I dream of silence, the kind that eats sound whole. The prayer hall stretches before me, the 7 sacred statues dim one by one until only shadows remain. Where there was once a stump, old and forgotten, now sits another statue. This statue is wrong; my body feels it, and the whole room feels the unease it creates. The statue is crowned in darkness, swallowing all light and the air itself. A low voice, ancient and worn, hums through the dream like wind through hollow bone. ''Scarless.''
''Scarless. Scarless. Scarless. You, who does not pledge to sin. You, who will devour.''
The last word echoes strange, drawn out, layered with something deeper. Like two voices entwined.
The faceless statues of the 7 begin to topple, crowns shattering and all light bleeding into the void, I try to run, but the silence pulls at my very being and into the void. I stand in front of the statue locked in place by an unseen force. A hand reaches out, my eyes close, petrified of the limb reaching my face. It strokes my cheek delicately, like a parent wiping tears from their child's face.
''The eclipse is near, the ruins are ahead, the forest will sleep once more, when the sins are dead.''
The voice breaks apart, splintering into many. Male. Female. Child. All at once. The final word slams down like a hammer, the word does not echo. It reverberates inside my ribs. I taste iron. The statue's hand never pulls away. Or maybe it never touched me at all.
I wake with sweat crawling down my spine, heart thudding like a warning drum. My hands cling to the blanket like it's the only thing keeping me here. Only a dream, I whisper. But it lingers like something remembered, not imagined.
I manage to pull myself together and head to the scholars hall, the voices around me blur together, too loud and sharp. The torches seem brighter than the day before, the world seems happier. Orien spots me before I see him and asks me to sit, he studies me over the rim of his glasses, pauses eating. ''You did not sleep.'' He said simply, not a question. I lower my eyes to the stale bread which he prepared for me, ripping it to pieces without eating it. ''Nothing, just a bad dream.''
Orien tilts his head, half-smiling like he already knows. "Dreams have teeth. They'll gnaw at your bones if you let 'em. Tell me, what did this one sink into you?" He questions.
I hesitate to speak, the words feel foolish on my tongue, the kind parents whisper to their children to frighten them. But the words spilled from my mouth anyway. ''The Lighteater, the eighth.'' I tell him the words it spoke to me, the affection the Ancient hand placed on me.
For a moment, Orien holds his spoon of broth close to his mouth before dropping it back into the bowl. His smile does not change, but something in his eyes does. Ever so slightly, even for just a breath. Then it was gone, replaced with the warmth he usually radiates. ''Ah, I remember my younger days exploring ruins, Areas where the Eighth scarred the land. Finding small records or hearing stories, myths. Every person in the cradle knows of them. Every person has had a nightmare about them at least once. Their deeds are not secret, whole villages swallowed in one night, generations of families missing. Pay it no matter, It's just that active brain of yours.'' His voice was calm, almost story-like, like a cautionary tale told around a campfire meant to keep children close to home.
Orien reached across the table, grabbing my trembling hands. ''We no longer live in those days, the Seven stand and the Eighth do not. Best to let nightmares remain in the dust. The cradle is better without them.
Orien tells me that scars can sometimes manifest a lot later than others, I'm still a young man so I still have a chance. ''Circumstance is the true parent of Lightscar manifestation, not bloodline. When a Lightscar finally manifests,'' Orien went on, ''it is not gentle. It is an implosion of power, for a heartbeat, the world itself stills. Fire, light and even sound seems to bow before you. If it happens for you Veyrin… you will know, and so will everyone around you.''
His eyes flickered briefly to the torches decorating the walls before he settled back onto me. ''And remember, some Lightscars are so powerful, they take years to master. Without guidance, they devour their bearer before they can tame their gift, not every house is patient with such burdens.'' He reached out across the table, laying a warm gentle hand over my own, ''Scar or no scar, you are not useless. You have me. And that will never change.''
The words would not usually be enough, but his smile eases my soul in a way no one else could. After finishing speaking with Orien, I head out into the cold academy corridors, no parchment in my hand or ink in my satchel. No deliveries. Just blood work. Messy and tiring.
Members of the Beasthold, the hunters and soldiers protecting Crownspire bring beasts and creatures from the surrounding areas for beast classification classes and scholars who document habits and weaknesses of creatures. They drag the hides through the back gates at the southern courtyard with blades thick with gore and smelling of death. This is a job someone like me can do.
