Chapter 402: Late Night Haircut

  The room Virella had given Stryg was quite spacious, far larger than the tents he had grown up in or the rooms he had lived in with Feli. The furnishings were sparse, a plain bed with a single blanket, and a bare wooden chair in the corner. Even if this was a room in the Celestial Shrine, it was still the room of an acolyte. Stryg preferred it that way, it reminded him of his days spent training.

  It had been a while since he had a room to himself to meditate and improve his mana flow. He sat down on the floor crossed-legged, closed his eyes, and took deep slow breaths. Carefully, he called out to the mana reserves in his heart. Gradually, ten chromatic colors of mana answered in their own tones.

  Black and Orange eagerly answered the call first, the two colors he was most accustomed to casting. Then came the familiar Grey, the first chromatic mana he had ever called forth. Reliant Yellow came next, followed by powerful Green, and serene White. Purple was coaxed out from its timid abode. Brown and Red were harder to summon, his ineptitude in half their spell-forms was evident in the colors’ stubbornness. Blue, fickle Blue, answered last; the color demanded stability in his emotions, and yet Blue felt the most volatile of his colors.

  Soon the colors were streaming through his veins in a convoluted jumble, distorting his mana flow entirely. Stryg clenched his eyes and furrowed his brow as he tried to calm the colors and their tones as they clamored against one another.

  He remembered the words Beatrix Morrigan had told him in their duel back in Undergrowth. The true blue mage had warned him of the unique nature of each mage’s mana equilibrium, each color within a mageborn vying for superiority. Most manifold mages only had to struggle with two or three colors, but a prime mage had to face them all. It felt like a storm brewing within Stryg’s chest, unable to escape, yet unwilling to stop fighting.

  Stryg tried remembering Ismene’s lessons on flow control. The more stable a mage’s mana flow, the more powerful their spells could become. It was for that same reason so few prime mages ever managed to reach the adept rank. The ten colors within them would consistently destabilize their mana flow. The body naturally did its best to stabilize the flow, but that would only get him so far. If he wanted to grow stronger, he would have to learn to consciously control his flow.

  As usual, the colors fought against him, against each other. Stryg was ready to give up as usual, after the pain within his veins began to burn with a dull ache, but he tried to hold out, just a little longer.

  Ismene had once told him that chromatic colors felt different to each mageborn and it was his job to listen to the colors and understand their desires, for the mana was an expression of him, unconscious perhaps, but always a part of him.

  Stryg turned his focus onto his heartbeats, the synchronous sounds of his two hearts echoing off one another in a rhythmic song. Despite the violent nature of his colors, he noticed they were reacting to the rhythmic song.

  They are all a part of me…

  If that was true then it explained the colors’ tendency for hostility. But it also meant that deep down… they desired to belong, to have a place, in a tribe, a family… in a song. In the song of his magic, deep within him. Slowly, Stryg tried to listen to the colors within.

  Some part of his mind whispered it was a terrible idea, that he was simply being a fool. What need was there for such a thing as belonging? Power, that was what mattered. With enough power one could make their own place to belong, they needed nothing else. Stryg ignored that voice and tried to listen once more, more carefully, to the colors within.

  Then he heard it, the discordant notes of his colors. Yet instead of ignoring them as usual, forcing them to obey his will, he quietly listened to their broken tune. With a gentle focus, he steadily moved their notes into a different order, into a larger piece of his hearts’ song.

  Time felt weightless, the moments blending in one with another. Stryg did not hear the knock on his door, nor the quiet creak as the door opened. His thoughts were entirely on the broken notes within his flow. He whispered to them, silently, in the same way they cried out to him in frustration, but he met their voices with patience and gentleness.

  He had always pushed himself to be better, to be better than the failure he was ashamed to be. Yet as he heard the broken voices of his colors, he felt compassion for them. He didn’t need them to be better, to be stronger, to stand above all else. To him they were enough, he loved them all the same. For an instant, he forgot about his bitterness, frustrations, and desires for revenge. For an instant, he lived in the quiet moment of self-acceptance.

  The colors reverberated with disbelief, yet they did not fight back. They flowed through his body in a quiet warm tune, the notes falling into place within his hearts’ song.

