I binge-read that book in barely three days, getting a general idea of its contents but ultimately failing to take any grand point out of them. Unlike Ink Formations, it didn’t contain a single mysterious drawing, and all of its words were written in plain and old Karilic. Plain, old, and boring. Yes, boring; even my trained brain found it dull.

As its name correctly, albeit gloomily, advertised, it didn’t contain any practical knowledge. It was grouped into three sections, Glyphs, Formations, and Sigils. I harbored some hope it would at least teach those glyphs it advertised, but far from it, it just speculated on its origins, inspected its roots, analyzed its geopolitical ramifications, and fantasized about how it evolved to our current written language. I mean, it was interesting, it’s just that it was a huge letdown.

Apparently, glyphs were just the building blocks. A glyph by itself carried no meaning. It was its composition into more complex structures that made up words with meaning. Common folk, though, didn't know of this distinction, so glyphs ended up being words to most. The book explained, thus, that the modern and accepted usage was that a glyph meant a combination of symbols that made a word.

Formations expanded on Spare’s scolding, highlighting how dangerous it is to play with living beings. Firstly, no one had ever managed to entirely carve one of them. Everything that encompassed their brain and soul was an enigma waiting to be cracked. Theoretically, although I’d say fancifully fits better because they were mere hypotheses, if you captured its whole essence, you should be able to invoke the living creature upon request.

It was plagued with warnings citing real testimonies. People who tried to enslave others of their own kind and either became vegetables who couldn’t even breathe by themselves, or became consumed in a spiral of insanity and craziness. None of the sources ended up with a happy ending, which made me realize how lucky I was to have survived. It did pose a big question, though, who was Spare? He downplayed his achievement, attributing saving me to the Ink’s quality, but if I ever had any doubts, this book just confirmed them. Just who is he?

But what were formations, then? The book only said that a formation was the amalgamation of glyphs and sigils in ways that produced complex and abstract effects. Useful, I ironically though. Sigils, its other part, were… confusing. The book said, and I’m paraphrasing, they were a derivation of glyphs that lacked a concrete and tangible meaning; you could not assign a single word to define a sigil. Any abstract concept, like the cold of the deepest mountains during a winter storm, could be drawn by a single sigil. I looked several times at my chest’s formation, trying to identify glyphs that could be one of the aforementioned sigils. Of course, without knowing anything about glyphs or sigils, that was impossible.

I didn’t know what Spare would be testing me for, so I decided to be extra careful and devoted three more weeks to its diligent study. I overdid it so much that I could recite some subsections by heart. But if that’s what it would take to keep him as my teacher, then I’d do twice as much without even blinking. Actually, he was becoming more than a teacher to me. A mentor, a friend, someone I could be vulnerable with. I didn't want to lose yet another person.

He was spending less time inside our hidden room, and by the time those three weeks went by, he had gone several nights without making an appearance. I was growing impatient, tired of not being unable to do anything else. So, the morning I heard the door mechanism clicking into place, I ran to meet him. The door had barely revealed his figure, that I was already speaking.

“I’m ready!” I eagerly said, without bothering to hide my excitement.

He took a good look at me, studying my reaction, but I remained steadfast, with my mind firmly set on settling the matter there and then.

“What have you learned?” His exhausted voice perfectly matched his weary face.

I knew he wasn’t asking that I dumped all the content of the book. That, far from impressing him, would quickly sentence my outcome. And it wouldn’t be a positive one. No, his question was akin to asking the takeaways of a story, the moral of a fable. And, as much as I understood his question, my answer couldn’t help but be vague.

“That we lack knowledge regarding Glyphs, Formations, and Sigils. And,” I added while raising a finger, “that anyone who attempts to circumvent this shortage and proceed without care, is met with a fatal fate. Death in the best case.”

“Does that mean that you won’t do any more formations?” His expression didn’t bulge a bit.

“Mmh,” I actually had to think before answering this one. The whole point of learning is to use that knowledge. “Not right now, no. Until I’m sure I understand everything there is to it, I won’t draw a single one.” I was about to leave it at that, but I still had to ask something I didn’t have the opportunity before. “I… The last time I drew one, I was unconscious. How can I make sure it won’t happen again?”

“Good, that’s the question I was waiting for.” I didn’t know it, but I longed for his smile of approbation, one I hadn’t seen since the incident. “The problem is you lacked preparation, both in knowledge and mentally, to hold that kind of knowledge. Ink is magic; you should never forget it.”

“Then, now I’m ready?” It certainly didn’t feel like it. Somewhere hidden inside my mind, I could still feel a pool of dark energy waiting for the perfect occasion to pounce on me.

“No, hell no. Of course not. No, no.” His hand waved dismissively all along. I didn’t feel insulted by his repeated negations; I also thought so. “You now know what you are facing, so even if only a little, your subconscious will work to defend you.” He paused, dramatically and quite evidently with amusement. “And it will fail. Frankly, I still am puzzled that you lived through the experience of Ink invading your mind, even before you had drawn on skin... either you are a genius, or you are the luckiest person alive. So," he clapped his hands, "the next time you decide to run after a rat and grab it, make sure to do it without holding any kind of Inking tool.”

