Chapter 4
Chapter four
Pulling my long red waves over my shoulder, I quickly and efficiently braid them into a fishtail. It’s been too long since I last cut it, resulting in my hair now falling to mid-back.
Sleep was elusive last night, and boy, am I feeling the ramifications of it this morning.
Between staying up late the night before last to study the exam Ambrose gave me and last night’s nerves, I’m dragging ass this morning.
I have exactly one hour before I have to be seated in the orientation hall for the Asylamation written portion, and I still have to get dressed before trying to find my way there.
I wish I could say the sun is shining through the window of my temporary room, offering some kind of reprieve from the gloom-and-doom feeling sitting in my gut, but that would be a lie.
Dense fog settles over Kintoira, enveloping us in her embrace.
You can’t see shit out of the windows. It’s as if the academy is in a constant state of a Cimmerian atmosphere.
I’m pretty sure this is my new norm.
The days of running around in the sun, with my feet in the surf and toes in the sand are over. The afternoons of collecting just as many freckles across the bridge of my nose as seashells in my hands have come to an end.
Honestly, if all goes according to plan, it’s going to be a bit before I see Brylan again. I’ll miss the turf and the warm weather of home, but that’s about it.
I glance one more time at my little bed, wishing I could just hide under the covers a little longer.
Our current room is the bare minimum with two twin beds, a small wooden dresser that leans slightly to the left, and a simple standing mirror.
But after the day I had yesterday, it was paradise to walk in and see.
Walking over to the mirror, I study my reflection.
Wide, bright-green eyes stare back at me, taking in the ivory-colored prospect uniform that hangs loosely on my lithe, borderline skinny frame.
Something I’ve always been self-conscious about.
I glide my fingers over the buttons lining my shirt before tugging on the high collar that rests just below my chin.
It’s slightly suffocating, but I’m going to have to just grin and bear it.
I’ll only have to wear it the first week until I place, and then I’ll be given my regiment attire. Unfortunately, I won’t get my badass battle gear until next year, when we become captains, but putting on that Veil first-year uniform will be enough.
For now.
I asked Finnley where he wanted to place, and he said he didn’t care as long as he got to kill some wraiths. I’d be sad to see him end up on the other side, but it’s not up to us.
There was an announcement this morning over the intercoms that another attack had taken place, this time on the western border.
They’re getting bolder. The little village of Orichall, which sits along the border beside the Merch Desert, suffered heavy civilian casualties.
As I was walking back from the community showers this morning, I heard the whispers.
They’re saying it was a massacre. The military is still trying to locate all the pieces of some of the residents.
Those people didn’t stand a chance. Being a small village that sells spices and fabrics, they weren’t even on the radar for an attack. It doesn’t make any sense. It’s not spices they’re after. It also doesn’t add up that they would attack a small village with such a low population.
We’re missing something.
A good number of our forces have been stationed along the eastern and southern borders, where the wealthy towns rich in trade and bartering are located.
Brylan, where Ambrose and I grew up on the eastern coast, is heavily guarded to protect the popular trading port.
However, the majority of our force lies along the northwestern coast in Casacia, the wealthiest city in Salaryan.
Rich in all things trade, but her specialty lies in her rich mineral-infused soil.
Incredibly sought after and very, very expensive.
Also, heavily populated.
I doubt I’ll get to see it anytime soon, though, especially if I place as a Veil.
That particular city demands the most ruthless guard for her walls.
The ones with low morals and even lower scruples.
They certainly don’t make it a secret that they favor dark magic in their soldiers, and for dark magic to be used, you need Noctryns.
As far back as our history takes us, the black regiment has stood guard for that city.
The Noctryns aren’t guarding against just one enemy though, but against anything that crosses into their territory.
The wraiths have tried numerous times to overthrow the Casacians but have failed due to the black regiments’ tenacity and callousness.
And the fact that there isn’t a line they won’t cross to protect what they deem theirs.
The city has been a main target for the wraith strikes for over a century, but the attacks are becoming more frequent.
