“Poules. Your goal will be 5000 poules by the end of the week, before the auction.”
Nathaniel spoke to Arwyn the next day. The first words Arwyn spoke to him that morning was:
“Can you teach me?”
How harsh it may be, Arwyn was determined, motivated by the Quill’s brand.
And so, for the start, he grabbed his sketchbook, waiting for his instructions. Nathaniel wasn’t just a housekeeper now. He was now a mentor. A teacher.
But his way of teaching was never traditional.
He stuck a poster of a crane at the wall in front of his view. It was intricate, detailed.
“First task. A hundred identical sketches of this crane.”
The light cast shadows on the living room, same as Arwyn’s shadowed look, kind of confused and shocked. “A hundred..?”
“Yeah. A hundred, kid. 1-0-0. Flawless, perfect to the picture. Each crane must be perfectly replicated. If I see just one single mistake, whether it be a single, small line, I will burn the whole batch.”
And Arwyn sweated, gulping in both fear and perseverance.
A hundred… perfectly identical… sketches..?
“Now, a perfect crane uses 50 poules, while a smudged one uses 5.” Nathaniel paced around the room, hands in his pockets. “When you use all of your Passion Energy, it will instead consume your actual energy. Your stamina, your blood, anything.”
Arwyn sat frozen.
“So, if you keep on failing, you’ll pass out or potentially die from this. Until you finish this first task, we’re not going anywhere, kid. You still want to do it?”
The risk of drawing till you use all of your energy. Even if he drew a hundred perfectly replicated cranes in his first batch, he’d have to use all of his Passion Energy as well as some of his own.
But the quill. The covenant.
Arwyn’s pencil hovered over the first page. The crane on the poster glared back, its wings a whole labyrinth of delicate strokes.
Fuck.
He inhaled. Steady. And began.
The first line…
Wobbly.
He didn’t even give it to Nathaniel. With pure frustration, he ripped the page to shreds and lit it up with his own match. Without a stare, he continued drawing.
And Nathaniel smiled. He expected this.
“It’s gonna be a long night for you, kid. I can sense it already.”
“Shut up.” Genuine annoyance, too focused on the drawing. But his hands betrayed him. It was trembling too much, to the point where he couldn’t even hold his pencil properly. Nathaniel once again interfered.
“The first sketch,” Nathaniel intoned, “is always the hardest.”
He slid the diary toward Arwyn. The entry glowed faintly.
“Repetition is a must.” The words of the entry pulsed like a heartbeat. Nathaniel continued. “Not because your hands are weak. Because your mind’s still screaming ‘this is pointless.’”
Arwyn scoffed. “Drawing the same stupid crane a hundred times is pointless.”
Nathaniel paced the room, hands in his pockets, the diary glowing faintly on the table. “That ‘stupid crane’ was sketched by your great-great-whatever-grandfather while his city burned. He drew 1,000 of ‘em—blindfolded, in a hurricane, while bleeding out. Then I saved his ass. Now shut up and draw.”
“Cool story,” Arwyn muttered. “Did it save his city?”
“No.” Nathaniel grinned. “But it saved him. Focus.”
'Bitch.' Arwyn thought bitterly. He then drew again.
First line. Smooth.
Second line. Smooth.
Third line.
Burned. Again.
Come on man, just a crane. Just a crane. Follow the picture. That’s it.
The lines started flowing–slow, snail-slow, but steadier. Wingtip: curved, not jagged. Beak: sharp, not blunt. It had been thirty minutes, and his progress?
Five lines.
The diary’s glow intensified as Nathaniel read aloud.
“To master repetition is to converse with eternity. Each stroke is a prayer. Each failure, a confession.”
The first, second, till the sixth. Arwyn’s cranes were starting to look more identical.
But the sixth crane dissolved into ash before the wings could form.
“This is literally eternal torture.”
This narrative has been purloined without the author's approval. Report any appearances on Amazon.
“Eternity’s kinder than what’s coming,” Nathaniel said, flipping to another entry.
“He sketched underwater, lungs bursting, until the sea itself bowed to his lines.”
“Why are you like this?” Arwyn snarled, swiping the sweat from his eyes.
“Because your mom’s murderer didn’t care if her death was poetic.” Nathaniel’s tone sharpened. “Draw. Breathe. Repeat.”
From the start. Again.
This attempt took more than 3 hours. 3 hours of pure silence, 3 hours of the pencil’s scratching. The pencil’s scratching embedded itself in his mind, echoing even when he stopped.
By the tenth crane, a personal record, Arwyn’s hands steadied, barely. The lines wavered but held.
Wingtip: Curved, not jagged.
Beak: Sharp, not blunt.
The paper hummed, the crane’s ink shimmering gold for a heartbeat…
Before Nathaniel dropped a match.
“WHAT THE HELL?!” Arwyn lunged for the sketch, but it crumbled to embers.
“Sentimentality kills,” Nathaniel said, grinding the ashes underfoot. “That one was perfect.”
“THEN WHY—?!”
“Perfect isn’t enough. Impossible is.” He tossed Arwyn a dagger. “Next crane bleeds. Your blood.”
Arwyn froze, staring at the blade. “My… blood?”
“Your blood, kid.” Nathaniel’s tone hardened.
He stared at the brand, imprinted on his hand, never fading. Then at the dagger, edges sharp and glinting. He hesitated, hands trembling once again from the pressure.
