Act 1 - Arc 1 - Chapter 4

Foil dreamed.

Foil, five years old, stared as his home burned. He was frozen in place, forced to witness the destruction of his safety and innocence. He didn’t cry.

Foil, terrified beyond comprehension, hid under a wagon next to Cynthia. They watched countless metal boots march in unison. They heard the slaughter of the entire city. Foil closed his eyes so he didn’t have to watch anymore.

Foil, pulled by Cynthia’s hand, ran out of the burning street into the rain-soaked fields of wheat. The plants were taller than both of them. Foil didn’t know where they were going, but he could hear the sounds of men pursuing them.

Foil, standing with Cynthia at the edge of a massive whirlpool that was once their lake. A dark vortex in the center swirled waves against the lashing storm. Foil wasn’t careful enough, and he fell into the pull. Cynthia tried to save him, but he dragged her in, too.

Foil and Cynthia, beaten and battered by the weight of water. Their strength ran out, and they were dragged under the tide. Foil couldn’t breathe, and his world faded to black.

Foil woke up.

He stretched, slowly, content under the warm sun, and blinked his eyes open into the sunlight. The sky was cloudless, a beautiful and pure cerulean. The sun had passed its zenith and was lazily arcing towards the horizon. The lone tall tree in the pavilion provided some much appreciated shade, allowing its denizens to look down the soft hills surrounded by Academy buildings. The massive tree was a foreign species, with a trunk at least 10 feet in diameter and stretching hundreds of feet into the sky. It grew so tall that it seemed to onlookers that it was attempting to reach Elysium itself.

Foil placed one hand on the dark, rough bark and pushed himself into a sitting position. He rubbed his eyes and absentmindedly scratched at his chest; it ached, for some reason.

What strange dreams, he thought. The usual nightmares weren’t unexpected, but there was something else he’d experienced. In the fleeting moments where, upon waking, memories of dreams are fragmented and drift away, Foil tried to grasp at the memory of fighting and dying. But he let it go. He had more important things to concern himself with. Based on the sun’s angle, he had almost certainly overslept past his two classes of the day. That didn’t bother him so much as it probably should have. The final Expeditionary Exam had concluded, and Foil was confident he had done well. The looming presence of Assignment now occupied his mind.

Still, Foil thought about his commitments with a pang of guilt. He would place in a high-performing Keyseeker squad regardless of any future failings, but he needed to perform beyond all expectations in order to bring Cynthia with him. His restful mood quickly eroded into stress, and he stood and stretched again. If it was near sixth-chimes, the senior Academy class should soon be entering the training grounds to practice sparring. Foil began down one of the footpaths leading up the large central hill. His mood had become pensive. He very much enjoyed sparring, and conflict of most kinds, but ever since the Academy has announced each student’s Aspects, few had wanted to be near enough to him to be his opponent.

Foil pointed himself towards a thin, tall building with a gabled roof. Few of the buildings in the Academy were similar (since they received their eclectic building materials from their Rift) which made offices and destinations easy to locate. The Academy was made up of four circles touching each other at one point to form a clover-shaped campus with a gap in the center. Each “plot” was dedicated completely to the four virtues of the Academy: The Self, The Soul, The World, and The Other. It was, mostly, empty platitudes and in practice designated the different training grounds for physical fights, Essence development, mental acuity, and strategic lessons, respectively.

Foil had been napping in the Eastern plot (the plot of The Soul), which meant that in order to reach the Western plot (the plot of The Other) it was fastest to travel through the center of the clover occupied by a twisted central spire that rose even higher than the ancient tree Foil had been sleeping under. The spire was a regional landmark and could be seen for miles around the Academy. Foil resented its presence, and had long since sworn to knock the entire rickety building down upon his expeditionary success. It was a permanent and looming reminder of his imprisonment in Serulea. As Foil moved westward towards the spire, he angled himself out of its branching shadow out of spite, but this caused the sun to bear down onto his face and eyes.

The spring season had ended, and summer had begun in earnest. Foil overheated quite easily, and in most cases avoided the sun when he could. But he was also stubborn, and bore the sun’s heat until he reached the inner gate blocking entry into the central pavilion. Wiping his forehead of the sweat accumulated by his war against the uncaring tower, he pushed open the massive iron-studded door to enter the cool, unlit stone hallways within. He took a moment to enjoy the drop in temperature, and decided to loop around the central pavilion using the hallways rather than cut directly through. It would lose him time, but the heat would sap more energy from him than spending extra time walking would lose.

