Chapter 33: The Archon.

The pressure came as soon as the door opened. It was vast, and it pressed down on me from every direction at once. My marks flared beneath the sleeves without my permission. The Cradle and the Requiem stirred. I even thought I felt the egg pulse, once.

My knees almost buckled. Almost. I locked them in place and set my jaw. Ash had gone rigid beside me, her hand white on the hilt of her sword. Then, as quickly as it had come, the pressure vanished. The room beyond was not what I had expected.

The room was large, but not grand. It’s walls were the same stone as the corridor, lined with shelves that held more books and scrolls than I could count at a glance. A wide desk sat near the far wall, buried under papers. There were no banners, no insignias, no throne of any kind. There was hardly any ornamentation at all, save for a single portrait. A single large window behind the desk let in the afternoon light, and dust motes drifted through it lazily. The first thing I noticed was the man behind the desk. He was old.

His hair was white and thin, combed back from a lined face. His robes were a plain dark grey, with none of the silver threading the Inker wore. He was writing something when the doors opened. He finished before he looked up. This was the Archon. The man the Inker had spoken of with open reverence, the one who could supposedly unmake a village without lifting a hand. He looked like a man with one foot already in the grave.

The Inker knelt on one knee before the desk, his head bowed. When Ash and I did not follow, I felt the Inker’s gaze on us from below. He said nothing. The man had been oddly well-behaved since we’d entered the city. No doubt thanks to the promises we’d made him.

“Rise, Aldric.” The Archon’s voice was calm and unhurried. He set down his pen and regarded us over the Inker’s bowed head. “And do bring them in.”

Aldric -I had completely forgotten his name until now- rose and stepped to one side. He gestured at us, stiffly and without a word. We stepped inside. The doors closed behind us, though nobody moved to close them. “They are…unconventional, Your Eminence,” Aldric said. It was perhaps the first time I hadn’t read something in the man’s tone. “But their marks speak for themselves.”

The Archon did not respond to this. He studied us for a moment, then inclined his head toward the space before his desk. If this was some strange invitation to sit, then it was a poor one. There were no chairs on our side. I did not move. Ash shifted beside me. I could see her body begin to lower into a bow. She was halfway down when the old man raised a hand.

“You both may stand.” The Archon’s tone did not change. “I do not care much for formalities, unlike our dear Aldric here.”

The Inker shifted. I allowed myself the faintest smile. The Archon rose from his desk and came around to the front of it. He moved slowly, though I did not think it was from frailty.

That was when I saw his right arm and it stopped me cold. It looked like a sphere collapsing inward, with black lines curving towards the center. Even as I watched, the sphere slowly rotated. I had known the man would have a Rune, of course. It surprised me anyway.

The Archon noticed my gaze and did not seem bothered by it. He clasped his hands together, the glowing mark disappearing behind his fingers. “Aldric has told me much,” the Archon said, his gaze moving between Ash and me, “but I prefer introductions to come from the source. What are your names?”

“Ash,” the Hero said. Her voice was steady, though her posture remained rigid.

“Lys….” I paused for a heartbeat. “You may call me Lysanthia,” I said.

The Archon paused. It was a silence that stretched for one heartbeat, then two. Then the odd expression was gone as surely as if it had never come. “I must confess,” he said, and his eyes moved between Ash and me, “that when Aldric brought me his report, I could not quite believe it. Two women, found in a village, bearing Sovereign marks. Two women with…strange gaps in their knowledge. I thought perhaps the boy had gotten excited. It would not have been the first time. But now I am seeing for myself.” The old man’s gaze settled on Ash first, then on me. “May I see your marks?”

Ash hesitated. Her jaw worked, just slightly, then she extended both arms. The two marks sat there against her skin. The Archon leaned close. He studied them for some time, and made a nodding gesture after a few seconds. Then he straightened and turned to me.

I did not move. “Lys,” Ash said quietly.

I held the old man’s gaze. The silence stretched long enough that Aldric shifted his weight behind us, though the Inker wisely held his tongue. “I do not show what is mine on command,” I said.

The room changed. The pressure returned. It settled on my shoulders first, then my spine, then my knees. My legs folded beneath me and I hit the stone floor hard. The indignity of it burned like acid in my throat. The mark on the Archon’s right arm glowed in the light. The sphere, collapsing inward. Lines pulling toward a center. Now I understood what it was, because I could feel it. It was the power of Gravity.

