The debacle of the test of winter ended easily. However, there was nothing quick about it. After surviving his pain, he remained in his confinement a while longer, a few weeks, perhaps two. It was time he spent healing. Kyle, he’d come to learn was the name of the healer of the seminary, stopped in to check on him a few times.

Now that he was souled, or partially so, Kyle could heal him with the soul arts. That the priest was capable of it said a lot of things. After all, healers were vastly rare amongst soul mages, leaving crafted pills and elixirs as the go to for faster treatments. Unfortunately, at the lowest level of the soul arts, not even Iron, using pills or elixirs on him was a quick path to killing him.

So as Kyle stopped to check on him from time to time, John questioned him. There was no torture technique to get answers. No runes to turn his stomach or burn his intestines. No runes to cave in his ribs. John asked questions as best he could as civil as he could. It seemed someone—likely Faust—with more authority than himself had ordered him against violence of any kind. Seth confirmed this by being difficult a few times.

The questions were simple. How did he get souled? Who gave him his first fragment? How did he feel when he fought against the Guda snake? How did he win against an Iron rank reia beast? When did he first run into the snow hare? Where?

Each question had an answer. Each answer he gave to the best of his candor. He told no lie for fear of getting caught but bent the truth wherever he could. He feared the seminary, but his defiance did not allow him fear John. In hindsight, perhaps there had been no reason to bend some of the truths he’d bent. But being asked questions by a man that he had nothing but hate for had begged him to difficulty.

His brothers had been told he was gravely wounded in the last test and had needed special attention, attention beyond the one most of them had gotten. So when he was returned to his room by the end of his stay, no one questioned his absence. Only Timi did.

“Rumor has it,” he’d said as they turned in for the night. “That you were a prisoner again.”

When he turned his attention to the only brother he could call a friend, Timi asked. “Did they hurt you?”

Between the two of them Seth felt a chill run down his spine. It was the way his brother had asked the question. There was malice behind it, a threat. There was a promise that scared Seth bone deep. His answer was important, but he wasn’t sure for whose safety. He could not see anything in the dark but fear did not require sight. Sound, apparently, was more than enough.

A smile forced itself on his lips, a ghost of whatever a smile was meant to look like. “They did not,” he lied.

“Good.”

The attainment of their fragments ensured that Seth was no longer the odd one out when it came to his eyes. Each one of them, blessed or tainted by reia, had their eye colors changed.

Jason’s eyes were the deepest blue. They were not a normal blue simply deepened or darkened. No. They were a blue so deep that even dull, they seemed to shine. The best explanation for them was that they were so blue they were almost purple.

On Forlorn, amber eyes gave him an odd sense of superiority. There was simply something about walking with eyes almost the color of gold that made him seem regal. At least, until he opens his mouth and displayed his stupidity. Then again, often times it came to give a certain royal arrogance to what had once been simple hubris.

Josiah’s eyes were weird. They were white. Not a grey so deep they seemed white. Not white as the rest of his eyes because even those were a bit stained and not pure, as all eyes are. They were simply white. It was as if someone had dipped a paint brush in the finest white and colored the iris. It left a dreary contrast in his eyes.

Barnabas bore magenta eyes. They were the most boring of all their eyes, dull and lackluster.

There was something odd about Fin’s. They were a royal purple, but his eyes were always hooded now. He was like a boy with a secret, a very deep and dark secret.

But of them all, Timi’s eyes stood out. They were strange, even to the priests. Unheard of. The first time Seth saw them, he paled slightly. Only when his fear had eased did he display worry for his brother. In time, he grew accustomed to them. They were the deepest black. Worse, where a soul mage’s iris and pupil changed color, his was not restrained to them. The blackness enveloped his entire eye, iris, pupil, and sclera. There was no white left of them. It was as if some scorned deity had taken the darkness of a starless night sky and fashioned an eyeball for him. Staring into them was like staring into two orbs of black nothingness.

