I take a deep, centering breath. My hands are steady, and my arrow is perfectly aimed. My final shot of the day will be flawless. I let the breath go as I allow the string to slip through my fingers, propelling the arrow forward at a blistering speed. The bow thrums in my hand as the string vibrates, the power behind the shot dissipating into the sturdy wood.
With a loud thunk, the arrow slams into the target just a few inches below the bullseye. I groan as I see the result of my shot. Just a bit low… not good enough. With a resigned sigh, I turn to my carefully observing teacher.
Mr. Yamamoto is a tall, wiry man, with long gray hair pulled into a neat ponytail. He wears a traditional Japanese robe that hides the powerful muscles he carefully maintains, even in his old age. Mr. Yamamoto is the picture of a wise master from one of those TV shows, and only his personality doesn’t match. I would expect an old master to be harsh and strict, but not Mr. Yamamoto. He’s one of the kindest people I’ve ever met.
The old man smiles at the result of my shot, “Very good, Serena. Just a bit low this time.”
I frown up at my teacher, trying not to pout. “But I missed,” I respond dejectedly.
Mr. Yamamoto shrugs, looking out across the grass towards the target. “You don’t learn anything from the shots you hit, Serena, and there is always more to learn. Come, let us retrieve your arrows.”
I sigh again, trying not to let the failure get to me as I follow Mr. Yamamoto across the grassy field of the outdoor archery range. The sun beats down at an angle, refracting through the glass of the eco-dome and warming the lingering chill in the filtered spring air. It’s getting fairly late now, and Mr. Yamamoto and I are the only ones still at the school’s archery range. A line of twenty other targets sit untouched, their shooters long departed.
Around the edges of the range, a line of tall trees block out the sights and sounds of the city beyond, making it easy to believe that we’re simply in a forest somewhere. Even listening closely, all I can hear is the happy chirping of bird song. The occasional honk or siren that does make it through the glass is stopped by the barrier of old oaks and the well-hidden, sound-suppressing inscriptions upon them. The entire school campus is built like this — as if it were actually on the ground and not elevated a hundred stories up. Like it was an old-time academy crafted out of stone in the middle of a forest somewhere and not a technological marvel of its time. It’s part of its charm. Who wants to go to school at the top of another skyscraper.
“Do you know why you missed?” Mr. Yamamoto asks as we walk. He still wears his smile as he calmly regards me.
I take a deep breath, allowing it to push away some of my frustration — a technique taught to me by Mr. Yamamoto himself. This was supposed to be my chance. If I performed well in this one-on-one, I would be picked to represent the school on the archery team. Now, though, I feel like I’ve failed; my aim just hadn’t been up to par today.
Positions on the archery team are hotly contested, almost as much as the kendo team. With every student required to take a combat-related elective for most of their school lives, competition is fierce, and the teachers only stoke the fire. After all, each trial overcome helps fuel the school’s many inscriptions. Still, for a trial to be true, it has to be possible to fail.
“Nerves, I think,” I admit as we reach the target. One by one, we pluck out my arrows. Ten shots, five in the bullseye, three in the inner ring, and two in the middle ring. I’d wanted ten perfect shots, but I’d fallen short and just couldn’t seem to get on a roll. Sure, I’d got some, but, in my mind, it simply isn’t enough.
Mr. Yamamoto laughs, plucking out the final arrow. “That may have been the root cause, I suppose, but you dropped your bow just a bit too soon after firing. Just because you let go of the string, it doesn’t mean that the arrow is out of the bow. You allowed yourself to lower the bow while the arrow was still passing across the wood, thus lowering the shot by just a little.”
Mr. Yamamoto demonstrates by holding up his hands and mimicking a shot, allowing me to see how he lowered the imaginary bow immediately after letting go of the string. “For our next after-school session, I want you to work on holding the bow in place until the arrow hits the target. Once you have that down, I’ll allow you to lower the bow sooner and sooner until you get the timing right,” he finishes.
I blink, “But the next session is only for team members,” I say, confused, as we turn to head back toward the firing area.
Mr. Yamamoto’s ubiquitous smile grows wide, “Of course. I expect you to be here as soon as your final class ends tomorrow. It will be good for you to get to know the other students representing the school better.”
I gasp, excitement causing my heart to pound and an exuberant smile to force its way onto my face. If I were alone, I’d leap into the air and let out a whoop of joy. I did it! I can’t wait to tell Dad when I get home!
Attempting to school my expression at least a little, I respond. “Yes sir, I-I mean sensei,” I manage, knowing that Mr. Yamamoto likes the old Japanese form of address. While we are still in Japan, most people in Shinara speak English nowadays. Besides, borders have been meaning less and less over the last few decades, at least, to most countries.
