Chapter 24 #2
She continued, moving to the middle quadrant.
“Ishean: Tier Two. They resemble the fae, though you will see in your text, on page forty-six, that though they may resemble us—there are ways to spot them if you know what to look for. Extra fingers, a knuckle bone or two too long, eyes that lack a sclera, or too many rows of teeth. A formidable species, known for their resilience and cunning. As puppeteers, they command entire legions of Callistas. Try not to be in the area if one appears, or make sure you are with your troop; even our most powerful incramancers have fallen battling the Ishean one-on-one.”
Scholar Haile took a step sideways, moving toward the final quadrant.
“The pinnacle of the demonic hierarchy, the true architects of our misery, are called Aithne. It’s theorized that the archdemons are distant descendants of The Fallen, a traitorous sect of gods who, during the God Wars, in a bid for more power, turned on their brethren, annihilating many of them.
Fallen from grace, their ancestors were banished to the Veiled Realm.
The Fallen mixed with the demons there and created the Aithne class.
” Her chalk slashed notes on the slate board as she continued.
“They are subtle and seductive, manipulating events from the shadows as they whisper promises of power and pleasure, preying on mortal weakness. Their specialty is to sniff out your wants, your most secret desires, dangle them before you as you do their bidding, and just when you’ve completed their task, they will snatch their prize away.
Virtually immortal, the archdemons are the most powerful of all, especially during Desolate Winter, when their magic is at its height.
Perhaps most terrible of all … Archdemons are shapeshifters and are often indistinguishable from the fae, and if they wish it”—her mouth pursed with distaste—“humankind.” A murmur rippled through the class, but Audra felt sick.
“How will we know which demons we are fighting, Scholar?” Nepthys asked, glancing up from his notes.
Scholar Haile paused the scritch scratch of her chalk stick and turned toward the initiates; her gaze, severe and dreadful, swept over them, sending a chill through the room.
“If you recognize an Aithne for what they are—there is no sense in fighting, it’s futile to beg for clemency, and there won’t be time to run …
” Silence descended, heavy and oppressive.
“Better to spend that time praying to the gods for a quick demise.”
By their third class, the squall had evolved from sweeping swaths of rain to needles of ice pelted by harsh winds.
Inside Scholar Khari’s lecture hall, the atmosphere, despite the unfortunate knowledge reluctantly gained that morning in what Audra dubbed “demon studies and nightmare fuel” had begun with much anticipation and excitement when he’d surprised them all with charcoal sticks in place of chalk.
Audra had expected to wait weeks to practice incras, but he’d passed the charcoal sticks out one by one, a delighted smirk on his face.
Now, with class nearing its end, Audra’s excitement had changed much like the rain, from buckets of it to sharp, painful needles of frustration.
Bottom lip clasped between her teeth in concentration, she clutched the thin stick of charcoal like a talisman.
Before her lay a pristine sheet of training parchment, upon which she attempted, for the twentieth time, to inscribe Ignis, the simplest of fire incras, according to Scholar Khari.
It was in the abstract class of incra—easily manipulated by one’s will, but not overly complicated—a beginner incra that would produce flame or something comparable, like waves of intense heat, a single flame, or simply hot light.
Scholar Khari had assured the class that they weren’t required to produce fire today; this was their first attempt at scribing, so it needn’t be precise.
Which had been assuring, until the minute hand on her timepiece had ticked on by, five minutes, ten, thirty-five, and Audra hadn’t produced anything at all.
To her great ire, Noel had cast Ignis straightaway, his will such that he hadn’t even had to maintain eye contact with the training parchment to keep the incra active.
The haughty noble was now working on a more complex incra that Scholar Khari had provided him alone to practice.
Even Wilder had summoned fire early on and now sat forward over her desk, her charcoal pencil cast aside, her hands controlling a mesmerizing, sienna-colored blaze, fingers coaxing the flame into different shapes.
Yet, no matter how meticulously Audra mirrored the example glyph on the board, her charcoal drawing stubbornly disintegrated into the training parchment again and again without producing even an inkling of warmth, let alone flame.
She cursed under her breath as a triumphant shout erupted from an initiate with waist-length curls as their incra flared to life, an undulating ball of crimson flame dancing above their desk, bathing their delighted face in red light.
A breadth later, across the aisle, a girl with pale eyes gasped as her incra bloomed with a soft, emerald glow, tendrils of verdant light snaking across her page in curling patterns.
Wonderful. Audra was now one of only three initiates who had yet to successfully scribe. A growing knot of panic tightened her chest. Incramancy was almost finished, and she would be forced outside to the sparring fields without managing to scribe.
Noel would be insufferable if she didn’t manage to cast an incra, and with the way her luck was going today, Commander Renwick would probably pair them together.
Another try. This time it would work.
But her hand trembled, smudging the delicate lines of the incra before it soaked into the training parchment, fading until there was not even a blemish to show the glyph had existed at all.
Why wasn’t it working?
Was she somehow deficient in this fundamental magic that seemed to leap to the others’ wills so readily?
Doubt coiled around her heart, uttering insidious suggestions—they had made a mistake when they’d brought her to the fae realm and forced her to join the Academy.
She couldn’t manage to influence her own life; how was she going to influence the arcane?
Oh, Mist. Scholar Khari, his brown curls glinting almost auburn in the ghostly light filtering into his classroom, paused beside her desk. Audra hunched her shoulders against a rebuke, meeting his gaze with shuttered eyes.
But Scholar Khari’s gaze, though keen, held a glimmer of encouragement.
“Patience, Audra,” he murmured, his voice a steady thread. “Incras are ancient and temperamental. They require not just precision, but also a harmony of mind, will, and spirit.”
His words, meant to soothe, only amplified her frustration, inflamed her agitation.
Harmony of mind, will, and spirit?
Audra’s mind was a maelstrom of self-doubt and insecurities; her will had fled the moment she’d relented before the fae in Fernwell Inn … And her spirit? Her spirit felt as brittle as frostbitten twigs—if that were even spirit she was feeling and not existential dread.
She nodded and smiled weakly, hoping that would entice him to move on. It worked; he continued, slipping through the aisles to Lottie’s desk, where she scrawled Ignis repeatedly across the page faster than the uncatalyzed glyph could even disappear.
Had they made a mistake when they’d chosen Audra? Was she not truly fae, would no magic awaken within her? If that was so, she might as well give up now—she would be found out soon enough, carted off immediately to the front lines, ultimately executed—but no. No.
Out of every person of an age with her in Salt Hollow, she was the only one chosen.
That bastard Vrenn had scented her fae lineage from across the inn.
Vrenn claimed it to be so potent, they hadn’t had to bleed her to confirm.
For many others, their lineage had been uncertain, outweighed by their human blood.
The Zenaidans had cut them until their blood welled—some had had to let it drip into a vial spelled to identify fae blood. She’d seen their wounds, now scars.
If she’d been deemed completely human, she would have been among the lucky few freed to return to her former life.
She wouldn’t be trapped, enduring this macabre academy, where the threat of death accompanied every failure.
But she bore no testing scars; latent magical abilities awaited within her fae blood.
Which meant she would be able to fucking do this.
She studied the incra on the slate board.
She could do this.