“That’s it?” I was staring at the ceiling, avoiding his stare, while sweating through the prolonging silence. I’d say the interchange went well, but I didn’t know what was in Spare’s mind.

“Yes. With practice and experience, you will build tolerance for Ink and will be able to control it, not the other way around. So, for now, if you are not drawing, keep your tools safely stored.” He waved his hand to make me follow him. “We’ll be moving out of here.” He suddenly announced, making it clear that I was not supposed to discuss his decision.

“We are?” It was not a bright answer, but I couldn’t find a better way to express my consternation. I had grown used to this place, and while I longed for a normal outside life, I wasn’t ready to part with it and face the dangers awaiting me.

“Tomorrow morning, I need some rest before going outside."

My mind was busy processing the news and finding all the possible catastrophic consequences of going outside. But where will I live? Will we continue my instruction? What will people think when they see me? What if I’m asked by the nobles for my family? Can I practice Inking without running into problems? And what about my mother's debt?

“Don’t worry.” A hand landed above my head and patted it. He was genuinely smiling from the bottom of his heart. I would lie if I said that, on that moment, he wasn’t like a father to me. “You are still my apprentice; I will provide for you.”

We chit-chatted for a bit more, but I didn’t want to drag the conversation too much, so I let him go rest for a bit. He had allowed me to resume my Inking practices during our short conversation, but my mind was too exalted for it, so I too went to my bed instead.

The author's narrative has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

I woke up to a leather shoulder bag next to my bed. It wasn’t much wider than my own hand, and about my forearm’s length. I hadn’t much to pack, but Spare had been attentive and thought farther ahead than myself. I had the practice fountain pen and the yet untamed Drak’gath, and neither of them deserved to be carried in the open.

I was imagining how that bag would look on me, so it took me a bit to notice the neatly folded clothes by its side. There are even a pair of shoes! That was a first for me; I had never worn anything but straps on my feet. Instead of putting them on immediately, I decided to first go outside and meet Spare. If like usual, I had my breakfast waiting outside, I wouldn’t risk ruining these new clothes.

“Come on, let’s eat and get going. There is much to do.” My thoughts were immediately confirmed.

We ate in silence and then got ready. I handled my Inking tools with the utmost care, making sure they were perfectly strapped in their individual poaches inside the bag. Those clothes were somewhat baggy on me, but their quality was unquestionable. I was still wearing dark colors, which I found perfect to avoid catching the wrong people’s attention, and my outfit remained the same for the most part. My newest additions were a pair of socks and the chocolate brown loafers.

I expected we would go outside by following the same abandoned route that we always did, or that we would at least try hiding to avoid exposing ourselves, but Spare betrayed all of my expectations when he simply followed along the dark corridor he once found me on. A little candle, with barely enough strength to light our steps, made sure we didn’t bump, falling and ruining our clothes. Yes, I was obsessed with my new pieces, especially about scratching my shoes.

We travelled for what could have been 30 minutes, at times breathing heavily along steep slopes, until the sound of human activity could be heard, and the air filled with strange odors. Light wasn’t as scarce, which could only mean one thing, we were nearing an exit, a place where many people of questionable background gathered around.

I didn’t feel confident we could cross without getting into trouble, but Spare didn’t seem to slow down or take any precautions, so I nervously followed behind. We soon met a few dwellers, addicts, murderers, or all of it, looking for a place to hide. The more people we found, the more confident I was we were being avoided. There was a tacit understanding floating around the area that they shouldn’t mess with us, which didn’t really make any sense. Our clothes screamed for us to be robbed; it was like having a massive target drawn all over us.

“Why do they avoid us?” I couldn’t help but ask; it was all too weird for my taste.

“_Humph,_” he let some air through the nose, “they know their place. They can’t mess with me without facing the consequences.”

I was stunned. Mess with you? Who are you? I was about to ask precisely that when his finger moved to point at his shoulder. He was wearing a coat, one I had seen on really rare occasions, but that I hadn't particularly examined. I followed his finger up to his right chest, and was met with a patch with a yellow insignia clearly drawn on it.

“Wha- House of Baril!?” I didn’t control my voice, which came out louder than it should have. A few heads turned, but as soon as they made the briefest eye contact, they went back to their businesses.

He didn’t answer; he just nodded his head in acknowledgement. I had a bunch of questions to ask, but one of them was particularly stuck in my head. Are you an actual Baril, or do you work for them? In either case, an average worker wouldn’t earn that kind of recognition. I had studied the noble houses of Karal with my mother, and I knew Baril was a huge deal, one of the oldest. They only gave insignias to its inner circle and confidantes.

Then again, it made sense that none of the people down here wanted to poke that particular beehive. If Baril wanted, they could wipe up the entire sewers, and nobody could oppose it. They might face some public backslash, maybe the King would impose a small fine, but none of that would make much of a dent.