  A cold, discordant note suddenly broke through the song. Its powerful shriek was disdainful against the rest of the colors. What color was it and why was it so indignant? Stryg tried to follow the imbalance sound, yet it did not come from the heart like the other colors. No, this note came from his second heart. It wasn’t a color at all, it was something else, there was no warmth. There was only a primal frigidness that threatened to overwhelm the rest.

  It was dangerous, Stryg felt, but he didn’t shy away from it, not this time. He was done ignoring the parts of him he was ashamed to look at. Whatever the note of mana was, he was determined to listen to it even if it hurt him. As if realizing his choice, the mana screamed in a deep roar, drowning out the colors’ notes and his heart song. Yet Stryg didn’t run from his mind, he didn’t try to push down the angry song. He sat still and listened patiently, accepting the cold pain as it washed over him.

  He slowly noticed the pain was familiar. He had felt it when Clypeus had been struck down, when he had learned of Loh’s deception, when he had lifted the fallen log off Freya… when he had first descended down the lamia’s cave.

  You’re not dangerous, are you?

  When he was afraid and in pain, it was this chaotic note, this deep part of himself, that had answered. It had rushed over him… protecting him.

  You’re not just angry, you’re worried… for me?

  The cold mana answered with a painful note of confirmation.

  I’m sorry… I didn’t mean for you to worry.

  The cold mana’s roar settled down and its chaotic tune slowed to a halt, and played a new song, barely a whisper, underneath the first song. Where the first hearts’ song was a duet, a rhythm between both hearts, a symphony of all the chromatic color’s notes, the second song belonged to the cold mana and none else.

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  The first song was beautiful but difficult to understand, overwhelming tunes all at once. The second song was quiet, but it was strong, dignified. If he could only somehow listen just a little closer, he could—

  “...tryg… Stryg… Stryg!”

  His eyes snapped open and he gasped for breath. He was covered in a cold sweat and his muscles trembled with debility.

  “Stryg, are you alright?” Aurelia asked worriedly.

  “First… Mother?” he muttered, confused.

  Aurelia sat in front of him, not two feet away, her eyes staring intently at him.

  “How long have you been sitting there?” Stryg asked.

  “...Not too long. I noticed you were meditating. I didn’t want to break your concentration, so I waited, until… never mind. I came because you are in desperate need of a haircut and I’m tired of you walking around looking like some vagrant, it’s an embarrassment to our tribe.”

  Stryg finally noticed the dagger, wash basin, and leather bag of supplies next to her.

  “Sorry,” he winced.

  First Mother had always been the one who had cut his hair back when he had lived with the Blood Fang Tribe. After he started living in Hollow Shade, one of Feli’s acquaintances had taken over that job. Yet he hadn’t bothered about his hair ever since Clypeus and Widow’s Crag.

  “Come on then, we don’t have all night, go sit on the chair,” Aurelia pushed him on.

  Stryg nodded and sat on the single chair in the room. He sighed quietly to himself. He should have expected something like this. First Mother had always been quite strict on appearances, especially his own. While the other Sylvan Mothers had taken turns cutting the other younglings’ hair, First Mother had insisted on cutting Stryg’s hair every time. It was her way of interrogating him of whatever he had been up to, Stryg had long guessed.

  Whenever he was alone with her, Stryg somehow always ended up telling her more than he had intended, which has often gotten him in trouble in the past.

  Aurelia grabbed the wash basin and walked over behind him, then began washing hair with quick movements. Stryg leaned his head back and closed his eyes and tried his best to relax his tense muscles.

  “...Stryg,” she said carefully.

  “Yes?” he cracked an eye open.

  She pulled a silver feather out of her pocket. “Have you ever seen something like this before?” she asked in a serious tone.

  “A feather? Why would I…” Stryg abruptly stopped and frowned.

  The memory of his time in the Dark Fringe and his meeting with the Monster stirred in his mind. The place was cold, distant. He had felt numb, weak. It was so dark, there was nothing there, save a great emptiness, and a silver feather.

  No, it can’t be.

  That feather had crumbled into dust. It wasn’t real. The Dark Fringe wasn’t real either, at least not in the way the room he was sitting in was.

