Laufa, the Thing

The Krastas College of War. October 18, 1434.

The straw under Laufa’s back was scratchy. It poked right through the dusty mattress sheets. The sounds of Fiann’s cries and the crowd’s chaos were gone, and just the muffled shouts of distant training were left behind. It was finally quiet.

Bearer. That’s what that man called her. They gave her robes, a room, and a gem they called a stena. It clasped her brooch, cold against her chest. Her hand drifted to the uniform. The fabric was coarse, nothing like the clothes she was used to. It felt wrong.

The single high window let in a sliver of the night sky. At least that looked familiar. She raised a hand to the moonlight. It illuminated the callouses on her fingers, callouses she didn’t recognise. Her hand clenched into a fist and fell to her side.

Soon, a warmth washed over her. It melted away the chill of the stone walls. The terrible smells of this world gave way to the mouthwatering simmering of a stew. A weight nuzzled against her shoulder, snoring. And then, the soothing hum of a mother’s voice. Her mother.

“Boys, that’s enough.”

She opened her eyes. Isnir was slumped on her right shoulder, Osayra on her left. In the middle of the room, her three brothers wrestled on the floor until a stern look from their mother silenced them. She turned, and it was Fiann.

“Laufa?” Fiann’s small brow furrowed.

“Are you alright, dear?” Her mother tilted her head. “You look pale.” Her comforting voice slipped off-key.

I’m… Don‘t call me that. Laufa shot to her feet, stirring Isnir awake.

I’m not Laufa.

She stumbled forward and bumped into a table. The candle on it rattled. Behind her, she heard a soft cough. Fiann clutched at her tunic. She twisted away and tore the door open.

Raindrops battered her face and ripped away the warmth of home. The air was freezing, the floor was wet against her bare feet.

I’m an imposter. I’m just a thief who stole her face.

She launched out into the mud, the ground squelched as she raced through a maze of alleys. She tripped, her hands and knees slamming against the floor. Cold mud soaked her tunic. Below her, a puddle of murky water rippled, but as it settled, she saw a strange reflection stare back at her. It wasn’t hers.

She jolted awake, clutching the stena with quick, heaving gasps. That wasn’t her mother. That wasn’t her life. Laufa’s dead. And I think I killed her.

* * *

The Krastas College of War. October 22, 1434.

Over the last couple days, Laufa had gotten used to the ozone-ish smell of manra that filled the training yard.

“Mordhun Rustes,” Instructor Pruatt called. “You’re first.”

Mordhun Rustes moved with a grace that even she had to admit looked effortless. His jet-black hair whipped in the wind, the castle-like crest on his robes flapping like a cape behind him. He walked up to the shallow line dug into the dirt. At its end there was a small bell, and between the bell and Mordhun stood their instructor, Pruatt.

Laufa figured Instructor Pruatt must’ve been injured in battle at some point. He was a big, hefty man, but he walked with a constant limp. Even standing still, he leaned his weight onto just one leg. His hand rested at the pommel of his sheathed piercing sword.

“Advance.” Pruatt drew his training piercer. It was blunted, but its round tip was still the same alloy as any real piercing sword. A terrifying stena and steel blend that would bust through any of her barriers.

Mordhun strode onto the line. Right as Pruatt feinted, a blue light parried his blade.

Mordhun’s defense was technically perfect, right as they’d been taught. At his will, specks of light materialised before the instructor’s blade. They branched instantly into diamond-hard grids of manra, only to dissolve a second later. He countered every single one of the instructor’s strikes with just the flick of his wrist.

She could hear the crackle of his barriers and the shrieks of Pruatt’s piercer scraping against them. Mordhun strolled ahead like he were bored, his manra blinking in and out of existence. He reached the bell and kicked it with a definitive clang.

“As to be expected from a Rustes,” Pruatt said. “Airtight barriers, not a shred of manra wasted. Technique refined through generations of noble discipline. That is the Lodran standard.” He gave Mordhun a nod of praise before his gaze swept the yard.

Pruatt’s eyes landed on Laufa with a flash of disdain. “Now, the commoner.”

The training yard’s chatter died. I’ve just got to do what he did, right?

Pruatt’s hand flew to his hilt. She pictured the stena against her chest, and a bubbling stream of manra flooded her arm. An inch from her palm, particles of light sparked to life. She tried to copy Mordhun’s technique, but her manra frayed into a jumbled, ugly net, nothing like his precise grids. Pruatt’s blunt piercer met her barrier. The stena-alloy seemed to bend the manra itself, gliding straight through the wider gaps.

“Clumsy,” Pruatt spat. “That wouldn’t last a second against a Forsgailte warhammer.”

She stumbled forward, forming another shield a second too late. By the time it’d appeared, Pruatt’s sword was already at her neck, just an inch away from her skin. He retracted his blade, leaving a perfect, sword-shaped hole in her barrier. She scrambled towards the bell, her uniform sticking to her skin with sweat.

“Your barrier’s still there, commoner!” Pruatt shouted, already preparing his next strike.

She glanced back. He was right, her failed barrier was still there, shimmering in the air. She tried to cast a new one, but her thoughts were too scattered. A screen formed sluggishly, probably more air than manra. The piercer burst through and slammed into her ribs.

Her ears rang, and her own wheezing was the only sound she could hear as her barriers shattered into shards of glass in the air.

“Enough. Don’t waste my time.” Pruatt sheathed his blade. “Raw power without talent is wasted on a commoner like you. Step aside.”

Without another word, he turned his back to her. Mordhun sneered as she retreated from the path.

For days, this had been her life. Painful exercises and lectures on nations she couldn’t remember. And at every turn, the other disciples reminded her she didn’t belong. Of course I don’t belong. It’s not because I’m a commoner. It’s because I genuinely shouldn’t be here, I don’t need the reminders. Pricks.

The other trainees had left, leaving her alone in the empty yard. Her cheeks flushed with anger. Pricks, all of you.

Laufa wiped a trickle of blood from her nose and raised a trembling hand. She ignored the aching behind her eyes and focused on the gemstone. A thin stream of power flowed from the stena and straight into her palm. Again.

From afar, a figure observed Laufa. They watched her repeated, clumsy failures, over and over, before disappearing back into the halls of the College.