As time continued on ever forward they never spoke of the brothers they lost. Seth was convinced they had already spoken of them to their heart’s content. Perhaps during the two weeks of his absence, time spent answering questions he had no reason to answer. Salem’s poetry and sing song voice was not missed. Bartholomew—the only one who’d taken an odd interest in them—had, after all, not returned.

Bartholomew was not missed either, or if he was, it was not obvious. At least, Seth could not spot it.

They fell back into the lull of the seminary’s training, easily dancing with swords and staff and training violence. However, there was a change. Emriss no longer taught them the way of the bow. On a hot sunny day, in a hall the size of an amphitheater with a ground of sand ankle deep she introduced them to a new weapon, a modern weapon. Guns.

It was strange seeing one after so long. Time in the seminary had made Seth forget the world was more technologically advanced than stone houses and the metal cutleries of the seminary. The day showed he was not the only one.

They ventured into the hall to find a table for each of them when they came in for their lesson one day. Upon each one rested a gun. They were unloaded. An empty cartridge was arraigned beside each gun with a pack of bullets stacked next to them.

Each brother approached the weapons with varying degrees of awe. Jason was like a child who’d just met a long lost love. Fin looked scared of the weapon. Josiah treated it like a particularly alluring sin: tempting but anathema.

Forlorn was an idiot with a particularly fancy new reed and was the first to pick his. He turned it in his hand like it was gold in the old world.

“A Desert Eagle 8.0,” he said with unhidden awe. “Found only at the hands of Barons’ trusted and government officials.” He turned the gun with glorious benediction and pulled back the chamber. “Look at that. Mana steel encasing, designed to withstand the explosion of reia in each shot.” He turned to his brothers, unholy glee in his eyes. “With other guns you have to look out for wear and tear, but this one can go for months before any need for maintenance. And look at that perfect craftsmanship.”

Emriss was nice enough to allow him his awe. It played on for a few minutes and they listened to him praise the weapon and give its history. He knew from what country it originated. He knew from what old world weapon it had gotten its design. He knew every piece of information down to the name of the man who invented it and the first recorded soul mage killed by it. Dimitri Islov.

Today they did not fire their weapons. Instead, Emriss put them through the monotonous boredom of disassembling and reassembling them. Guided through the process verbally, they obeyed and focused and learned.

Evening was dawning by the time she was satisfied with their ability to do so without supervision.

“The speed is more important than you would think,” she told them as she walked, hands clasped behind her back. “If you are capable of disassembling any weapon even with your eyes closed, then you can disarm almost anyone by no more than their weapon.”

This story originates from a different website. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

“Why?” Forlorn asked.

Emriss stopped her stroll. “What do you mean why?”

“Why do we need to disarm an opponent? I don’t think that is what we are being trained for.”

“And what are you being trained for?”

Forlorn put down his reassembled gun. “To kill.”

Beside him Fin nodded. The action did not escape Emriss.

“Is that what you think?” she asked. “That you are being groomed for mindless slaughter.”

The sound of clattering iron on wooden desk drew everyone’s attention and they turned to find Jason watching them. Deep blue eyes almost unnerving. “That’s enough Forlorn,” he said so quietly it could’ve been a whisper. “We are being trained to be priests. Not monsters.”

Forlorn barked a derisory laugh. “Do you honestly believe that, brother?”

Timi eased closer to Seth. When he held the back of Seth’s grey cassock—the same one they all wore every day since the winter test—between thumb and forefinger Seth allowed him.

“Are you so drawn to mindless slaughter that it is all you can see?” Jason asked.

“And what can you see, brother?” Forlorn slid an empty cartridge into his gun. “What exactly is a priest?”

“Forlorn…” Fin allowed the warning trail off, eyes darting between his two brothers before switching to Emriss.

Their instructor didn’t seem to care for what was going on.

