"We stand as the shield against the devouring night, chosen of the Blue Flame. One Truth rules all things, kindled in the heart of the Lord. Let fear be burned away, let the body return to ash, for the soul endures only through His Flame. We have fought and shall fight until duty ends, and in the purity of His Fire our rest is granted. Praise the Lord of the Blue Flame, whose judgment brings balance. - The Sentinels of the Blue Flame: Preamble, Verse I
***
11th January, 209 A.D.
Caerum
Steel crashes against steel, the sound vibrating up my arm and rattling my teeth.
I trip backwards, gasping for air. Sweat stings my eyes, distorting my sight, but I can't wipe it away. Killar never holds back. I need to be ready.
He leaps.
I twist, lifting my blunt training sword to block, but he feints low. I fall for it. His blade slams into my ribs with a gruesome thump.
I grunt as the air escapes my lungs, yet I force myself to stay upright. Bruises are already forming under my tunic, joining the collection from last week, that will surely turn purple tomorrow.
"Too slow," he hisses.
"Once more," I wheeze, tightening my grip on the sword, my knuckles turning white.
Killar strikes immediately. He is broader and filled with unbelievable strength. He doesn't spar like he wants to teach me. He spars like he wants to hurt me.
I parry a slash to my head, but his follow up kick connects to my hip. I lose my footing and crash into the frozen mud.
Silas, sitting in his creaky wooden chair by the wall speaks up. "That's enough for today."
Killar stops instantly. The cruelty in his eyes lingers.
Then the sound starts. A wet, rattling cough that tears through the alley's silence.
I struggle to my feet, trying to ignore the pain in my ribs, and rush to Silas. He is hunched over, a handkerchief pressed to his lips. When he pulls it away, bright red speckles stain the white cloth.
"Are you alright?" I ask, my hand holding his trembling shoulder. Fear coils in my stomach. He looks thinner every day. His skin is like old parchment.
"I am just getting old, Seraph," he replies, his voice rasping. He hides the handkerchief quickly, tucking the blood out of sight. "Age collects debts, and I am long overdue."
I glance toward the alley, looking for Killar, the back of his tattered coat disappears around the corner. He vanishes, like always.
He never even spares words for me, never glances back.
We should be family by now, the thought stings. We have lived together two years. We eat at the same table, yet he still hates me.
I can see it in the way he looks at me, a gaze full of disdain and a cold quiet loathing. It sends shivers down my spine, when I think about it.
I sigh and offer Silas my arm. "Let's get you inside. It's getting chilly."
He takes it, his grip weak, stumbling as he rises, his height leaning heavily on me. He pauses at the threshold, looking not at the door, but at me.
"You are getting stronger," he whispers, squeezing my arm. "But strength alone won't save you, child. The world will try to break you, when I am gone. You must be harder than the world to survive."
"Don't talk like that," I say, my voice trembling. "You aren't going anywhere."
I swallow the lump in my throat and help him into the living room, settling him into his armchair. I prepare his favourite tea, the herbal scent filling the small house. It is our routine. The roles have practically switched, now I am the one taking care of him.
I spend the majority of my time here, not leaving the alley nor the house. The outside world is dangerous, I found out the hard way.
He told me that only I and the False Prophet possess blue hair and eyes. If anyone saw me, the Sentinels would burn this house to the ground.
The thought of dyeing my eyes again, of that burning needle stabbing into my soul, freezes the blood in my veins. I would rather stay inside forever, than having to endure that pain again.
"Read the chapter five of The Royalty of Caerum," Silas murmurs, his eyes already closing, the tea untouched on the table.
"Yes, Silas," I whisper, covering him with a wool blanket. He looks peaceful when he sleeps.
Please don't leave me, I pray to the Lord of the Blue flame, hoping He is listening. You are all I have left.
I retreat to my room. The evening is mine.
I grab the cracked mirror from the washroom and prop it against the wall in my room. Then I sit on the floor, crossing my legs. The room is small, if I stretch out, my feet touch the door.
I close my eyes and reach inward.
It's always there. The hum. The cold river of fire.
I open my eyes.
In the mirror, my reflection has changed. My hair flares with ethereal blue light all the way to the roots. My eyes fully blue, glowing like sapphires in the dark room.
I embrace the sensation, letting it pull me deeper.
The world loses its colour. The brown wood of the floor, the grey stone of the walls, everything drains away into the contrasting shades of black and white.
And then, the blue sigils appear.
Glowing blue symbols etch themselves onto everything around me. The chair, the bed, the floorboards. They pulse faintly, revealing the structure of the world.
I gaze into the reflection, observing my own sigil, pulsing like a heartbeat on my chest.
Then I grab an old wooden mug from the floor and set it between me and the mirror.
I stare at the mug, now a mesh of blue lines. Focusing my eyes, the sigil slowly starts to take form. I study the pattern, the knot that holds the object together.
There. A tiny imperfection in the centre of the sigil. The weak point.
I raise my hand. Blue mist bleeds from my fingertips, coiling in the air like smoke. It is cold, freezing the moisture in the room.
...Break it...Destroy it...
The voice echoes in the back of my mind.
With all my focus, I direct the mist. It latches onto the mug's weak point.
I push and the blue mist pours into the sigil.
It simply unlinks it, like loosening a knot. I sweat as my strength leaves my body.
The sigil collapses and without a sound the mug dissolves.
I gasp, severing the connection.
My radiance vanishes and the world rushes back in colour.
I stare at the pile of dust on the floor. One small mug. That is my limit.
The False Prophet can execute a dozen men with a wave of his hand. Frustration starts rising in me as I breathe heavily. He strangles them to death, while I can barely unlink one mug.
What am I missing? What am I doing wrong? There has to be better way.
I lie back on the hard floor, staring at the ceiling, too exhausted to move. The dust of the mug settles around me, a silent testament to my slow, painful progress.
I close my eyes.
***