Laws are made to be broken.
Paraphrased Douglas MacArthur (1880–1964)
Mireille was sweating heavily in the late summer sun. She had been standing in line for nearly an hour without shade, and her hair was plastered to her neck and face. She had the sneaking suspicion it was a belated fitness test- whoever fell was taken away. Noone came back after that.
At least she had been fed this morning. She had been hungry for a long time, and now she cursed herself for indulging and felt a bit queasy. The heat was not helping.
The dusty expanse of the barracks training field was nearly empty save for the around forty young people waiting in line.
The city of Saintscrossing was dimly visible behind the brick walls and the smoke of many chimneys. The administration and bunkhouses were made of the same ubiquitous red bricks. Flags showing their allegiance to Rivenlorn and the city hung limply in the absence of a breeze. It had been hot for days now, and the ground was dry and dusty.
An area shaded by dirty grey sailcloth had been erected to the side. A wooden block with the surface of perhaps a square meter rested between the resting area and a pavilion made of faded dark blue fabric.
Beneath the shade of said fabric rested a withered old man in an aged brocade robe sitting in a posture that radiated disinterest while absentmindedly stroking his grey beard. Several soldiers stood between him and the waiting applicants. A brazier burning without coal made of wrought iron and inscribed with twisting symbols sat beside the wooden block. A robed young man in the attire of an apprentice magus sweated in the sun, his dark hair pasted to his brows. He was standing in easy reach of the brazier and, after blotting a bit of sweat with a used-looking handkerchief, looked towards the old wizard.
The first person in line was a big youth with ash-blond hair in the attire of a stablehand or perhaps a farmer. After a brusk nod from one of the soldiers, he knelt on the wooden block. Another soldier gave him a bit of knotted rope, motioning him to bite down on it.
The apprentice looked toward his master for confirmation.
The Magus was seated comfortably on an ornately carved, slightly scuffed wooden throne. Rheumy eyes, which nevertheless held a sharp glint, measured the blonde, and then he nodded. Liver-spotted hands deftly wove motes of witch-light into arcane symbols, which resonated with the runes on the darksteel brand glowing in the brazier.
The apprentice grabbed the handle with thick gloves protecting his hands and then pressed the complicated rune, glowing a dark yellow, into the meaty right upper arm.
This elicited a pained scream followed by quick gasps muffled by the rope. The brand was then put back into the brazier, taking along a healthy portion of smoking skin. The blonde promptly fainted. Two burly soldiers took him and dragged him to the side under the shade of the sailcloth. An older servant woman then put him on a blanket between what seemed to be around a dozen unconscious younger people. Some of whom were softly groaning in pain. The brand that had been glowing on his arm slowly dimmed.
Mireille was increasingly coming to doubt her decision and thought back to what started all of this.
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"Be a branded caster and enjoy a privileged life defending your nation, your family, and friends from the northern fiends!" "Free meal and lodging! A grant of land if you extend your tour to twenty Years!" "Get your aptitude tested today!" "One gold signing bonus for the first hundred who qualify!"
The young woman stood with a small crowd on the plaza in front of the town administration. The crier was garbed in the colors of Saintscrossing with a tabard designating his affiliation with the local baron.
She was nearly faint from hunger and had some difficulties thinking about what she knew of the whole procedure. Not everyone had an aptitude for magic, the gift of Jaros, the god of mysteries and the watcher on the threshold to the distant dark. Most people were able to learn simple spells like lighting a fire or making a bit of water or earth float, learning a few potent words by rote if not understanding.
But this was far from enough to endanger a trained fighter. Humans are more known to have some very proficient outliers regarding magicians than for a general aptitude, but then came Andreas Sonnenborn, fifth son of such and such (she forgot), who codified the technique of branding.
By application of a magical brand, the magic inside a person was focused on one to three spells, then inscribed in flesh. Without much training, the branded could then focus on a few potent attack spells- or supportive ones, for that matter- but never again anything else. The brand substituting for whatever potential abilities the person would have otherwise had. The more complicated the brand, the more it took out of the branded. Some attributed his work to older forbidden research done by an exiled tribe of elves, but those were hardly credible.
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With the advent of magical support troops, humanity became a full contender against the more powerful but less populous elder races and the more dangerous magical beasts.
Making those brands was a well-kept secret; they were always in short supply and needed a trained mage. The war with the icy nation of Ulsolm north of the confederacy seemed to be gaining momentum. Horror stories were told about ice-witches and necromancy.
It was something people loved to talk about. The presence of branded gave both hope and the feeling that they could be the next Asander Everbright and a hero to the masses.
Boys- and girls, she added in her head- were often seen playing Signed and monsters. The Signed being the most prestigious or at least most well-known branded.
