Ashes of the Elite

Three more soul-crushing months pass in a blur. If someone had told me before that training under an Awakened would feel like being thrown into the mouth of a dragon and spat out, I would've thought they were exaggerating.

After that first month of training, Howard had done something I didn't expect. He begged Cain to stay at the castle so he could continue training with me. I'd never seen Howard completely humble himself like that, but Cain, after his usual grumbling and a few sarcastic jabs, relented. Apparently, he even spoke with Manahar about it and got official leave and permission to skip out on his official duties to train us. Part of me wonders how much that's because of me remembering that conversation I overheard between them. Since then, Cain's actually seemed to enjoy his new job of traumatizing us on a daily basis. He says he hates it and we are slow and pathetic, but there's always this glint in his eye when we collapse into the dirt, panting and half-dead.

Right now, though? A rare day off. Cain took mercy on us after launching me into a tree yesterday with a 'light tap' during sparring. Fucking prick.

We're walking through the market, all three of us clad in our elite robes, the silver clasp glinting at our necks. Our eyes—mine violet, Cain's bright blue, Howard's a calming amber—mark us as something more than men. People step out of our way without hesitation, some bowing their heads, others just staring in awe or fear. At this point I've gotten used to the treatment.

Howard finally speaks up, voice tentative. "Cain... what exactly will the academy cover? Material-wise, I mean." "You've never actually mentioned what they're going to teach us"

Cain's smile is thin. "Under penalty of death decreed by the Crown, I cannot warn you of what the Academy covers. But know this: duels will be common."

Howard's face pales, and I can't stop the grin tugging at my lips. Still, there's a knot in my gut. Five months of this, and it's only the beginning. With that being said, after months of trying, we've finally found a way to channel it - my trigger. It's not perfect, not even close. But it works, most of the time at least. He told me to focus, to find something cold and direct in my mind that can tap into the well of fury and hate. So I picture them. My parents. Their bodies swinging from the gallows, necks snapped, faces pale and empty while the crowd jeered and spat like animals. Then I see the Inquisitors their smug, robed figures standing in the front, laughing. That's enough. The whispers come crawling out like shadows under a locked door, gleeful, hissing their approval for calling on them. But it's like trying to tame fire with bare hands. He knows it. I know it.

The first time it worked, the whispers tried to tell me Cain's secrets—his fears, his sins. Cain's response? He backhanded me so hard I saw stars, almost knocked me out cold. He just frowned, blue eyes dark and serious. "I can tell when it's working," he muttered. "Your eyes glow... like violet flames. But I don't need your powers digging into me."

We still haven't figured out how to trigger the regenerator power. No matter how much I push myself, bleed, or get bruised. It's starting to piss me off that one would be useful to deal with Cain's beatings I mean training.

We keep walking, the warm afternoon sun glinting off merchant stalls. Bright fruits, rich silks, trinkets of every shape and size. The scent of baked bread and spices drifts through the air, but none of us stop. We're admired and feared, not approached. Children tug on their mothers' sleeves, whispering behind hands as we pass.

I can't help but seethe internally about yesterday. I still feel the humiliation of being sent flying like a ragdoll. Cain just stood over me after smirking, "Gravity's a harsh mistress. So am I." Smug bastard.