Mr. Yamamoto nods formally to me, his serene smile never leaving. “Well met, Miss Solace. You’d better make your way home. I expect you to be well rested when you arrive tomorrow,” he says before proceeding to immediately break his formality with a playful look as he waves me away.
With a wide grin, I make my way back into his classroom. Unstrapping my arm guard, I place it into my little cubby as I begin unstringing my bow. As I do the repetitive work of caring for my equipment, my mind goes over and over my one-on-one trial. Did I really perform well enough? Perhaps he’d just seen how well I do in class normally and decided to let me onto the team based on that merit? That must be it, right? At that distance, I feel like I should have had much better accuracy.
My thoughts do nothing to dismiss my happy smile as I finish packing away and polishing my bow. With that done, I sling my school bag over my shoulder and make my way towards the exit.
Since Dad became a teacher here, we’d ended up living nearby, so there’s little need for me to take the tram. I’ll just walk to our apartment building from here. Leaving the classroom, it’s only a short walk out of the carefully cultivated nature of Silver Ridge Private High School and into the city at large.
Silver Ridge is connected to the larger city by four glass bridges, each manned by a GDF security guard. The bridges connect the school directly to the skyway, a massive complex of bridges that connect at the hundredth floor of each of the many skyscrapers in Shinara. Walking the skyway is often the best way to travel, especially if where you’re going isn’t too far away. Although, if you need to get all the way across the city for whatever reason, you could also take the tram, which was also elevated a safe distance off the ground far below. At least they both have an excellent view.
Shinara, and most modern cities nowadays, have adopted this kind of structure. Bridges between skyscrapers act as the main roads for pedestrian traffic, with the occasional eco-dome, like Silver Ridge had been built in, to provide people the illusion of being truly on the ground, surrounded by nature. Except, you know, much safer than actually being on the ground.
I walk with a happy smile on my face as I make my way onto the glass bridge, looking up in wonder at the silvery skyscrapers around me. Even being a hundred floors up, the buildings surrounding me are still large enough to make me feel as if I’m walking amongst giants, and the glass below my feet is opaque enough to not break the illusion of the wonderous city in the sky. Opaque enough to hide the smog-choaked underbelly of the city.
While normally, I wouldn’t be able to walk across this bridge without worrying about the millions of people suffering life down below as I once had, today, I’m just too elated by my success. I’m on the archery team now, a prestigious position in the school. Socially, my status had just been elevated from nobody to somebody. Members of the kendo team and other various combat teams would now look at me as an equal. Things are looking up for me. I just hope that Benny made the team, too — I’ll have to text him later.
My thoughts are interrupted as I reach the checkpoint near the end of the bridge, manned by a bored-looking GDF soldier. He has plain, blockish features, with close-cropped dark hair and the mannerisms of someone who hadn’t cut it as special forces.
“Pass, please,” he drones, looking up from where he’d been playing a game on his phone.
I roll my eyes, despite the prestige of Silver Ridge, the guards here really are useless. What would this man do if someone from the Apostles actually did try to get through here? Probably just glances at the pass and wave him through. Let’s just hope that these passes are actually as hard to come by as the school makes them out to be.
The thought darkens my mood just a little. However, I diligently produce my access pass from the back of my phone case and hold it out to the man.
The guard takes my pass, scans it quickly, then hands it back. He doesn’t even bother trying to look friendly as he waves me forward. “You’re good to go,” he says, his eyes returning to his phone screen.
The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.
With a huff, I return my pass to its proper spot and continue onward into the skyway proper.
A new pop song plays quietly on the overhead speakers of the skyway as I step off of the bridge, the music being largely drowned out by the sounds of conversation and life. Unlike the nearly empty school, at this late hour, Shinara is still as busy as ever. Especially this near to the center of the city, the skyway is packed with people.
I begin making my way to our apartment. Small shops and other vendors line the way as I navigate towards the correct building. Stepping on glass elevated a hundred stories above the ground, I move through the forming crowds of the beginnings of Shinara’s nightlife.
As I move, my mind drifts back towards the guard. Really, the man should be paying better attention. I suppose there isn’t much risk of someone already leaving the school being up to something, but still. The Apostles of the Maw are not a group to take lightly, the Volcora worshiping maniacs. They are just as monstrous the creatures they venerate.
With a sigh, I try to return to my earlier pleasant mood. I’ve been reading too many news reports about the war and the attacks the Apostles had been conducting in Tokyo and Shinara. The fear-mongering media might just be trying to make ad revenue, but they sure are effective at driving home the message that we are not safe. Perhaps it was just another tactic by the GDF to increase their control over the city. Having a scared populace is the best time to curb civil liberties, after all.