  Stryg shook his head with a small smile. He was thinking too deeply about this. This was just an ordinary feather.

  “I haven’t seen that particular kind of feather if that’s what you’re asking,” Stryg answered.

  “Is that so?” she muttered.

  “Why? Would it matter if I had?”

  “Perhaps… It’s just odd, is all.”

  “What is?”

  “When I walked into your room the feather was on the ground next to you.”

  “What?” Stryg stiffened. “I don’t— I don’t know how it got there.”

  “Best not to think about it,” Aurelia said in a strange voice.

  She was hiding something, Stryg thought. But why?

  Aurelia grabbed the sheathed knife and drew the sharp blade with a deft hand. She grabbed the tips of his pale locks and sliced them off with precise motions.

  “Tell me,” she said. “How do you really feel about the orc?”

  “You mean Tauri?”

  “Yes. She isn’t here, you’re free to speak your mind.”

  “I was telling you the truth the first time. I like her, a lot. And she likes me too… I think.”

  “Of course, you do,” she clicked her tongue. “You need to end your relationship with that orc come dawn.”

  “I won’t,” Stryg said with hesitance, much to his surprise.

  Aurelia raised her eyebrow, “What was that?”

  Stryg swallowed in fear. “I… I like her, maybe I even love her, who knows? Either way, I’m not going to just throw that away.”

  “You don’t know what love is. And no, infatuation isn’t love.”

  “I know that.”

  “Clearly, it seems you don’t. You’re still too young to know what’s truly important.”

  “I’m old enough to know what love is.”

  “No, you are not,” she said seriously. “True love is pain, Stryg. It is sacrifice. It requires putting someone else above your own needs.”

  “You don’t think I can?” Stryg frowned.

  “If you could, you would have already broken off your relationship with that Plum girl. I spoke with her earlier and she told me about your mutual past. The only reason she is here is because you couldn’t let her go. You didn’t care if Plum being friends with her mother’s murderer bothered her, you just wanted your friend back.”

  “That’s…” Stryg’s expression darkened in dismay.

  He hadn’t thought of it like that before.

  Aurelia sighed, “Look, it doesn’t matter. In the end, Plum chose to be here, it was her choice. Whatever you do with that drow doesn’t matter to me. The orc is a different story. Having a relationship with a Scarletian is dangerous.”

  “Tauri isn’t a Scarletian. She was born in the Ebon Realm like any of us, as were her parents.”

  “She is an orc, she will always belong to the Scarlet Realm. They cannot be trusted. She’ll betray you just like her kind betrayed our people.”

  “Tauri would never do that.”

  Aurelia’s expression softened, “I used to think the same. I had this… friend. He was a Scarletian, but I thought I could trust him. I was mistaken.”

  “What happened?” Stryg asked curiously.

  Aurelia narrowed her eyes, “It does not matter. Now stay still or I might accidentally nick you.”

  “Right, sorry.”

  “...I don’t approve of your relationship with that orc.”

  “I know.”

  “Yet you’re still not listening to me, as usual.”

  She flicked his pointy ear.

  “Ow!” he winced.

  “If she tries to tempt you, do not listen to her.”

  “Tempt me?” Stryg couldn’t help but chuckle.

  “I told you to stay still!” She flicked his ear again.

  “Ah, dammit, stop, please! I won’t move, alright?”

  “I don’t care how pretty that orc is, do not bed her, do you understand me?” Aurelia growled. “Sabina and the other Elects have spies everywhere on this mountain, the last thing we want is having them find out you’ve slept with an enemy.”

  “I’ve already slept with two orcs before, what difference does it make if I sleep with one more,” Stryg grumbled to himself.

  “...What was that?” Aurelia asked in a frigid voice.

  Stryg paled in panic. “U-Uh… I mean, I was drunk, really drunk, and it was one time. I swear!”

  “You little imbecile!” Aurelia hissed.

  “I’ve killed orcs too! Like this one who was the leader of a gang!”

  Aurelia raised her eyebrow, “What is a gang?”

  “It’s what some people call their tribes back in Hollow Shade. Though they could never hold up against one of our Sylvan tribes.”

  Aurelia smiled slightly. “Is that so? Tell me more.”