I’m assuming the growing population has a lot to do with it.
That’s a lot of energy to feed on. They have to eat, after all.
Unfortunately for us, their food is our very essence.
The fiber that makes us who we are.
Our souls.
And they aren’t picky about the flavor.
Veils may be known for their intelligence and ability to wield once they are allowed to manifest, which is just a fancy way of saying reclaiming what should have been theirs to begin with, but the Noctryns are dark in nature.
They fight with their own moral code and without regret.
They control the shadows and dark magic.
But like most things, it doesn’t come without a heavy price.
They sacrifice their manifestations to be able to do so.
There are also a few elites every generation who can fabricate any illusion they dream up. In other words, they can put you in your own living nightmare.
Where the Veils practice light magic to fight evil, the Noctryns specialize in dark magic to fight it. But in the Realms’ eye, better the devil you know than the one you don’t. Conveniently, they don’t have a problem with dark magic used by a soldier under their control.
They keep a heavy hand and an even shorter leash on the Noctryns.
The two entities might coexist, but there certainly isn’t any love lost between them. In fact, it’s a constant power struggle.
Of course, none of us will know what abilities we were born with or if we’re forfeiting them until we finish the trials and place. Then we’ll know if we’re casting the powers we manifest or if we’re offering the ultimate sacrifice and giving it all up to be able to wield darkness.
That doesn’t stop some of us from hoping for one or the other, though.
The very fact that a person wishes to wield light magic or dark magic is a pretty clear indication of where they’re going to end up. It’s a reflection of what lies within us.
Pulling the braid over my shoulder, I walk to the edge of my bed and carefully sit, drawing up my pants leg. An angry-looking cerulean-blue bruise covers my entire left knee.
I’ve had my fair share of scrapes and bruises.
It comes with the territory of living in a port town.
New people are always arriving and leaving, and more often than not, they bring their families.
Ambrose and I had a never-ending supply of new kids to play with every month, and we would always get into some kind of adventure or trouble.
Especially Ambrose, who was always determined to establish who was in charge.
That boy was always out to prove something and couldn’t walk away from a dare if he wanted to, which landed us in some precarious situations.
I straighten my knee, trying to stretch out the stiffness. The bone feels like it’s locked in place, and I’m almost positive I just heard a popping noise.
“Pretty sure that’s not good,” a chipper tone comments from behind me. “Looks like a torn meniscus to me.”
I have no idea what a meniscus is, let alone a torn one, but I’m assuming that it is, in fact, not good.
I school my features to try to hide that I have no idea what she’s talking about.
The physical portion of the trial is in two days, and last I checked, I need two working knees to get through it.
Nonchalantly, I push my pants leg back down and turn to look over my shoulder at Mallory, my new temporary roommate. She’s standing behind me, arranging her hair into a fauxhawk. The girl really can pull off any look.
“What’s a, um, torn meniscus?” I ask, pushing my pride aside.
“Basically, it means you tore your knee joint,” she replies, as if this isn’t catastrophic news to me. “You should be fine if it’s small. Try to ice it tonight and rest when you can.”
I make a mental note to look up information on torn joints during our free time, after we finish the first portion of the trials. Then the next stop is finding the medical wing. I’m going out on a limb here, no pun intended, but I’m thinking a wrap or something might be needed.
“How did you know?” I question.
Her brows pull together in confusion.
“How’d you know all that just from looking at my knee?”
She puts the last remaining touches on her hair and walks over to me, propping her hip against the dresser.
“Dad’s a healer for the regiments. He brought a lot of his work home with him, whether it be theories he was testing or actual patients who needed extra monitoring.
” She does a quick eye roll. “He’s extremely gifted.
His ability is to feel his patient’s pain.
It certainly makes it easy to pinpoint the issue, but I don’t want to follow in his footsteps. ”
Understandable. I’m not sure many people would.
I bite my lip as I try to imagine actually feeling another person’s pain.
It sounds awful.
“How did it work? Did he have to be in the same room as his patient or like actually touch them?” I ask curiously.