Laufa, the Thing

The Krastas College of War. October 18, 1434.

Laufa decided she’d taken modern beds for granted. The straw one they’d given her was irritatingly scratchy, and bits of it kept poking at her through the dusty mattress sheets. At least it was finally quiet, she thought. Fiann’s cries and the crowd’s chaos were gone, leaving just the muffled shouts of distant training behind.

Bearer. That’s what that man had called her. They’d given her robes, a room, and a gem they called a stena. It clasped her brooch tight, cold against her chest. The uniform’s fabric felt coarse and stiff, too, nothing like the clothes she was used to.

It felt wrong.

The boy from the ceremony flashed into her mind. He knew her, right? Was she supposed to know him? None of this makes any sense.

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.

Laufa shut her eyes.

Soon, a warmth washed over her and melted away the chill of the stone walls. The gross medieval air was replaced by the mouthwatering simmering of a stew. A weight nuzzled against her shoulder, snoring. And then, the soothing hum of a mother’s voice.

“Boys, that’s enough.”

Her eyes eased open. Isnir was slumped on her right shoulder, Osayra on her left. For some reason, she knew their names. In the middle of the candlelit room, three brothers wrestled on the floor until a stern look from their mother silenced them. She turned and found Fiann.

“Laufa?” He asked

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

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, rattling the lone candle. 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 outside was freezing, the dirt wet against her bare feet.

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

Laufa launched out into the mud, racing through the maze of thatch roofs as the ground squelched under her.

She tripped. Her hands and knees slammed against the damp floor. Cold mud soaked her tunic. Below her, a puddle of murky water rippled, but as it settled, she saw a strange reflection staring back. It wasn’t hers.

She jolted awake, clutching the stena with heaving gasps.

That wasn’t her mother. That wasn’t her life. She couldn’t remember any of it. 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.

Behind them were the jagged mountains they called the Lodrian Wall. It felt more like a historical monument than a mountain range, and the College itself was carved right into its base.

“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 glimpse of blue light parried his blade.

Mordhun’s defense was technically perfect, just 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 only a flick of his wrists.

His barriers crackled as Pruatt’s piercer shrieked, scraping against them. Mordhun strolled, looking more bored than focused, 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, full of contempt. “Now, the commoner.”

The training yard’s chatter died.

Laufa patted her hands against her wool cloak. I just have to do what he did, right?

Pruatt’s hand flew to his hilt. She pictured the stena against her chest, and a bubbling, unfamiliar stream flooded her arm. If that gemstone was the battery, then her body was the conductor. 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 struck 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, 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.

“You’re wasting manra, commoner!” Pruatt shouted, already preparing his next strike.

Laufa 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, producing a mess that was probably more air than actual manra. The piercer burst through it with ease and slammed into her ribs.

A high-pitched ringing filled her head. Her own wheezing was the only sound she could hear as the barrier shattered into shards of glass in the air.

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

Without another word, he turned his back to her. Mordhun sneered as she retreated from the dirt 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 were reminding her she didn’t belong.

Of course I don’t belong. But it wasn’t because she was a commoner. It’s because I’m a fraud. 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. Laufa pouted. Pricks, all of you.

She wiped a trickle of blood from her nose and raised a trembling hand. Ignoring the aching behind her eyes, she 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 attempts, over and over, before disappearing into the halls of the College.