"What about the young lady in the third row?! You look like you could use a good meal. How about it- get tested and have a bite to eat." Her thoughts interrupted, she looked at the crier and then tentatively pointed at herself. "Yes, you, come here, don't be shy!" He got down from the platform and went to a table. And with a few uncertain steps, Mireille went towards the table and the smell of freshly baked bread. "What is your name, young lady?"
“Mireille Annirstochter.”
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"Next!" She heaved a sigh focusing on the present, and saw with a bit of surprise that while she was reminiscing, only three people remained between her and the block. Now she worried about what her parents would think. They often scolded her for being scrawny- she preferred petite- and useless for all sorts of manual labor- she liked delicate.
'Is it my damn fault they did not feed me like my brothers?' Standing 1,6 m tall and being on the scrawny side of thin, she had fiery red hair, courtesy of her mother, and a myriad of freckles around light grey-green eyes.
A burly woman in her early twenties in peasants garb knelt, and the Magus wove his magic. Mireille felt her teeth aching, and a taste like metal spread through her mouth, causing her to swallow involuntarily.
The apprentice took one of the brands and forced it against her right biceps. The glow flowed into the scar and lit the flesh from within. But it did not stop there; steam curled out of her nostrils and ears while she helplessly grasped at her chest. Desperately thrashing about while her clothing began to smolder and flames burst into life. The sickly smell of burning hair and meat hung in the air while one soldier tried to extinguish the fire, and the other was retching while backing away.
The Magus rose unsteadily from his seat and uttered a few harsh syllables. Blue-black glyphs flared around his hand and gave life to a flower of water. Streams of liquid twisted and rose around his right arm, extinguishing the flames with a loud hiss.
The woman was lifeless by then, her eyes broken and yellowed like poached eggs. Smoke curled in the still air. "Hurry up, take her away. Her soul was flawed."
The old man looked at the now shaken-looking apprentice. "The brand forms the necessary Sigils for the spell out of the soul of the branded one. If the soul is flawed, it can and will break. She would not have had a long life anyway. Tsk." He gave his pupil a slap against his lowered head. "It always happens at least a few times. Get used to it. Perhaps we should have a talk with the assessor." The last was said nearly too soft to hear.
Gesturing to the rest of the guards, he called, "Keep an eye on our recruits, will you? We don't want any getting lost now, would we."
An older, lanky boy in his late teens with a weasely sort of face took a few hasty steps and then took off running towards the entrance. "That is not what I signed up for! I will not let you kill me!"
"Desertion in times of war. Sergeant, take care of him."
An older soldier in somewhat more comprehensive chain armor (most wore leather clothing sewn with some metal plates) nodded towards the Magus and then called. "Stop him and throw him into the stockade." Murmuring afterward, "He will get his wish, but he will not be thankful." Spitting derisively, he eyed the rest of the future branded darkly. "Are there any other cowards among you? The brands are only good for a certain number of Sigils; we don't waste any. You are the only ones in this County who are talented enough. Don't think for a moment that you will have an easier time as a common soldier."
Four boys and three girls did not want anything to do with it. Mireille was sure the rest was sorely tempted. The sergeant and his soldiers seemed to appreciate this, and their demeanor became a tad more friendly. And then it was her turn.
"Kneel on the block." Dubiously eyeing the two indentures where countless people left their mark on the cheap wood, she finally knelt down. The rope the soldier handed her with a slight grin was still damp from the girl before her. Keeping her disgust in check, she fit it between her teeth. The apprentice- she heard one soldier calling him Jeremiah- looked at the Magus, who showed marginally more interest in her. "You were the one with affinities for fire and wind magic, mmh." He mentioned towards one old rod of whitish metal. "Take this one for her. My responsibility." The slightly malicious grin marring his stern features did nothing to alleviate her worries. 'I got no choice, can as well be brave.' Biting into the damp rope, she nevertheless looked at the white metal glowing with a searing white-yellow glow. The complicated symbol made up of three separate parts resonated strangely with something inside her, letting her feel as if she was simultaneously tingly and light.
Then Jeremiah pushed the rod against her arm, and the pain made everything go white, pain like nothing she had experienced before, somehow going inside and through her, making her nearly lose consciousness. There was a twisting sensation as all she was and all she could be was formed into spirals and knots.
Hyperventilating after a suppressed scream, she came to like a swimmer drifting in the deep, slowly gaining towards the surface of a deep lake. Lightning played between her teeth and on her hands, simultaneously scorching her and cramping her muscles. Then it was over. The soldiers hesitated for a moment and then grabbed her by the arms dragging her towards the resting area. In a daze, she saw the Magus giving her a half-smile in parting.
Then the heavyset servant woman took over and helped her towards a free blanket.
'Seems like the turnout was less than expected' with this inane thought, she succumbed to the dizziness and pain and knew no more.