Author's Note: It's been a while! So, this is much longer than one of my typical stories, and the "good parts" are pretty deep into the narrative. Things heat up a lot more in subsequent parts, but I thought it was only fair to set expectations early on. Part 1 here is actually chapters 1-6 of the larger story, so you can expect more down the line. With that said, I hope you enjoy, and please let me know your thoughts if you have any you'd like to share.
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Copyright © 2023 C. D. Fable
All rights reserved.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
All characters appearing in this story are over the age of 18.
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Chapter 1
The Tower of Duibheagán
The dark Tower of Duibheagán loomed over the town, though the title of 'tower' was somewhat misleading. While it may have started as a rickety pile of rocks, it was now an imposing keep and made of much better material. The tower proper still stood at the center of the keep and fulfilled the same dreadful purpose for which it was originally constructed. Sturdy stone walls kept out the unwelcome and curious alike. Only those with immense wealth and power were permitted visitation.
The keep looked like most in the region. The inner ward was lined with cobblestone paths leading between the stables, kitchens, library, dormitory, and dining hall, all of which were unremarkable. A small wilting garden lined the foundation of the central tower. Moss and vines crept along the base, thinning as they reached higher. The Blazing Order of Ber'Soniur didn't keep gardeners on its payroll.
The inside of the tower was nothing special as far as imposing structures go. An ever-persistent draft kept the tapestries swaying gently, tapping against the worn-down stone walls. There was always the sound of some unseen water dripping, but the source remained a mystery. The ever-present scent of sulfur wafted through the air, though the inhabitants hardly noticed it anymore.
The townspeople knew, more or less, the cult's intentions and wretched purpose but rarely spoke of it aloud amongst themselves and never to outsiders. A mix of fear and bribery kept them from asking too many questions. In return for their cooperation, the Order shared its fabulous wealth with the town, and as a result, it thrived. Ignorance was in the people's best interest. They figured gold was preferable to knowing what caused those pained howls some evenings or why, once a year, so many of their members were admitted to the healer with grievous wounds.
It was clear the tower was some den of evil and depravity. Tenebrous halls teeming with the vilest mortals this side of Eros. A haven for only the most heinous occultist to have ever walked this plane of existence.
"Fiddlesticks," cursed Ryg. He sat in the library, hunched over a large square parchment. Sweat beaded on his brow. He drew a deep breath as he steadied his hand. With his quill, he very slowly closed the circular pattern and carefully touched up the protective glyphs around it. He exhaled and slumped in his chair.
He had a scholar's build, that is to say, average height and somewhat lanky. His face was pleasant enough, clean-shaven and kind, save for the dark circles around his blue-grey eyes. His short dark hair was unkempt from constantly running his fingers through it. Like all initiates, he wore a brown hooded robe tied at the waist with a chord that never seemed to hold its knot. Affixed to the belt were several small sacks of reagents, tinctures, and one pouch containing some snacks in case he got hungry. The uniform was always woefully drafty, even in long underwear.
The sound of quills scratching parchment filled his senses. He pulled back his hood and looked around the library to see how his fellow initiates were doing. Most looked to be in the same state as himself: Stressed. He wondered if he'd finished too hastily and double-checked his work.
"Looks about right. I think..." He groaned and second-guessed every line on the parchment. "I'm overthinking it," he muttered to himself, "It's a basic summoning. You do this, you lose your S-Card, and you earn yourself that black hood." His pep talk did little to convince himself. He groaned and slumped back in his chair, covering his eyes with his forearm. "She's gonna think I'm such a loser."
"Who will?" asked a soft voice.
He shot up and nearly toppled the rickety wooden table. He was met with a collective hush and several derisive stares from his fellow practitioners.
A fellow initiate stood over him. Her straight, raven black hair was neatly tucked behind her ears and draped down to the small of her back. Her face was pale and lightly freckled. Her smile and hazel eyes both held a welcoming charm within them.
"Dys!" He whispered loudly. "I didn't see you. I figured you'd be halfway through your summoning by now." He blushed.
She chuckled softly and gave him a playful tap with her own rolled-up parchment. "Not exactly. It is exciting, though, isn't it?" She gestured toward the door with her head.
"Yeah," he said unconvincingly. He rolled up his parchment and followed her out of the library and into the courtyard. Along the cobblestone path, they passed several others who were waving their hands and mumbling incantations on repeat.
"Hopefully," she started, "we'll all be blackhoods by soon."
"You will be. Some of us will just be lucky to still have all our limbs afterwards."
"Well, the healer says no one has actually died from initiate rites in ages, so that kind of takes the pressure off."
"Or it means we're due," he muttered. His eyes lingered on a fellow student a year older than him, wearing an eyepatch and missing several fingers.
"Dysglaer," called a brown-robed woman waiting at the tower's entrance. She was about the same height as Ryg. Her eyes were always half-closed and dispassionate, and the circles around them were so dark you'd half expect to see holes instead of eyes. She kept her messy blond hair in a tight braid that she wore over her shoulder.
She stormed over, her cold eyes fixed on Ryg. "Why are you wasting your time with the bargain buy-in? Our black hoods await."
"Úll be nice," said Dys. "Ryg is going to be a fine summoner."
"Can't be that good if his parents were willing to sell him for, what, five gold pieces? Didn't even try to negotiate for more? You know they go up to ten, right? Must have been real eager to dump you off."
Ryg looked away.
"Úll," said Dys, "leave him be. Our ancestors were all sold here at some point. Besides, we can't sustain our numbers with towerborn alone. He's going to do fine."
Úll snatched his parchment.
"Hey!" he protested, meekly trying to retrieve his parchment.
Úll unfurled it and looked it over. "Jittery lines. Retouched glyphs. Do you want your imp to know you're a nervous wreck? Abyss, did you cheat on the last exam for that top five placement?" She tossed the parchment back at him. "Fine by me. If it shreds your face, that'll probably be an improvement."
"Úll, that's enough," said Dys firmly.
"Fine, fine," she said, rolling her eyes, "I was just having a bit of fun. Right Ryg?" she shot him a stare that told him not to answer. She looked to Dys. "You ready?"
"We're doing a little extra credit," said Dys, turning to Ryg.
"Extra-"
"Bab bab bab!" shouted Úll, waving her hands wildly. "Don't tell him that. He hasn't earned it."
