The Phoenix Quill.

Arwyn couldn’t stop thinking about it for the rest of the day. Ever since, he couldn’t let go of the diary.

He read a short passage, from a blurred out page of the first generation.

The objects you make consume your Passion Energy. How much it consumes depends on three things. Size, Strength, and Value.

The next day, Arwyn tried to draw something, while Nathaniel had done chores on the whole house in the middle of the night.

Including sweeping, mopping, washing, wiping, everything you would expect from a housekeeper. But, he let out a god-awful sigh when he saw Arwyn’s progress.

'“You drew… a stick.”

A stick. A small stick on the table. That was all Arwyn could create from the amount of energy he had that day.

Arwyn kept up with deep breaths. “I can’t man… Damn Passion Energy…”

He gritted his teeth, staring at that… pathetic little twig on the table. His fingers felt pain from gripping the pencil too hard, but no matter how much he tried, nothing else would come.

Nothing stronger. Nothing better. Weak.

“This is bullshit,” he muttered.

But Nathaniel laughed. “A stick’s… good enough. I’ve seen worse.” He snatched the diary out of his hands, flipping the book to a specific page. It was practically a grimoire. “Here. I’ll recite this one for you.”

“When the First Sketcher’s hands grew heavy with despair,

their creations dulled to ash, their passion choked by airless nights,

they carved a quill from the heartwood of an oak that witnessed stars.

But it was not the wood that gave it power. It was the fire.

They held it to the pyre of their greatest failure,

watched the flames lick its feathers to cinders,

and from the smoke rose a truth:

‘To create anew, you must first let the old burn.’

The quill, reborn in embers, scorched their palm as they sketched.

Its ink was not ink, it was light. Its lines not lines, they were veins.

And so the Phoenix Quill was born:

not a tool, but a covenant.

It does not grant strength.

It demands you earn your rebirth.”

Nathaniel snapped the diary shut. The echo of his voice and the passage spread like smoke. “Your stick?” He nodded at Arwyn’s crude sketch. “That’s your pyre. Burn it.”

Arwyn frowned. “It’s… a stick.”

“And a phoenix is just a bird,” Nathaniel said, tossing him a match. “Till it’s not.”

He gazed at the match.

Fire.

Something about it made his chest tighten.

Burn it.

Was he even ready for that?

With a deep sigh, of either fear or acceptance, he lit it up with the matchbox. The fire let out a path of smoke that flew upwards. He picked up the stick, and without another word–

–It burned. Slowly, steadily.

Seconds of burning, like it intentionally wanted suspense. Arwyn stared at the remains or ash.

And he waited, for revelation, for a spark. For anything.

…

…

"Well?" Nathaniel leaned against the table, arms crossed. "Feel enlightened yet?"

"No," Arwyn muttered. "Just… tired."

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

But as the last ember disappeared, a searing heat flared in his palm, sizzling like something’s cooking on it. He hissed, jerking back.

And there, now embedded, etched into his skin, glowed a single feather-shaped mark. It pulsed like a heartbeat, matching his own. A golden light threaded his veins.

"What the hell—?!"

Nathaniel’s smirk faded. "Huh. Didn’t think you’d actually ignite it."

He grabbed Arwyn’s wrist, studying the mark. "First Sketchers branded their apprentices like cattle. Consider it a… hm… a receipt. Proof you’re willing to burn."

"You didn’t mention branding!" Arwyn exclaimed.

"Would you have done it if I had?"

The mark throbbed. The heat sank deeper, pulling, like a steel hook lodged in his ribs. He doubled over, gasping in genuine pain.

“AHHH!! IT FUCKING BURNS!”

"Breathe, kid," Nathaniel said, no longer joking. "The Quill’s covenant isn’t free. It takes before it gives."

And visions flickered… It flickered behind Arwyn’s eyes.

A towering oak, its branches reaching at a starless, black sky. It was Marco and Arlene’s tree. His parents’.

And a phoenix. Wings ablaze, diving into ink-black waters.

And a hand–his hand, sketching a quill that shone light instead of shadow.

When the pain slightly faded, he was on his trembling knees, and sweat dripped onto the diary’s open pages. The feather mark had dulled to a scar.

"What… was that?" Arwyn rasped.

"A down payment," Nathaniel said, throwing him a bandage. "The Quill doesn’t care about your mommy issues or your daddy’s sad paintings. It wants proof you’ll rise from your own ashes. Today? You paid interest."

Arwyn held his own hand. The scar still ached, but his sketchbook resounded. There was a low, resonant frequency he hadn’t felt before.

"So… it’s done? I ‘earned’ it?"

Nathaniel barked a laugh. "Kid, you just lit a match in a forest. Now the whole damn world knows you’re flammable."

“What world–”

Nathaniel interrupted. “Shh.”

Outside, the wind howled. Somewhere in the distance, a street lamp flickered—then died.

Silence.