The interior of the Academy’s walls and buildings were as varied as its facades. The Academy’s Rift was prolific, but the quantity of its output came at the cost of consistency. Few sections of infrastructure were made of the same material, let alone foundations of the same age or origin. The Builders did their best, though. Foil walked through several smooth transitions from dark stone to light metal, to rubbery wood and one piece of wall that seemed to be made of woven grass. Every piece of construction was expertly melded and intertwined so that they appeared to all be a single piece of housing extruded directly from the Rift. Foil had roamed these hallways hundreds of times, and had begun entirely ignoring the changing colors and textures long ago. He was deep in thought as he rounded the slow curve of the main hallway.

At each point where the circles touched, the walls were smoothed and angled to form two obtuse corners, which created an octagon that alternated between straight lines and inward curves. Foil rounded the northern corner blindly and collided directly with a group of three boys in studded armor. The smaller boy fell backward against the wall as the group he ran into jostled and recovered themselves. The one in front sneered.

“It’s the Leech,” he remarked. His name was Jessel, a tall, stringy boy framed by yellow hair with the texture of straw. His long bangs hung over his deep-set eyes and hooked nose as he glared down at Foil. The two boys behind Jessel were unknown to Foil, but he despised them on principle. They looked so similar as to be related, androgynous with the amount of fat puffing their faces and bodies. If they were disgusted with them for his Aspect, he was disgusted with them for their total lack of self-awareness and ability. He was stronger than them, Aspect or not, and he comforted himself with this fact.

Foil slid slowly up the wall, facing Jessel and his lackeys without looking away or turning his back. His fingers twitched; this could be nothing more than an accident diffused with an apology, but he had the distinct feeling that this was going to escalate regardless of his intentions. He began slowly popping his knuckles with his thumbs, keeping his hands to his sides but ready to react at the first sign of physical aggression. He said nothing.

His glare disconcerted the bullies, who had in all likelihood believed Foil would either flee and apologize, or escalate the encounter himself. Foil processed their reactions as he watched them; a mere few seconds had passed since he stood up, but with the blood rushing in his ears and fingers it felt like hours.

Jessel chuckled slightly, uncomfortable, looking back to his companions. They didn’t want to be the ones to start a fight, but they saw an easy target in Foil and intended to follow through.

“Why are you here, Leech?” Jessel continued. “You stayed away this morning. We nearly threw a party. But, let me guess, you’re trying to ruin the day for us by showing up to spar, right?”

Jessel was clearly probing for triggers. Foil took a breath in, quickly, and held it. He had been provoked before, but was determined to avoid the bait this time.

“Oh! You know who was really happy you were missing today? Your little fairy. We’re off to meet her now, actually. Might be the case she wants a real man to spend time with and not a little freak. I could make quite the mess of—”

Foil’s fist connected with Jessel’s nose before he could finish the sentence. He choked and stumbled backwards into his companions.

So much for not rising to the bait. Jessel recovered quickly and began drawing out his Essence with a snarl.

So much for not escalating, either.

“Damn,” Foil muttered under his breath.

Foil was stronger than the trio he now faced, true. Individually. Together they posed a serious threat, but even so Foil was more irritated than scared. He briefly considered breaking away to flee, but that would send the worst possible message. He was committed, now, and as Jessel recovered and the three boys spread to surround him against the smooth, icy wall, Foil removed his gloves. He stuffed the thin, black cloth inside his waistband and wiggled his fingers at his foes. Foil flashed them a manic, toothy grin.

“I’m a Leech, yeah?” he taunted. The pejorative didn’t bother him in the slightest. “Come on then! Show me my place. I’ll show you yours.”

They needed no more provocation. The left boy lumbered towards Foil, arms outstretched but exceedingly wary of Foil’s hands. Foil had removed his gloves purposefully for this moment, and while all three were fearful of his fingers, Foil spun to deliver a resounding heel kick to the boy’s chin. All four of them were wearing Academy uniforms: soft, loose cloth that allowed the practicing students to move freely. They were often compared to monk robes, but the flowing outer layer had been eschewed by most lately due to the hot weather. In any case, Foil’s movement was wholly hidden by the folds of his clothes, and the boy crumpled to the ground. His faux-armor was worn only across his chest and provided no protection for his face.

If Foil had been fighting against two people instead of three, there was a good chance that he could have won. But he wasn’t; and as he followed through on his kick, Jessel swept his remaining leg out from under him, and Foil fell hard. Jessel and the other boy descended upon him, raining kicks and punches at any opening. Foil managed to split Jessel’s lower lip and landed a kick to snap one of the other boy’s smaller fingers, but by the end of the fight he had taken far more than he had given out. Foil’s ribs were bruised, likely broken, his head slammed against the hard floor, and his arm wrenched out its socket. He yelped at the sharp pain and continued to thrash, but by this time the two larger boys had him pinned and were abusing the prone figure.

