Orien's demands carried me further than usual this morning, scrolls tied with cord dug into my arms from the weight, I still don't feel fully recovered from being drained by Balden, the student from Deceit. Today I was in the training hall at the rear of the academy with Orien, helping him deliver scrolls and parchment. I stand impatient, waiting to leave when Orien tells me to stay for this lesson, ''Observation makes the mind grow sharper.'' He orders.
The training hall was alive in an orange glow as dozens of torches blazed in the sconces overhead, huge banners draped from the rafters showcasing the 7 sacred sins. All of the students packed the surroundings of the centre ring, their voices and demeanour brimming with a confidence I have never known. Every sound made by them was seized by the vaulted chamber and hurled back in rolling echoes, like ancient chants awoken from stone. Pillars circle the room like a cage, ancient runes etched the pillars and have begun to fade, not from neglect, but from age.
I slipped in at the back and pressed myself into one of the huge stone pillars, tight so I'm less likely to be noticed. In the centre of the ring stood the instructor, a woman they called Athea, Athea Ndombari. Despite her upbringing, belonging to the family who rule Sloth, she insists on being called an Instructor. Never master, mistress or any other honorific. Just like everything else, even titles bend before her.
Athea does not waste words, movement or even breath. As she stood in the centre, it looked as if she was carved out of stone, deeply rooted and her eyes steady. Her skin was as dark as polished earth, her tone was not demanding, but patient, disciplined. Her hair was braided and tied back without excess, just practical for a fighter, and the torchlight struck her jade green eyes, revealing not softness but calm steel of a warrior who never flinches. A scar marks her face, a line cut from cheek to cheek across her nose, an old wound that adds to her presence.
The mark of sloth traces her arms in pale white bands, to everyone else Sloth is weakness, but to her it is mastery. She barely moves, conserving strength letting silence and stillness do what shouting could not.When she decides to act, the results are said to be devastating. Extra speed behind a step, extra mass behind a punch and extra durability if needed. The students respect her because they fear her, not from cruelty but because she is the perfect example of what discipline can carve out of a Lightscar.
''Lightscar strain.'' Athea barked, voice cracking across the hall like a whip. ''The line between strength and ruin, every scar has it. Push too far and your scar can eat you alive.'' She gestures sharply to a student from Greed, where people come from is easy to tell, depending on the colour of the threading on their uniform, and in this Greed boys case, it is black.
The Greed student conjures a spear from his horde, a space we cannot see. A place people from Greed keep their prized possessions and trophys. Athea gets the student to return his spear and conjure it over and over again, some students captivated by the display, as am I. He obeyed until his Lightscar began to flicker and tremble like overstrung cords, the student's grin faltering when Athea orders him to stop as he falls, legs failing to support him.
''Understand this, Lightscars must be trained like a muscle. Discipline and repetition will allow you to wield more, some of you may not develop extra abilities from your Lightscar but some will unfold many, if you can master them.'' Her gaze flicks to Lucien Solbrax in the front row, he was basking in the scraps of attention he was receiving, letting his Lightscar flicker gold. Athea's gaze swept the hall. ''A Lightscar is an empty blade, until the hand commands it.''
Athea takes a step back, calm as stone and then without warning she vanishes. One moment she was rooted in the centre of the chamber and the next, her foot struck the pillar at the other end of the hall with a crack of stone, dust still hanging where she had just been. Stillness then impact. As if the world skipped a breath to let her cross the distance. The air stilled and the students straightened, not a single breath followed. They were in awe. ''Disciple makes the scar, nothing else.'' She Asserted.
After the demonstration, each student was taking part in a one versus one. Each to show off their skills and discipline. Lights flickering from scars erupted, Flame left palm, Swords appeared from air and constructs of light graced the ring. Each student performs for approval, hoping the instructor noticed them, especially the students from Pride. My eyes scan the room and observe as Orien told me to, noticing each ability and each weakness while also trying to avoid eye contact with Lucien Solbrax, Pride's favorite showman. While scanning I notice her again, Seras Doirneach.
She faces one of Lucien's lackeys, Herod, Harald? I forget. His smirk suggests he knows he has won the fight as he lunges with fists of light as Seras meets him with power of her own. Herod or Harald, I'll just call him Lucien jr, dodges her punch and lands a direct hit to her stomach causing her to stumble backwards holding herself. Little Lucien turns and raises his hands in the air, like he has won. The next second, she stands firm, cold, calm and calculated. He jests and taunts her but it has no effect. She is ready once more.
Seras steps forward, going to punch but then pulls back to make him dodge. His face is left open as she punches him straight in his nose, like a river breaching its banks and he falls to the floor, laughter erupts from the students as he sits holding his burnt broken nose. His Lightscar and Light construct begin to flicker. Pride grows stronger on praise and attention, without it. Well, he has become weaker as the students ridicule him for losing to Wrath's broken scar.
As Seras claims her victory and steps from the ring, she covers her arms and hands which are burned, fire biting too deep, she is burning herself alive just to stand and fight. Her flame burns brighter than all of their crowns combined, her determination second to none and if she can block all the ridicule and hate, then maybe so can I. We both are mocked for what we cannot control, for her it's her power. Me, the lack of.
Athea instructs the student for the last parts, advising the best way to remain devoted to training and improving their power, as the students leave and I'm left to my own, Instructor Athea nods at me, telling me that me being here isn't for no reason, even without power I can learn to discipline myself on the things I can control. I take them words to heart, thanking her as she leaves while I ponder on what she means, the things I can control.
The walk back to Orien my mind is still trying to find the answers, the halls are empty and the torches begin to light, the stone reflects how cold I have been feeling recently. I can control my own bitterness and jealousy towards the Lightscarred, the way I approach Orien when he comforts me and how alone I feel, although the last one is hard to change. Seeing the way Seras approaches her own problems with her chin held high makes my chest ache, I wish I was as strong as her.
Entering the archives once more with a little more hope than I did yesterday and more admiration for Orien, for putting up with me, I should apologise properly for my outburst at him. I'm walking towards Orien when I glance to the bookshelf where the black book was resting, but it seems to have been moved. A knot forms in my stomach although I don't know why.
''Orien.'' I ask with curiosity. ''There was a book on the shelf here, dark binding and no name to mark its spine. Do you have any idea where it could have gone?''
Orien doesn't look up from his desk, hill quill scratching steadily across the parchement. ''Ah, yes that one..'' He pauses a moment to weigh his words. Then gently, almost like a father easing their child from a nightmare ''Best not to trouble yourself with crooked shelves, they always fill themselves again.'' He smiles as he says it, the kind that reassures and not frightens.
I frown, not understanding what he means but I know he will speak no more of it, so I say nothing more. Orien pauses from his task to look at me, asking if i learnt anything from instructor Athea, I tell him that I understand I shouldn't dwell on the things I cannot change, but keep moving forward with the intention of bettering myself everyday. He smiles, nods and says ''Regardless of power or status, the world is not fair and it is unforgiving. So we must hold onto the things we can, that sliver of joy that makes us feel, the connections and happiness we feel from bonds forged.''
The words open a pit into my stomach, I may not have much but I do have Orien. I apologise to him for my rudeness over breakfast. He says it's my age and that it is fine, he knows I didn't mean nothing by it but I know it is more than that. It is the sadness I live with everyday, the isolation and lack of bonds excluding Orien.
I return to work, the quill keeps scratching. The shelf stayed empty, and I couldn't shake the feeling that something was waiting for me on that shelf, but I let it slip away.