“Tell me, brother.” Forlorn grinned. “What is a priest? Because everything shows the rumors aren’t really far-fetched. All I’ve seen and learned is mindless slaughter. Each of us brought back more than two cores, even Seth as pathetic as he is. That is mindless slaughter.”

Timi bristled behind Seth, and Seth reestablished his position between his friend and the rest of the hall. His friend’s anger would serve no one well here.

“You’re going too far, brother,” Jason warned. “Priests are more than mindless slaughter.”

Forlorn looked at the gun in hand, his grin never left his face. “Care to prove it, brother?”

Jason moved before the last words left their brother’s lips. He darted out from behind the table, faster than he’d ever moved, his place on the beginning steps of the soul arts evident.

But Forlorn was not startled. He raised his gun, aim trailing after an approaching Jason as he ducked from side to side. He did not approach his brother head on; only a fool would’ve. If the inability to get an aim on his brother bothered him, Forlorn did not show it. His grin did not slip.

In the end, Forlorn lowered his gun as Jason reached him. When Jason struck out at him, he dodged to the side, pacing himself away from the blow. Jason closed the distance immediately, another closed fist flying true. Jason blocked it with the butt of his gun, forcing Jason back. But Jason was not done.

They exchanged a few blows, countering and evading as Domitia had taught them. It was not long before it became evident Jason was at the disadvantage. Somehow Forlorn was proving better at unarmed combat. Worse, the fact that he still held a gun as he fought lent greater force to each blow he threw.

Seth remained standing between Timi and the rest of the hall, watching everything happening with all of his minds. He attended his surrounding, watching both the fight before him and his brothers around him, while one mind kept its attention on Emriss, finding her unbothered by the events. In fact, she seemed curious, like a referee awaiting a winner.

Has he always been this strong? A piece of his mind asked, watching Forlorn, cataloguing his strength and engraving it to memory.

Not strong, another disagreed. He’s being cocky. Is this what happens when you have a black fragment?

Seth shook his head gently. “Timi isn’t cocky.”

Timi scratched his head behind him. “I don’t like cocky people. Rumor says it’s a quick way to die among soul mages.”

“I’m sure it is.”

Before them Forlorn dodged a particularly vicious punch to the head, kicked one of Jason’s leg out from under him, forcing him to his knee, took aim, and pulled the trigger.

The shot rang through the hall, loud enough to make Seth wince. He’d thought the gun hadn’t been loaded, the cartridge empty. Forlorn was not stupid enough to do that. It was not the first time his brother’s stupidity was taking him by surprise and he doubted it would be the last. But Jason had shown better judgement, rolling to the side before Forlorn pulled the trigger. The sand exploded where Jason had been and he came up on the other side.

He pulled his hands together, fingers pointing forward and the hair on Seth’s neck stood on end. A tingling sensation filled his body and he knew something was coming.

“[Wind Burst]” Jason barked.

The air around him flickered and wavered into feint visibility, coalesced around his hand and shot out like a bullet from a rifle. It struck Forlorn’s hand, forced his gun from his grip with a crack, and blasted past his face.

Forlorn stood where he was, shocked. The grin was gone from his face and the hall was filled with a stunned silence.

No one had manifested their skill yet. According to the Reverends, manifestation was the first step towards Iron.

Slowly, Forlorn’s expression shifted to pain but he didn’t make a sound. As if by sheer force of will his entire face contorted into a frown, enforced as if in defiance of his own pain. His lips curled in a scowl and his face contorted in rage.

“HOW DARE YOU!” he roared, then took a step towards his brother. “HOW DARE—”

Jason’s hands moved slightly, adjusted its aim, trained itself on Forlorn’s face and he froze.

“That was a warning.” Jason’s expression was cold. “The next one won’t miss.”

Forlorn glared at him, held back by naught but the threat. His restrained words evident in the spittle flying from his lips with every harsh breath.

“I would say that’s quite enough of that then.”