Arwyn slowly sliced his palm. It stung, but not as much as he expected. But the crimson pooled on the new, empty page. Nathaniel proceeded to a new entry for the third time.
“Her cranes flew on scarlet wings, but her veins ran dry before dawn.”
Arwyn drew as blood dripped on the page, ignoring the metallic smell and the stains of his. As he finished this crane, a blood-mixed sketch trembled. A crane, delicate, beautiful, with too many eyes…
Before Nathaniel incinerated it.
“Closer,” he admitted. “Now do it again. Faster.”
The room dimmed, shadows twitching at the edges—too sharp, too alive. A faint hum buzzed in the air, like static from a broken radio. Arwyn’s scar prickled. “What’s that?”
Nathaniel’s smirk faded, eyes flicking to the window. “Faster, kid—they’re sniffing.” He didn’t explain, didn’t need to. Arwyn’s gut twisted. Erasures.
He sliced his palm, wincing as crimson pooled on the page. The metallic tang stung his nose, mixing with sweat as he drew. Crane ten—delicate, too many eyes, trembling with his blood. Nathaniel burned it. “Closer. Again.”
Arwyn didn’t answer, just slashed deeper, drew faster. Ten became twenty, after six hours of silence, the pencil’s scratch echoing in his skull. The hum outside grew louder, a street lamp flickering off beyond the glass. Nathaniel didn’t comment, just watched, diary open.
Then–
Scratch!
The pencil scratched a part of the crane’s beak. His stomach twisted not even a second after. With a blink, almost pitiful, Nathaniel lit it all up. All those 20 flawless, impossible sketches, those six hours,
Gone.
"Do it again."
"I SWEAR TO GOD—" Arwyn nearly threw his pencil at Nathaniel’s head.
Nathaniel didn't react. Just handed him another page.
"Again."
But as Arwyn blinked for a moment, he started seeing cranes floating around his vision. The diary’s words whispered in his mind, over and over.
‘Repetition is a must.’
Nathaniel, the mentor that he was, stayed up with him. The sun was at its peak, but it still felt like a depressing evening for Arwyn. This time, it only took him around 4 hours to reach this milestone.
50 cranes. No failure, no hesitation. Halfway there.
His Passion Energy flickered. His vision swam through the empty, worn edges of the paper. Just like those worn edges, Arwyn was at the edge of sanity. His eyes were betraying him. Arwyn couldn’t even sweat anymore.
But Nathaniel didn’t let him stop.
“If you collapse, at least make it to 80 first.”
Arwyn gripped his pencil hard, but not to the point where he was careless about it. His voice was hoarse, as his sweat dried up while he was sketching.
“Fuck. You.”
Nathaniel laughed, leaning against the wall ever since he started this attempt. “Love you too, kid. Keep drawing.”
The diary pulsed brighter, gold light spilling across the page. A new passage glowed:
“At 50 cranes, the First Sketcher saw truth.”
Arwyn’s vision swam. There was a gaunt man amidst flames, brown eyes like his, sketching cranes with skeletal fingers. “Surrender,” the ancestor rasped, “or the art eats you alive.”
The vision snapped. Arwyn’s hand steadied, a faint surge buzzing in his veins. Nathaniel nodded, almost impressed. “3,000 poules, kid. Keep it tight.”
“Fuck… yeah,” Arwyn rasped, voice hoarse. Halfway felt like a lifeline.
The next batch flew—51, 52… 65. Four hours, no fails, no hesitation.
He didn’t need the poster anymore. He memorized the shade, the lines, the proportion. Damn, he didn’t even know who was drawing at that point. Was it him or was it his hand?
But he never thought that. He didn’t think as he drew. He couldn’t feel his fingers anymore, as though his touch stuck to the pencil, and not his actual hand.
Nathaniel’s voice came suddenly. He recited another passage of the diary.
“He sketched until his hands forgot their bones, until his eyes forgot their tears. When the birds flew, they carried his soul, but his body remained, like a vessel of ash. Repetition is not mastery. It is surrender. To the art. To the abyss.”
Arwyn’s pencil moved on its own now.
67, 68, 69… Each crane sharper, colder, like it was drawn by the diary’s ghostly hand. His skin had gone pallid, and the Quill-brand on his palm throbbed to black.
Sweatless. Breathless. A machine.
“Your 10th great-grandfather went mad after 1,000 cranes. Started seeing them in his soup. His dreams. His veins, even if he didn’t see ‘em.” Nathaniel paused. “But he killed an archdemon with one.”
…
…
…
Arwyn didn’t hear it. Didn’t think.
Crane 80. His vision fractured, shadows outside clawing closer, the hum now a growl. His skin went pallid, sweat gone, breath shallow. He basically was a machine.
Nathaniel stepped to the window, peering out. “They’re circling. Eighty ain’t enough.”
“Then stop burning ‘em!” Arwyn snarled, voice cracking, pencil shaking as he hit 90.
Then–
Crane 100.
It sat pristine, too perfect, wings curved unnaturally, eyes gleaming. Arwyn collapsed forward, chest heaving, blood dripping onto the page. “It’s… alive,” he croaked.
“No,” Nathaniel said, burning it anyway. “You’re not.”
Arwyn didn’t notice. Darkness took him, Nathaniel’s hand finally rested on his shoulder as the last anchor.
4,995… 4,999…
5,000! 5,000 poules. The room hummed as Nathaniel grinned, diary flaring gold.
“Feel that buzz, kid? That’s power.”