Laufa, the Thing

The straw under Laufa’s back was scratchy and poked through the dusty mattress sheets. Unlike the courtyard, the crowd’s chaos and Fiann’s cries had faded. It was finally quiet. Only the muffled shouts of distant training were left behind.

Bearer. That’s what the man had called her. They had given her robes 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. She raised a hand to the moonlight. The sky, at least, felt familiar. It illuminated the callouses on her fingers. Callouses she didn’t recognise. She clenched her hand into a fist and let it fall to her side.

Soon, a warmth fell over her. It melted away the chill of the stone walls. The awful smells of the day gave way to the simmering of a stew. A weight settled against her shoulder, snoring. The soothing hum of her mother’s voice.

“Boys, that’s enough.”

She opened her eyes. Isnir slumped on her right shoulder, Osayra on the other. In the middle of the room, her three brothers grappled on the floor until a stern look from their mother silenced them. There was a tug on her tunic from behind. She turned, it was Fiann.

“Laufa?” he asked, his 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, bumping into a table. The candle on it rattled. Behind her, a soft cough. Fiann clutched at the tunic. She twisted away and tore the door open.

Raindrops battered her face, ripping away the warmth of her 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 forward, squelching through the mud into a maze of alleys. She tripped, her hands and knees slamming against the ground. Cold mud soaked her tunic. Below her, a puddle of murky water rippled, and as it settled, a strange reflection stared back at her. It wasn’t hers.

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

* * *

Over the last couple of days, Laufa had grown used to the smell of ozone that filled the training yard.

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

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

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

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

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

Mordhun’s defense was technically perfect, exactly 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 that dissolved a second later. He countered every one of the instructor’s strikes with a simple flick of his wrist.

He strolled ahead as if he was bored, his barriers blinking in and out of existence. She heard the crackle of barriers and the shrieks of Pruatt’s piercer against them. Mordhun 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.

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

“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 had 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 still shimmered in the air. She tried to cast a new one, but her thoughts were scattered. A  screen sluggishly formed, more air than manra. The piercer burst through it and clubbed her ribs.

Her ears rang, her own wheezing the only sound she could hear. 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. 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 dispersed, leaving her alone in the empty yard. Her cheeks were warm with anger. Pricks, all of you.

Laufa wiped a trickle of blood from her nose and raised a trembling hand. She ignored the ache 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 attempts. After a moment, they disappeared into the halls of the College.