The morning bells dragged me out of sleep. Seven chimes, heavy and exact, rolling through stone and bone alike. They always rang, always seven. Always a reminder that the sacred crowns still rule. I lay still for a moment, half dreaming that they might fall silent one day. That the sound might fail and Crownspire would wake to silence.
The thought fades with the final toll of the bell. I woke with ink stains and the sound of boots I would never march in. As I try to gather myself, I catch a glimpse of myself in the wash basin. Its dull water reflected on my face and I moved before I could fully see it. Better not to see what is already whispered about me.
The sound of voices, shuffling robes and scraping chairs have already begun. The hum of conversations begin as scholars go about their morning routines, as I step out into the hallway, assistant scholars like myself rush past scrolls under their arms. Older scholars drifted toward the dining hall which was full of debates that began before dawn and would not end until long after dusk. I step through the hall and make my way past all of the hungry academics. The smell of bread and broth reached me before I noticed Orien, waving me over.
Orien was at the far end of the hall, glasses catching the early sunlight. His beard bristled with a smile that was his alone. I wove through the tables carefully not to brush too close to anyone's robes. Scrolls nearly topple from elbows, cups slosh as I pass and luckily no one pays me any attention. Orien pushes a bowl of broth and bread towards the empty seat on his table.
''Sit, eat.'' His tone was brisk, but the corners of his eyes softened as our eyes met once again. ''Ink and books are no diet for a boy your age.'' He smirked.
I lowered myself into the chair, hunched over the table. The bread was fresh, still warm for the furnaces. The broth steams against my face, the smell enters my nose and my stomach churns, not from disgust, but from realising how long it has been since I have eaten well.
''Another long night, eh Veyrin?'' Orien questioned.
I shrug, tearing the bread into pieces I know I won't eat. What would be the point? To pretend I'm welcome here? That I belong? The food is warm, but I feel as cold as ever. ''There was work to do.'' I lied.
''There is always work to do, but you are not parchment to be scraped thin.'' He smiled faintly at his own metaphor, pleased. Then he studies me closer. ''You should look at me when I'm speaking, Veyrin.''
I keep my eyes on the bowl. ''Why? No one looks at me when I speak.'' The words come out harsher than I mean them to, but they have been said. Orien places his spoon down and folds his hands, leaning in forward as if the whole room around us has hushed.
''Then let me be the fool who does.'' He says quietly. ''One pair of eyes is better than none.''
The words should have rolled off me, like the rest of this place's noise, but they don't, not from him. I glance up just long enough to catch a faint smile then I look away, the bread still torn to pieces between my fingers.
''Thank you.'' I mutter, too low for anyone to hear but him. It wasn't much, but it was more than I gave anyone else. More than I recieve.
Orien nods his head, as if that scrap of gratitude weighs more than all 7 crowns. He dipped his spoon back into his broth, humming to himself and he didn't press further. He lets me keep my shadows, even when he tries to bring light. The memories of yesterday still cling to my thoughts, Lucien, the stranger who helped me and Seras's words which had haunted my sleep. I still feel cold, not even Orien's warmth could burn it away, when it usually could.
After breakfast, Orien handed me a bundle of scrolls tied in a rough cord. Lessons for the day. His voice was casual but I knew the unspoken truth, the classes were not for me. I was the courier, not the student.
The first hall I had the pleasure of visiting smelled of smoke and steel, students of Wrath were gathered around in a circle, their tutors etched symbols in flame across the floor. I slipped the scrolls onto the desk, unseen. Ember lines shaped like lava down a volcano scarred one boy's arm, another, jagged cracks down his neck. My skin is the only one left bare.
My next visit took me to Greed. The air hummed with chains, swords, axes and every weapon I could think of. The bearers of Greed have innate talents with weaponry, able to call on their horde. A space we cannot see, where they store their trophies and prized possessions. Their scars were different, bracelets around wrists, black scars running across their face or neck like a band to keep them enslaved to their own conviction.
The next hall I found myself in was a lot more comfortable, the room smelled like fresh ink and parchment. Stone tablets traced with history. Scholars were from all walks of life, and all walks of sin but have one common interest. History. I slid the scrolls into place hoping to remain unnoticed as the room was peaceful, no one made a noise and focused on their work.
The errands wound me higher and higher throughout Crownspire academy, taken up most of my day. I stop to rest on a balcony connecting two wings of the academy. I pause here, letting the wind lick my face and provide a draft to my rather sweaty face. The scene from the balcony is one of beauty, although I hate to admit it. Crownspire. The capital of the cradle and the home of the Cradle of sin. A monument of 7 spiralling towers in the very centre. Surrounded by a moat with three entrances. Surrounding the monument is a sprawling city of white and gold, streets bent in deliberate lines with each district leading into the centre.
The cradle of sin's towers look like they are fused at the roots, bending and entwining upwards like a nest of serpents. Each tower bore the mark of their sin. There are many Scarless in this city, all working hard labour jobs or surviving on the streets, begging. Despite the problems I have here I really am lucky. To not be out there and to have Orien.
Students pass me while I take a break, laughing at the sight of the city. Proud of what was theirs by blood. I grip my belongings tighter and turn away before this small moment of peace turns into jealousy. On the way back down voices spill from an open classroom, I slow and stick to the wall where the torches cannot reach and I'm slightly obscured. The class seems to be beast classification, a lesson where scars did not matter. Wrath could sit with Lust, Pride with Gluttony. The class debates and learns habits of scaled or furred beats.
The class seems to be finishing, a tall student exits first. I hope he doesn't notice me. I know that one, a trickster. Known throughout the school. Rell Arcrest. The son of the Crownlady of Deceit, as I start to walk away I notice a tendril of smoke coming from his fingers. It leads to one student's desk and topples a pot of ink over onto his work, the student scrambles to save his work before it stains. Rell Arcrest laughs, unbothered. Careless.
They disappear, laughing. I linger, foolishly. Just once, I want to orbit their world, even if it burns me. But no, scarless doesn't get to orbit. We stay tethered.
I keep my head down and make my way back to the archives at the scholars quarter, this is where I end up most days. The air seems cooler here, shelves packed tight with books and the smell of ink, always lingering.
The texts and books in the archives did not belong to me, and I have no right to read the majority of them. Books and scrolls marked with ancient runes and sigils of the 7. Scraps are left open from time to time, bestiaries, ledgers and unimportant moments from history.Things no one minded if a Scarless boy read. And I read them all. Some knowledge is better than none. Parchment is better than silence.
Tonight a book sits where none had previously, a volume bound in leather blacker than night and as old as the shelves that held it. Its spine unmarked, rested crooked as if simply slipped into place with care. I frown, fingers brushing the cover feeling a little nauseous while I do. Strange.
I almost open the book, but Orien calls me over to where he is. I draw my hand back, another time. The rest of the night settled into the usual rhythm after that moment, ink to mix, scrolls to stack and silence to endure. Still, my eyes drift back. Always, to the crooked shelf. Always, to the unmarked black book.