I fought it. My mana surged against the weight and it accomplished nothing. I who had shattered and broken so much, could not shatter this. Ash had dropped to one knee. Whether by choice or by force, I could not tell. Her face was tight and pale. The pressure eased, slowly. The glow on the Archon’s arm dimmed. “Will you listen now?” he asked.

I rose. It took longer than it should have. My legs shook and I locked them straight before anyone could see, though I suspected the old man already had. It took me a second to unclench my hands, and longer still to unclench my jaw. It was a wonder my teeth hadn’t turned to dust.

I adjusted the satchel on my arm, and then I pulled back my sleeves. The two Lines sat against my skin. The Requiem on my right, a stroke of black. The Cradle on my left, white and faintly luminous. The Archon stepped close. His eyes moved over the black Line first, then the white. He studied them for a long time. Longer than he had studied Ash’s.

“So it is true,” he said softly. He straightened and took a step back. “Three Sovereign marks from one village, and two of them are on the same bearer.” He looked between us. “I have served in this position for forty-one years. In all that time, this academy has produced exactly two Sovereign marks. Now three more walk through my door in the same afternoon.” He paused. “Not only that, but you have gone past the Spark already. That is commendable progress.”

“It was not so difficult as you make it sound.” I snapped. The taste of copper was sharp in my mouth, and I had to slowly force my hands to unclench again. “We simply have talent.”

“It is not a matter of talent.” He said, apparently ignoring my tone altogether. “You would need to feed your Sparks Essence and much of it. With just mana…it would take most months, even if they were talented.” His voice trailed off, and then his gaze lingered on me. On my horns. “It is rare for a half-demon to take the Ink at all,” he said. Something moved behind his eyes, something I could not read. It was not contempt.

He stepped back and settled himself against the edge of his desk. “I imagine,” he said, “that neither of you fully understand what Consecration is or what it means.” As he said this, he cast a glance at the Inker, who had the grace to look away.

I braced myself. I had always disliked priests, whether my own or the enemy’s. Not because of their power alone, though many had been formidable. It was because their self-righteousness led them to places reason never could. I could only wonder where this Archon meant to lead us now.

“This Academy takes students from the entire province of Koralith,” the Archon began. “They apply, and then they are tested through a series of…examinations. If they pass, they are admitted and given a place to train, and in time, they go out into the world. This is the normal path, and it is the path most of the faces you saw on your way here are walking.” He paused. “Consecration is not that path.”

He looked between us. “Consecration is a separate…path. A small one. At any given time, there are perhaps five or six Consecrated students within these walls. Right now, there are five. Consecrated students are recruited, not admitted. They are chosen for potential that needs no testing. Any Sovereign mark is well above the standard for that.”

“And what does this Consecration mean for us then?” Ash asked before I could.

“It means certain privileges,” the Archon said. “You may choose which classes you attend, provided they are appropriate to the nature of your marks. You may not attend them at all, if you wish. You will have priority access to training grounds and resonance chambers. You will not be bound to the same schedule as the other students.” He raised a finger. “If you show further promise…I will provide direct instruction. If you reach the Sigil, at least.” He let those words settle. I watched his face. If this was a chain, then it had far more slack than I had expected. There would be a cost, there always was.

“In exchange,” the Archon continued, as if reading my thoughts, “you represent the Academy’s investment. You will be expected to train seriously. To advance, and when you reach Sigil, at least, to give of yourself to the world in whatever way your talents demand.” He folded his hands. “This service can and will take many shapes. It can take the shape of fighting beasts. Sometimes you might take quests that the Adventurer’s Guild cannot. Perhaps you might mediate disputes, and more besides. You will represent the Academy and the Covenant everywhere you go.”

It was a cleaner offer than I had expected. Less fanatical, and less binding. And yet the shape of it was familiar. An offer too good to refuse, from a man too powerful to deny. I had made such offers myself. There was always a catch. Isabelle had said as much. “Do you both understand everything I have said?” The Archon asked, glancing between us.

“Yes,” Ash said. I said nothing. The Archon did not seem to mind this.

The Archon moved to the door and spoke a few words to someone outside. There hadn’t been anyone outside, when we’d first come. Not five minutes later, did a servant entered carrying three trays -they had bread, dried fruit, and a pitcher of water. The servant set it on the edge of the desk without looking at us and left. “Eat,” the Archon said. “You have been on the road for some time, and I suspect this conversation will take a while longer. You too, Aldric.”