The smell of iron and guts fill the washroom, sharp and metallic smothering the smell of the incense candles lit by the door. Huge wooden buckets filled with clean water line the benches in the centre of the room.The beast parts are hung up, to let the blood drain on a line by the back exit. Weapons sit on the bench in the centre waiting to be cleaned and polished. I remove my robe to not dirty it and roll up the sleeves of my tunic and start cleaning.
The first sword was crusted with black ichor, likely from a Corpse Hound. Common beasts around the south and sometimes surrounding Crownspire, depending on the time of year. Their hides looked like rot given shape, grey fur stretched so thin that bone passed through, especially their jaws. The blood smelt like spoiled meat and it clung to steal like tar. And an absolute bastard to get off your skin.
The next sword was dull, but seems to be enhanced by Wyrmtail scales, large lizards which inhabit the northern regions of Wrath, the Wyrmtails are kin to fire, living volcanos and lava streams. They are resistant to it, ironically they live in the flame region of Wrath. Their scales can be sold to Blacksmiths from Greed, who can reforge their scales with molten steel, enhancing blades or shields that last longer.
The hides that were hung above me were mostly common stock, easy to clean, easy to dry. There was one that sticks out this time, a hide so dark it bleeds purple when the torchlight catches it. Its fur, short and course. The skull still clings to its pelt and from its forehead two thin black horns protrude over its head, so brittle looking a touch would cause them to crumble.
The eyesockets lie empty, but I swore I could see its eyes. Sickly yellow eyes that look like two fresh lanterns lit for dusk. Its teeth were long, narrow and sharp. Meant for tearing. I've read about these, never seen them in the flesh due to their rarity. Nightmaw. No bigger than a common House Hound but lean, built to run. There is no known location or habitat where these creatures reside. The hide of the Nightmaw fetches a fair price from smiths or tailors, its hide is said to blur cloaks in the shadows, wield a blade that can mislead the eyes. A Scarbound beast. A creature that is able to use Sin abilities, though minor. The Nightmaw can use misdirection through illusion. A voice here or there to cause people to lose their way.
For a moment I wondered if I took its hide, I would be able to get away with it and sell it to escape this life.
I continue scrubbing a gory blade, which stinks of rot thanks to the Corpse Hound. A sound echoes through the room from the window, cackling. Harsh. Ragged. Like laughter torn from a dying throat. A Hagcrow.
They nested along the academy's spires waiting for scraps. They were carrion feeders, their cries carry too much shape, too much mockery, they sound like old women jeering at you from the dark. They can smell the blood, hoping to get a taste. The guards say they laugh the loudest with blood in the air.
I clean the blades until my knuckles sting and my fingers cramp, I hear footsteps just outside of the ajar door to this room, heavy and metallic. The guards, the ones who brought these gifts back for me. They must be returning to the city until their equipment and haul is cleaned. Their voices carry through the door.
''Did you hear, scouts went missing while searching the Forest of Sin again, three of them. From a party of 12. The ones who made it back made some bold claims. They say they saw a giant wolf, bigger than a horse, coat as black as night and moves like smoke.'' He reported.
''Giant wolf? Garbage, my friend. People see shadows and call them monsters, Fear makes beasts out branches. I'm telling you.'' The other guard adds.
The first guard chuckles. ''Maybe it was the Lighteater, coming to swallow you up. Better pray your Lightscar glows brighter than your fear you bastard.'' They laugh, brushing it off and continue to walk down the hall. A wolf. Moving like smoke. My dream enters my mind replaying what happened. Even now it's still so vivid while it lingers.
By dusk the work was done, my fingers and arms ached and my sense of smell had evaporated. The washroom is now empty and the bucket's contents stained black from blood. The blades were gleaming, the hides stretched, washed and drying. The Nightmaw was retrieved a while back, a hide like that too important for students. It's yellow eyes, which I imagined still burned into my head long after I made it back to my room. No work in the archives tonight, my body is demanding rest and I don't think I can argue with it. I push all thoughts of the day out of my mind while I wash my face of blood from my wash basin.
The water is still dull, not changed in days. Now stained with dry blood and sweat, I look in the mirror to make sure it's all off. Strange. My face. Looks rested, well rested. No black marks under my eyes from lack of sleep or eyeballs veined red. My pupils also look a shade deeper violet than before. I'm just tired, I'll think about it tomorrow because now, I really must rest.