“STOP!” yelled a voice, clear and masculine.

The two boys immediately jumped off of Foil, allowing him to roll to his side and spit blood onto the ground. As he regained control of his ragged breathing, Foil heard the sounds of chastisement and commands before seeing in his periphery Jessel and the other boy rouse their companion and flee down the hallway. He was too disoriented to have understood any of the words, and it was a short time before he even noticed the gauntleted hand extended before his face. He grasped it, grateful for the assistance, and was lifted to his feet by the newcomer. Foil’s white uniform was dirtied and stained with blood, and Foil noticed a tear down the right sleeve. He raised his eyes to his savior, and was, not for the first or last time that day, both irritated and shamed.

The boy was thin, but tall; he nearly towered over Foil. Long ash-brown hair framed a sharp face, pointed nose, and wide, brown eyes. His smile, however, was open and genuine, and his eyes were filled with concern. Compared to Foil’s white, the boy wore robes of entirely black in reference to the Aspect most unlike Foil’s. Foil knew this boy. His name was Lance, and he was the current frontrunner for Octovincere in the cohort.

Each of the Academy’s cohort was split into eight factions based on their “vincere”, their likelihood of success (supposedly, the term came from an obscure fairy tale). There was only a single eighth-vincere, two seventh-vinceres, four sixth-levels, and so on. The lowest scoring level in each cohort had 128 members, but each class size was made up of 256 students, not the 255 that the expanding eight layers would imply. One student was exiled at each Assignment ceremony, cut off from all Academy resources and designated a persona non grata. It was the fear of all graduating expeditioners that they would be the lowest performer, and the Academy masters used the threat to keep the most unruly in line. On the other hand, the Octovincere is given leadership of the most capable cohort members (almost always seventh- and sixth-vincere students) and sent on vitally important Keyseeker expeditions.

Foil had set his sights on the Octovincere position as soon as he had understood its meaning. Though he found most of the academic classes tedious and monotonous, he had pushed himself to score highly and internalize their lessons. He fared less well in the physical classes, but extracurricular training with Cynthia had helped both of them close their respective gaps. Rankings were only posted once a year, at the end of each term, so it was often difficult to tell where one had placed. Foil had fought and clawed his way up to Hexavincere, but he had done especially well in this final year. Technically, there were two more years for most at the Academy after Assignment; children turning 18 (though there were some older and younger) were Assigned based on their performance and either split into Keyseeker teams or were integrated into the Arkanite army. Most high-performers became Keyseekers,  and stayed an additional two years to train with their new team before venturing off into the real world.

These thoughts and more flooded Foil’s addled mind as he looked up at the boy who by most counts was going to lead their cohort in a few weeks. Foil was envious, maliciously so, but it was difficult to hold Lance’s success against him. Foil had made few friends at the Academy, and whatever relationships he had managed to cultivate had been eviscerated by the reveal of his Aspect. Lance was one of the very, very few individuals that had maintained speaking terms with him, and went so far as to include him in every activity he could. Foil didn’t know if Lance was secretly harboring disdain (and of all people, an Imbuer would and should for a Conduit), but he suspected that the amiability was genuine. Worst of all, Lance had explicitly avoided all provocations to cheat in exams and in military exercises. He won honorably every time.

Foil respected Lance. More than he respected any of the Academy masters, likely more than anyone he had ever learned and fought with. Which made his current situation all the more shameful. He hung his head.

“Thank…you,” he whispered.

Lance tilted his head as he looked Foil up and down. He came to a decision.

“All right, let’s go.” He leaned down and draped Foil’s good arm over his armored shoulders.

“Go…where?”

“To the infirmary, obviously. Your shoulder is dislocated, and you probably have a concussion.”

“My chest hurts, too.”

“That’s not surprising, since you tried to hold your own against three others at the same time. What were you thinking?”

“They…deserved it.”

Lance sighed, and stopped walking. “I know. And to be honest, I may have reacted the same way. But it doesn’t matter. This is, what, the fourth fight you’ve started. This year?”

Foil felt his cheeks redden. “...they deserved it.”

“I’m sure they all did, but you really aren’t listening. Didn’t you get a ‘Final Warning’ last time? If you get exiled, what’s your plan? Where will you go?”

Even through the haze of his injuries, Lance’s words wrapped Foil’s heart in ice.

“I’m..a hex, at least. Maybe a sept. They won’t exile me.”

“No, you really aren’t, Foil. I’m serious. Passing classes and running fast aren’t the only things the masters look for when they’re Assigning people. You need to be a leader.”

He was right, of course. But Foil didn’t respond. The edges of his vision became fuzzy, and his last feeling was of Lance scooping him off the ground and carrying him into the medical ward.