And now I’m thinking about politics. Stars! Can’t I just enjoy the moment?
Now sulking, I pause and move out of the way of the streaming traffic of the skyway. People move past me in a constant stream, like blood cells traversing the veins of a massive beast. I’m not interested in them, though. I'd spotted one of my favorite cafés, which could hopefully help me regain my good mood. So, forcing my smile back to my face, I head inside Cherry’s Checkerboard Café.
The café is busy, although luckily, there is only a short line at the moment. The entire place is colored with a checkerboard red and white pattern, from the seats, to the floor, to the menus. Situated on the hundredth floor of a building, the café rests in an intersection of the skyway with two full windows made of glass to look across the void of space to other skyway bridges with people streaming through them.
The imagery of the café all depicts a teenage girl wearing a sleek checkerboard pattern outfit. In her outstretched right hand, she holds what looks like a rod or staff that’s packed dense with inscriptions along its entire length. At the very tip of the staff, a bead of shining red light glows — as if it were moments away from exploding with power. On the girl’s shoulder sits a small, squirrel-looking creature, though it’s by no means a natural squirrel, having multiple tails and very strange eyes and ears.
A lot of the older people in Shinara look down on places like this. Places obviously sponsored by a sentinel. Not that long ago, people like Cherry, who sponsored this café, just didn’t exist. It had been before humanity made contact with the Centurions and before the sentinels and familiars started appearing. Before, people with powers like those depicted could exist. While it’s still hard, even for me, to believe, I’ve seen them with my own eyes. Young men and women who could run through the passages of Shinara faster than any tram. Who could jump up hundreds of feet into the air and even fly.
Indeed, the world had changed for the second time upon our first contact with the Centurions. Before, we had been slowly piecing together bits and pieces of how the Volcora’s magic worked, trying to withstand the rising tide. The Centurions had changed that, bringing with them knowledge of inscriptions far beyond what we had previously understood. And for those few lucky enough to form a bond with one, powers beyond our belief. To become a sentinel was the dream of many and the reality of very, very few.
Even schools had been affected; every child with a high enough tolerance to magic, myself included, had been forced into classes on inscribing, a new field of study opening up. While the nebulous swirls and geometric patterns of the inscriptions had never quite made sense to me, I understand the good sense of it. We’ve still only scratched the surface of what can be accomplished with inscriptions. Perhaps, buried within those runes and swirls, lay the key to finally dealing with the Volcora.
As I order my decaf latte and wait for it to arrive, I wonder about Cherry. Whether or not she’s even still alive. Over the last year, I’ve seen news articles about the deaths of dozens of sentinels. Even though the media had been playing it up, it’s enough to make me wonder whether the GDF really has a handle on the Volcora invasions. Not that I can do anything about that anyway. What need would they have with a seventeen-year-old girl?
The arrival of my latte breaks me out of my somber thoughts and brings me back to happier topics. Like the fact that I had made it onto the archery team! It had been my goal for the entire fall semester, and now I’ll be a member of the team for the spring and summer competitions! If I perform well, I could even make it to regionals and compete against schools from other cities around Japan!
My excitement starts building once more as I leave the café and finally make it to the correct apartment complex. Pressing the button to call the building’s elevator, I sip happily at my coffee, feeling content and nervous all at the same time. I’d made it, but now I feel like I have something to prove. I want to be the best archer Silver Ridge High has ever seen. I want to prove to myself and everyone else that I can do it.
Riding the elevator up and navigating to the small apartment I share with my father, I knock on the door. A minute later, it opens to show my father looking down at me with nervous anticipation. He’d known how important today was to me and was just as anxious about the results as I’d been.
I look up at him, forcing a sad, downtrodden expression. Time to have a little fun.
Dad has pale features and sandy blonde hair like mine, although unlike me, he is quite tall. He wears a sweatshirt that is one size too large for him and a pair of track shorts. Likely whatever he’d happened to see first when he had changed out of his work clothes. On top of it all, he wears an old apron proudly stating, May the fork be with you.
I look down as I shuffle past him and into the small apartment. Setting down my pack and coffee as I try my hardest not to smile.
Finally, after a long moment, Dad asks, “So… you didn’t get in?” His voice is hesitant, likely knowing that I might be tricking him.
I look up once more and, with a blossoming smile, say, “Dad… I got in.”
His eyes light up, and a huge grin flashes across his features. “You got in?!” he bellows, likely loud enough for the entire floor to hear.
I nod, practically bouncing, “I’m on the team!” I shriek happily before throwing myself into my father’s arms as he picks me up and whirls me around in excitement.