…

…

"Erasure," Nathaniel muttered. "They’re drawn to fresh burns. Congratulations, Arwyn. Homework’s early."

Arwyn stared at the scar, then at his sketchbook. The pages felt lighter, hungry, as if it craved more sketches. "How do I fight it?"

"Same way you fight everything," Nathaniel said, tossing him a pencil. "Start small. But this time…" He tapped the feather scar.

"Mean it."

The light inside flickered. It made a path, signaling them to fight outside. And so, Arwyn followed.

Outside, it was completely silent. The only source of light being the lamppost, though it went off. The Erasure lunged from the shadows, like a humanoid smear of static and ink. And its limbs elongated like stretched film strips. His mind went back to what he read.

Size, Strength, Value.

'Think.'

Arwyn backpedaled into the street, sketchbook already open.

Small. Fast. Mean it.

"Make a move, kid!" Nathaniel barked from the porch, sipping coffee like this was a morning stroll. “Don’t just back off! You committed!”

'Fine then.'

He drew. Line, one more. And with a slam–

–a stick. But a long one. A makeshift bo staff.

Nathaniel’s eyes widened, and his lips tugged on a smirk.

The Erasure’s arm snapped forward, a whip of glitching ink. Arwyn swung the staff blindly–

Crack!

The wood shuddered as it collided with the creature’s jaw. The recoil numbed his hands, but the Erasure staggered, missing a hand as its form flickered.

"Not bad!" Nathaniel yelled. "Now stop treating it like a fucking piñata!"

The creature lunged again, limbs contorting to blades. Arwyn ducked, rolling behind a parked car. His pencil flew across a fresh page.

A crude spring coiled beneath the asphalt.

"Eat shit," he hissed, slamming the sketch.

Crrrang!

The ground erupted, launching the Erasure into a streetlamp. The metal pole bent on impact, sparks raining down.

"Pffff. This showoff," Nathaniel muttered, though his smirk widened.

But the Erasure writhed, its form destabilized. Arwyn charged, broken staff raised. Although the creature melted, a black puddle surged toward his feet. The black color spoke of risk and danger.

"Shit—!"

He leapt onto a dumpster, sketching frantically.

A funnel, a matchstick, a gas can. Anything.

"Too slow, kid!" Nathaniel barked. "Use what you’ve got!"

Arwyn glanced at the staff in his hand.

The stick. The phoenix’s pyre.

"…Burn it," he muttered.

He snapped the staff over his knee and lit the splintered end with Nathaniel’s match. Fire. Blue-gold and hungry. The staff never burned, but held the flame.

“Hey,” Arwyn sarcastically whispered. He lobbed the flaming stick into the ink-puddle. “Catch!”

Ngaaaaahhh!!!

The Erasure’s scream split the air as flames devoured its form. Its remains were just ash.

But Arwyn dropped to the pavement, chest heaving, the feather scar on his palm throbbing like a second heartbeat.

“D-Damn…” Pain shot through his whole body.

Nathaniel strolled over, crunching the Erasure’s charred remains under his leather boot. "Dramatic. Reckless. Stupid."

He tossed Arwyn a half-melted chocolate bar, and with an amusing chuckle, he said. "You’re learning. Fire as a form of light to counter that idiot? Unique."

Arwyn glared, but his hands shook. From adrenaline, not fear. "Did I… earn it this time?"

"Nah." Nathaniel nodded at the scorched street. "You just pissed off its bigger brothers."

“But. I could tell you this.” Nathaniel offered a hand to Arwyn’s tired form. “You’ve powered up.”

As he helped Arwyn up, Nathaniel patted his hand on his shoulder. He closed his eyes, processing the levels of Arwyn’s power. It was one of Nathaniel’s abilities as a strong sketch made by the first Delacroix Ancestor.

Passion Energy… Measured by Poules… 1539 Poules.

Nathaniel nodded approvingly, slightly surprised by his improvement. The last time he checked his levels secretly was when he first met him.

He only had around five hundred poules of Passion Energy. A day later, it tripled.

Most of the Delacroix’s generation could only reach around a thousand poules in terms of learning about the ability that they inherited, but when you add another half-thousand, one becomes more exceptional.

One reason for his undeniably high Passion Energy was probably due to Arwyn’s undying passion for drawing his made-up models of weapons and such.

It was like his imagination was working out as he sketched more and more, leading to a smoother path in gaining Passion Energy. Sort of a head start.

“1500 poules huh? Not bad.”

Arwyn was on the verge of passing out. He turned his lips to a smirk before he did. “That’s… pretty nice.”

Then…

He fainted, and Nathaniel laughed. “So I do have to drag your ass back huh? Fucking hell.”

The moon was at its peak. The atmosphere never changed, except for the crickets’ chirping that barely broke the silence and the lampposts turning back on. Arwyn, despite not having any wounds or bruises whatsoever, stayed fainted.

And… Nathaniel did indeed drag him back to his room.