I did not wish to accept food from this man. My stomach had a different opinion. I took the bread. It was not Martha’s, but it was warm. Ash reached for the water. Even the Inker reluctantly partook. The afternoon light through the window had shifted since we’d entered, the angle of it creeping further across the floor.

The Archon returned to his desk, idly writing while we ate. A maid came soon after, collecting the trays and left. The Archon had given no sign, yet she appeared right as our trays emptied. Only when she was gone, did the Archon acknowledge us again. “Now…Aldric’s report mentioned certain…incidents on the road.” I did not need to turn to know that the Inker had stiffened at this. “I would like to hear them from the two of you.”

And so we told him of the attack, or rather, a version of it. Ash was the one who spoke for most of it. I only answered the odd question the Archon framed at me. In our version, the Inker was brave, and the defense of our camp was both efficient and effective. We did not get separated, and this Aldric made sure we didn’t lose a single strand of hair.

Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

The Inn incident was similar. Resolved quickly and bloodlessly thanks to the man’s fast judgement. The occasional words I shared did taste foul. Ash seemed to take to this better than I had expected of a Hero. Though, I had learned there was far more to her than the Class.

The account took longer than I had expected. The Archon asked few questions, but the ones he did ask were precise, and each one drew more detail from Ash than the last. The light through the window had deepened from gold, and the shadows in the room had grown long.

This was the agreement, and Ash and I honored it. The Archon listened without interruption. His gaze moved to Aldric, who had the good sense to bow his head slightly rather than preen. Still, the man could not keep the wide smile off of his face. “I see,” the Archon said. “It seems Aldric has done and learned much. That is good.” His gaze turned towards the man. “Perhaps the Academy would be stronger to have you closer to home.”

The Inker froze. He raised himself up, then bowed his head all over again. “Thank you. I will serve in whatever capacity I may!” It was a wonder he didn’t fall over himself in his groveling.

“Now then,” The Archon said, turning from him to us again. “There is one condition of your Consecration that I have not yet mentioned, and it is not negotiable.”

He moved and reached beneath his desk and produced a wooden box. It was plain. He opened it and set it before us. Inside sat three bracers. They were thin, barely thicker than leather, and darker. The material was something I did not recognize. It had an odd sheen to it. “You will wear these,” the Archon said. “At all times, while within the Academy and within Koralis itself. You will not take these off, until I allow you to.”

I stared at the bracers. “Why?”

“Because your Sovereign marks will attract attention,” the Archon said, “of a kind that is…inconvenient, both to yourselves and this institution as a whole. Three new Sovereign marks under one roof would draw every ambitious eye in the world. The ones we have already draw enough eyes. Some of those eyes belong to people I would prefer not to deal with, and some belong to people you would prefer not to meet.”

He picked up one of the bracers and held it out. “You place it on your forearm and channel a small amount of power through it. The bracer bonds to the skin. It becomes invisible to the eye. More importantly, it changes the color of the marks beneath it.” He paused.

“The color?” Ash asked. “There’s a way to tell?”

The Archon paused, glanced over at the Inker, then back at us. “I see there were still some…gaps in what you’ve been told. Yes, you can tell Sovereigns from other marks. Black and white marks are always Sovereign. This is not well known, but the right people might see.”

That did answer much. It did not make this any less bitter. I did not take the bracer. “You are asking me to hide what I am.”

“I am telling you that it is necessary.”

“You ask me to wear a disguise.” The words came out sharper than I intended. I did not know why. I understood the sense in wearing these devices. Yet the voice had come out sharp anyway. Something inside me tightened.

“Lys.” Ash’s voice was quiet. I turned and found her watching me. She did not say anything. I took the bracers.

There were two for me and one for Ash. I placed the first over my right forearm, over the Requiem’s black Line. I channeled mana through it. The metal warmed, and then seemed to sink into my skin. It vanished. Where the black Line had been, a red one sat in its place. The illusion was rather seamless.

I placed the second over my left forearm. The Cradle’s white Line disappeared beneath it, and in its place was a green Line. I stared at my arms. A stranger’s marks stared back.

Ash fitted hers more quietly. The black Sever Line on her left arm shifted to red. Her purple Veil Spark remained on the other arm, unchanged.

“Under no circumstances,” the Archon said,”are either of you to reveal the nature of your marks to anyone within these walls. Not to students. Not to faculty. Not to friends you may make.” He held my gaze. “Is that understood?”

“Yes,” Ash said.