We exited the sewers through the sidewalk of a river made of waste. It was not a good sight, neither to the eyes nor to the nose. Not to those of someone that lives on the outside, that is. Mine, used to those kinds of landscapes, found the new environment quite entrancing. We were in the most impoverished neighbourhood of the city, composed of rundown shacks and shanties. Whenever I was outside, this is where I would roam. Their owners were rightful citizens of Lamar, poor and without resources, but still citizens. They were manual workers who couldn’t afford proper housing and had been relegated to these parts of the city. Their neighbourhood was in a permanent expansion as more and more people found themselves poor.

As my mother used to say, time in Lamar makes rich people richer and poor people poorer. Ink was being accumulated by powerful entities, such as the noble houses and the royalty, strangling the average subject. Here, people wouldn’t trade with Ink; they wouldn’t be able to. Instead, all trade was made with common goods such as food and primary resources.

But this was not our destination; Spare kept on walking for another whole hour. My legs, untrained as they were lately, weren’t used to long walks, nor any kind of exercise, really, so they had been hurting for a good while. My feet were comfortable inside those padded shoes, but my toes thought otherwise, squeezed by the narrow space on the front.

We crossed the Hivar, a river that came from the northern mountains and bisected the city in two. If I didn’t know better, I would have said we were stepping into another town. The stone bridge was guarded by two soldiers on the other side, and I knew pretty well what they were there for.

While I was a respectful child, I had escaped a few times to wander the city. And what child wouldn’t like to see the richest and the best parts of the city? Sure, the shacks can be a fantastic source of fun, but I could only imagine what this side would be like. Obviously, I had tried to cross through a bridge, maybe this same one, and discovered what the pair of spear-wielding soldiers were doing there.

“Where ya’ going, scoundrel!” I remember one of them said as soon as he caught sight of me. He didn’t bother to hide his disgust when he shouted it. Nor did the other ten or so people who gasped and covered their mouths and noses.

“Don’t ya’ think you can cross to the other side to steal n’ rob!” The other added, with the same revulsion and zero care for manners.

I thought of answering back to defend my honor or something like that, but I knew that my looks wouldn’t back my words. At best, they could confuse me for a beggar, and that wouldn’t do me any favor either. I was turning, but I still had to hear some more warning.

“And don’t ya’ swim your way here! If ya’ don’t drown by ya’self, we’ll make sure to help ya’.”

“Or cut ya’ hands!” The other said to put the cherry on top.

It was a jarring memory, I still felt the aversion and danger telling me to run away, but I wasn’t looking like the little theft of my failed try. I straightened my back and walked closer to Spare, so it would be clear I was with him. I avoided looking at the soldiers, fixing my eyes on the ground while walking by their side.

Finally! Releasing all the air I had been unconsciously holding, I mentally celebrated. As if it had been covered with a veil until now, all my surroundings came to life. Two-story houses, chimneys expelling white and grey smoke, people lively going from one place to another, carts being pulled by oxen, I was sensory overwhelmed.

“Tarar?” Spare’s voice made me shake my head, refocusing on my immediate environment. I had stopped in place and was a few meters behind him. His face pointed to a building bustling with activity. I could hear the sound of music coming from within, and not the kind I was used to hearing, played by drunken idiots. A sign by the door read Kapikulu’s Inn.

It’s needless to say I hadn’t ever set foot inside an Inn. The whole concept was foreign to me. Giving up an excessive amount of Ink in exchange for some food and beer? I would rather starve. I guess today it isn’t me who is going to pay for it, so why not try a some of that indulgence that everyone craves for?

We entered the hubbub of excited conversations fuelled by alcohol and mixed with a guitar’s muffled sound. Spare raised a hand, lifting two fingers while maintaining eye contact with a woman behind the counter. After a nod of acknowledgment by her part, he led me to a table by the other side of the place. We sat and patiently waited for the food. We could have talked, but I was busy listening to the melody of that guitar. I suspected it should have been accompanied by someone’s voice but reckoned it would have been useless among the shouts and discussions happening everywhere.

A tall waitress, which admittedly, if I had seen now and not in my youth, I would have tried to seduce, came over with two jugs of beer and a mouth-wetting beef steak bathed in cheese. Next to it, some potato slices were slightly golden and sprinkled with herbs I didn’t recognize. I started to think that my initial judgement about spending Ink might have been wrong. That impression got reinforced as soon as an explosion of savors like I had ever tasted invaded my mouth. Thank God our table was hidden in a corner and nobody saw me eat like a pig.

“Your room is ready, sir.” The same waitress came to take away our empty dishes.

“We’ll need one more bed,” Spare said, pointing to me. He raised an eyebrow and added with a smile, “and some water.” I hadn’t touched my beer, and Spare had been more than happy to drink it all himself.

We went to our room, and I observed as Spare dropped dead over a wooden frame with some kind of soft cushion above it. Is that the bed? I approached the other apparatus and tentatively poked it with one finger. Soft… Imitating Spare, I lay over the cushion and closed my eyes.

“I could get used to this…” I whispered while my mind faded off.