Ecchymosis

"Now then. Let’s put some of this theory into practice! We’ll start with Visualisation Magic. I think it’ll be the most natural starting point." Clovis says, her voice peaks with excitement. 

Of the three expressions, Visualisation sounds the most demanding. I don’t think discipline and patience are my strong suits. 

She kneels in front of me, taking my right hand in hers. Her fingers are warm and her grip is surprisingly firm. "Close your eyes, Shikara."

The darkness behind my eyelids is a welcomed canvas after the day I’ve had so far.

"I want you to forget everything else. Just focus on the hand I’m holding. Feel the texture of your own skin, the warmth of my fingers against yours."

I focus, pushing everything else away until the only reality is the physical sensation of our hands clasped together.

"Good. Now, I want you to remember something for me. The feeling of an encroaching heat. A comforting heat." Her voice murmurs softly, as if anticipating where my mind might go. "The warmth of a fire on a cold night. The sun on your skin. Find a specific, gentle memory."

Smoke, screams, the sickening smell… I can feel my body reacting unconsciously.

"No," her grip tightens, sensing my distraction. "Let that go. Find a safe memory. It’s important."

I fight to push the image of the burning stage away, searching for something, anything, untainted. A memory from years ago surfaces; my grandmother’s house, the soft, radiant heat of a kotatsu chasing the bitter winter cold from my fingers. Safe. Simple. 

"That’s it," Her approval puts me at ease. "Now, build on it. Feel that specific heat, right now, in the center of your palm. Try to experience it. Pull that sensation from your memory and place it into the present."

I channel the remembered sensation, coaxing it from the recesses of my mind. At first, there’s nothing. Then, a faint tingling. I push harder, pouring more sensory data into my mental image. 

A pinprick of warmth blooms in the center of my palm. It’s faint, but it’s real.

"I… I think I can feel it." I breathe, my eyes still tightly shut.

"Don’t speak." Clovis commands, her voice pointed but not unkind. "Just focus. The image is forming, but it’s fragile. You have to nurture it. Let the warmth spread from that single point, out to your fingers, up to your wrist. Feed it."

The warmth starts to feel tangible as pleasant heat pools in my hand. It feels solid, as if I’m holding a small, smooth stone that has been left in the sun.

"See it. A tiny, flickering flame, no bigger than a candle’s wick, dancing in the center of your palm. Try to imagine its color, a gradual hue of orange and yellow. Follow its movement."

The flame. It’s a small, tender wisp of light. I try to hold the image in my mind, unwavering and complete.

My palm feels intensely hot now, but it doesn’t burn. A strange, cold pressure builds alongside it, an unnerving counterpoint to the heat.

"Open your eyes."

There, floating less than an inch above my palm, is a tiny flame. It’s real. I made it. A laugh, born of pure shock and delight, bubbles up in my chest.

But the laugh catches in my throat. The flame isn't right.

Its core is the gentle orange I imagined, but a sickly, bruised-purple light licks at its edges, sputtering and hissing like wet wood. 

The air around it feels strangely cold, and the flame casts deep, dancing shadows that seem to writhe unnaturally.

"What is that?" Clovis breathes, leaning closer. Her academic curiosity has been replaced by shock.

Then, a new sensation cuts down my elation further.

A throbbing pulse. 

It doesn’t come from my palm, but from my forearm. I look down. 

The abnormalities on my forearm, both old and new, are pulsing with a sickly purple light, each beat in time with the flicker of the flame. 

It’s a pain that echoes with the memory of cold steel and hot blood. The flame in my hand sputters violently as my concentration shatters.

My first taste of this world’s magic has been faltered by the tragic reality of my old world. 

"Why did you stop?" I hear Clovis say to my right. 

"Can’t you see, it’s my arm!" I cry out, with disregard to how I might be perceived. 

I thrust my forearm towards her, the sleeve of my borrowed tunic falling away to reveal the network of scars. A bruised lilac light gathers beneath them. It’s the same colour as the light my will gathered in her palm.

Clovis leans in, and gently takes my forearm. Her eyes sweep over my scars and burns, her expression shifting from confusion to mild frustration. She turns my arm over, examining it from every angle in the ambient light.

"See what, exactly?" she asks, her tone perfectly level. She traces the most prominent scar, with a delicate finger. "I don’t see anything. There’s no heat, no discoloration other than the scar tissue itself. But I saw the flame, Shikara, it didn’t look how it’s supposed to."

Her words hit me like a splash of cold water. "No, that’s not possible." I insist, my voice rising with a note of panic. 

I pull my arm back, holding it up to my own face. But I can’t see the light either and the aching has vanished with it "B-but that’s why the flame went out, my concentration was broken by the pain."

Clovis watches me. There’s no disbelief in her eyes, but there’s no confirmation, either. It’s the look of a scientist observing an anomaly she can’t yet measure. "The exertion of your first magical expression might be triggering a phantom sensation linked to what caused these scars. The purple hue of the flame could be the physical manifestation?"

The clinical detachment of her words is infuriating. It’s not a phantom. I saw it. It was as real as the cot I’m sitting on. "It’s not in my head, Clovis."

She holds up her hands in a placating gesture. "I’m not saying it is, it’s just that I can’t perceive it. Magic is tied to your soul, and your scars are clearly a deep part of your past." 

She gives me a reassuring, if slightly strained, smile. "Listen, don’t worry about it for now. If it happens again, just let me know and I’ll make a note of it."

"Ok, thank you." My frustration is evident in my voice, more than I would like but I couldn’t hold it in. 

But, what choice do I have? She is my teacher and I am her student. 

Sour feelings begin to churn in the pit of my stomach.