“That’s incredible, Serena!” he yells victoriously as he twirls me. He sets me down, clapping his hands together with excitement. “See, I told you that you just had to have confidence! Whatever you do, you just have to do it with confidence. That’s true whether you are a star athlete or a teacher who only gets more handsome with age.”
I grin, “Not sure about the whole confidence thing — I was pretty much a nervous wreck the whole time — but Mr. Yamamoto said I passed! Or… crap, I have to get used to calling him sensei. He likes that.”
Dad laughs, his blue eyes sparkling. “I’m sure you’ll have plenty of time to get used to it. I’m so happy for you, Serena. I’ve even been whipping up some tempura, your favorite. It’s almost ready, too, so go drop off your things in your room and come tell me all about how your one-on-one went.”
Nodding, I grab my school bag off of the couch I’d dumped it on and hurry off to my little room. Once there, I drop my bag by my closet and allow my eyes to fall on the poster sitting prominently above my bed. The poster depicts a sentinel named Stardust Angel, displaying the young woman in her twenties holding a bow that glitters with starlight. Brilliant pink wings flair out behind her, shining vibrantly.
Stardust Angel had been something of a hero to me for a long time, ever since she displayed how effortlessly she could shoot perfect accuracy shots with that strange bow of hers in a video. Even while running, even while flying, she never seems to miss. I’d never seen anything before or since that could compare. Ever since then, I’ve always wanted to be like her. Obviously, I can never become a sentinel; hardly anybody even can due to the risks of magical infusion, but I can still dedicate myself to archery. Still become the best that there is. Today, I’ve taken one step closer to that dream.
As I turn back towards the door of my room, I catch a hint of movement out of the corner of my eye. Frowning, I turn back to survey the empty room — nothing there. Just my bed, my closet, and my desk. Huh, my mind must be playing tricks on me. For a moment, I could have sworn I saw white fur.
With a shrug, I turn away to go tell Dad about my day.
Page Break - Two Feathers [https://i.imgur.com/ROt3fAw.png]
“Dropping your bow too early, huh?” Dad asks as he scrubs at a plate. “I can see how that would be a problem. Sounds like Mr. Yamamoto has a plan to help you with it, though.”
I nod, loading his wiped-off dishes into the dishwasher. “Yeah, I think now that I know I’m doing it, it shouldn’t be too hard to stop. I’ll just need to watch out for it when I’m zoning out or focusing on something else because I might fall into bad habits again.”
We lapse into companionable silence for a while as we continue finishing up the dishes. It truly had been a great meal; Dad had gone out of his way to make my victory all the sweeter — or cheer me up after the failure if it had gone the other way. Without him, I doubt I ever could have made the team at all. Him believing in me means more than he could ever know.
“So,” Dad says as I load the last dish, “I have to grade some papers tonight, and I’m sure you have homework. Think we’ll have time for our show?”
I consider, “I’ve got an inscribing test tomorrow, so probably not. I stayed so late practicing my archery the last few days that I haven’t studied as much as I should. I’m going to cram for a while tonight,” I say, sad at the lack of TV time. Nothing is better to end a day with than wrapping myself up in a blanket and watching TV with Dad. Even if he does only like old cop shows.
Dad shrugs, “Well, sounds like you’d better get to it. Just yell if you need anything.”
“Thanks,” I say, turning to head to my room, “I will.”
Making my way back to my room, I head in and shut the door behind me. I intend to listen to music while I study, and I don’t want to disturb Dad. I know he likes his quiet time while he grades papers.
Turning around, I freeze, a gasp stuck in my throat. Incandescent violet eyes stare straight at me. Sitting atop my bed is a small, strange-looking creature. It looks like something taken straight off of the pages of a fantasy book. I blink, taking the thing in.
The creature is akin to a snow-white fox with overly large, pointed ears and is about the size of a medium dog. That, however, is where any similarities to a fox end. Four — equally snow-white — wings are folded against the creature’s flanks and are large enough that it might actually be able to fly if it’s light enough. Its tail is extra-long, the end of it splitting into white stabilizing feathers. The thing that continues to draw me in, though, are the eyes. The fox’s eyes are a shimmering violet color; they seem to glow with intensity as it stares at me. No… they don’t seem to glow; they actually glow.
As I watch the creature before me in shock, two parts of my mind war. The first is the more instinctual part of me that screams that this is a dangerous creature in my room and I should start screaming until Dad runs to help me. The more logical part of my mind, however, knows what this creature is. Well, not what it is, but at least what purpose it serves.
My eyes widen as I make the connection. “Y-You… you’re a familiar,” I whisper in awe, still unsure whether to be afraid. At my declaration, a voice speaks directly into my mind.
[Hello Serena, would you like to become a sentinel?]