Page 36 of Fallacies

With a defeated breath, I shed my jacket and pull a stack of books I got from the Archives in front of me. No dust flies off the first one I open:

674 A.C. (After Collapse)

After three long months of searching, I have caught a Veila.

I’ve managed to sustain its life by submerging it in a liquid that amplifies the sound and life force of my pulse. As long as I sit here, with the heart device strapped to my chest, I can supply its life and my own while I study it.

7

Lucina

Islide out from underneath Callan’s heavy arm and pull my sore and stiff legs from the blankets, groaning as I find my footing on the cold hardwood. I fumble my way into the bathroom, careful not to wake him, and gently shut the door behind me.

My nightmares are back. But instead of someone else’s memories, they’re my memories. Things I’ve actually lived. Mostly of the dark pit I fell into when the Ashvine was eating away at my insides, taking me close enough to death that I really thought that was it.

Except no god was waiting there for me. Not even Pyra. And I think I’d have preferred her presence over that of my father. Of the things he told me.

I woke up screaming, sometime in the middle of the night, and Callan came running in. It’s a new symptom of these nightmares, it seems, but the steady rise and fall of his chest against my back was the only thing that settled me long enough to drift back to sleep.

I didn’t dare tell Callan what the nightmare had been about. It would have come with too many questions, and the answers—the real answers—would ruin everything. Callan would never look at me the same. Nobody here would.

I rub my arms, the air in the bathroom chilly, and tiptoe my way across the tile. Every part of me is as tired as it is sore. My arms, my legs, my torso…even my organs ache, my insides begging for rest. But I brought this on myself when I asked to be an Ajax. Albatross, I hope, was the tip of the iceberg.

But I still have initiation.

Even with the exhaustion wearing on my bones, my magic still demands more of me, and it’s too much, now, to be stomached. It builds and builds throughout the day, multiplying while I sleep, becoming so intense that I’m forced awake from the pressure. It swells against my skull and doesn’t stop until I set some of it free—something I was too afraid to do. Until the tension started eating me alive.

Rolling out my shoulders, dive into the agony, focusing on its source. I coax forward only a fraction to the surface, releasing that small spark through my open palm.

A shimmering illusion of a hummingbird comes to life, and the relief is instant. Enough to take the edge off the pressure, and I inhale a much-needed breath as I watch the little bird fly around the bathroom, fluttering up and down the small space. The illusion is innocent enough that a smile cracks through my exhaustion.

It tangles through the shower curtain hooks, golden wings beating too fast for the naked eye as it zips over to me, hovering just inches from my face. It’s my magic—my illusion—but something about the way the bird looks back at me gives it some kind of sentience. It’s the first time I’ve looked at something I’ve created and recognized it.

It’s the first time I’ve looked straight into the eyes of the beast that lives inside of me.

Its golden wings beat too fast for the naked eye as it tangles through the shower curtain hooks and zips over to me. I stand straight, tilting my head as it hovers just inches away from my face. Reaching up to touch it, my fingertips barely graze the illusion and its golden wings fade to grey.

Then brown.

Then black.

Its eyes turn beady, and its long beak sticks out like a charred needle. Wings still beating faster and faster, the black bird becomes a blur of motion that with the close of my fist⁠—

Vanishes entirely.

The illusion turns to mist, and its ashes fall to the tiled floor.

I’m no longer smiling when I turn from the mirror, silently using the restroom before deciding that that’s enough for today.

I assumed controlling what I inherited from my father would be similar to learning my mother’s magic, and with what little progress I’ve made, I think I’m right. At first, I thought I’d ignore it altogether. I figured if I pretended it wasn’t there, then surely it would go away. But then…

If you hide from it, it will consume you.

I’m not sure how I feel about my father, but I don’t believe he’d lie to me.

The more I thought about it, the more it made sense. If Rogue magic is anything like the Sol, my father’s power won’t fully belong to me until I can tame it. It will remain reckless and impulsive—something I can’t control.

Control or be controlled.