Both boys turned their heads to a bored Emriss and Forlorn spoke first.

Forlorn raised a bloody, trembling hand to display broken fingers so bad two of the five had their bones sticking out. “He broke my fingers!”

Emriss waved a dismissive hand. “And you shot him,” she said absently. “I think that’s fair.”

“He broke my fingers!” he repeated, voice still raised.

Emriss’ brows furrowed in confusion. “Did you miss the part where you shot him?”

“I didn’t hit him.”

Emriss nodded, approaching him. “Because you missed.”

She stood before him now and he glared at her. “It changes nothing!” he hissed. “Nothing!”

“You are aware you just tried to kill a fellow seminarian in front of your instructor, correct?”

Forlorn’s anger dulled but he did not stand down. “You have no proof.”

She looked back, stunned.

Forlorn smirked at her expression. “Come what may, they are still my brothers. We will not stand against each other. They will not support you.”

Is he delusional? a fragment asked. Does he expect us to lie to protect him from what he just did? We don’t even like him.

Depends on what Jason will say, another answered.

We think we’re missing the point here, another stated.

And what point is that?

“She’s a Baroness,” Seth answered.

Emriss took a deep, tired breath, let it out, then slapped Forlorn.

The force of it sent him to the ground. He did not stumble or stagger. He simply fell, thrown by it.

They all watched in petrified silence as Emriss walked away from him. No one dared move. No one dared draw the ire of a Baroness.

She walked up to Seth and Timi without expression. Even her footsteps carried no sound with them. When she got to them, she picked up his empty cartridge then slowly loaded it with the bullets beside it. Each bullet announced its entry. When she was done, she held her hand out to him palm up.

Gun, his mind panicked as if he couldn’t figure it out himself.

Like a scorned child at their mother’s mercy, he handed her his assembled gun. She gifted him a friendly smile then walked away. Forlorn was still on the floor when she got to him. He was groggy but conscious, unstable, and held a hand to his head.

“Do you know the one thing the seminary teaches you without teaching you?” she asked no one. “It is power.” She pulled back the chamber on Seth’s gun and let it lock back into place. The simple action was louder than it had any right to be. “They teach you to be powerful while teaching you to identify power. They teach you that there are those above you and teach you how to surpass your fear.”

As she spoke, Forlorn tried to pull himself from the floor. He came as far as a sitting position, then to his knees before falling back down. He seemed concussed.

Emriss waited patiently. “The inability to recognize power and act accordingly is not the way of a priest. You must identify the power, recognize it, then act accordingly. We teach you to surpass your fear so that you are capable of logical decisions in the face of such power, and we give you the tools and training required to support the logical decision. But we don’t teach you directly. We guide you to learn it yourselves so that you possess flexibility.”

She sighed as though running out of patience when Forlorn still hadn’t risen. “Now,” she continued, “I don’t know if it’s just me or if it’s just you, but your display today has shown you have failed to learn this lesson, even now. Perhaps it’s because I’m not a priest, or because I am female. But it is a sign that you will not learn this passively… So I will teach you actively.”

Giving up on rising, Forlorn turned groggy eyes to her. He recognized her beyond the disorientation of whatever had left him unable to stand, beyond his concussion. It was enough to make him glare at her. His pride as a fallen royalty was not helping him. He thought it his place to defy a power beyond him.

His defiance did not last.

Emriss raised Seth’s gun, pointed it at him, and he paled.

“I will admit that I don’t have the level of authority as the Reverends,” she said. “But I do have authority. Authority I will now exact. Now, if you cannot stand, stay there a little longer. Someone from the infirmary will come for you.”

Seth wasn’t sure how or when, he wasn’t even certain why, but he knew the moment this stopped being an education. There was no one in the hall who did not know what would come next.

Only Barnabas closed his eyes when she pulled the trigger.

The sound of a bullet leaving its chamber broke the silence of everything. when it hit its target, it did so quietly.