud, obnoxious bray that echoed in the quiet hall, making every head turn. "Oh, glorious! A flicker! You're making progress, Xander. At this rate, you'll be able to light a single, very small candle by the time you're eighty. Just in time for your funeral." He then turned to his own slate, already preparing for his grand, nauseating performance. "Now, watch a real scribe at work."He stood before his practice shield – a thick, reinforced wooden barrier designed to take a beating – his Amber eyes narrowing in concentration. He didn't just etch the rune; he practically slammed his stylus into the slate, the lines appearing with a fiery, almost aggressive precision.
I pictured the rune, vibrant and alive, pulling essence from the air, shaping it, bending it to my will. I poured my frustration, my desperation, my sheer, unadulterated misery into it. Just glow, you useless piece of shit. Just once. Please.A faint, almost imperceptible tremor ran through the slate, vibrating up my arm. A tiny spark, no bigger than a firefly's dying gasp, flickered within the rune's lines, then died. Just like my hopes.Kael burst out laughing, a loud, obnoxious bray that echoed in the quiet hall, making every head turn. "Oh, glorious! A flicker! You're making progress, Xander. At this rate, you'll be able to light a single, very small candle by the time you're eighty. Just in time for your funeral." He then turned to his own slate, already preparing for his grand, nauseating performance. "Now, watch a real scribe at work."He stood before his practice shield – a thick, reinforced wooden barrier designed to take a beating – his Amber eyes narrowing in concentration. He didn't just etch the rune; he practically slammed his stylus into the slate, the lines appearing with a fiery, almost aggressive precision.
The rune glowed, pulsing with an intense orange light, a miniature sun in his hand. He held his hand over it, channeling his essence, and the air around him crackled with a palpable, almost painful energy."Watch and learn, amateurs," he sneered, his gaze sweeping over the room, lingering on me for a fraction too long, a triumphant, arrogant smirk plastered across his face. "This is how you properly apply force. Not with a whimper, but with a bang."He didn't just punch the shield. He amplified his entire arm, his fist glowing with the fiery, destructive energy of his Pyro-Kinesis.