Trace of Arcane - Book 1

Chapter Four

Here I stand, once again, a fly buzzing beneath the judging gaze of the Luminaries - the women's council for committing crimes on the day of the Lady. Boredom, that familiar itch, crawls under my skin. How predictable it all is - the hushed whispers, the pursed lips, the weight of their so-called wisdom pressing down like a suffocating shroud. Haven't they heard this song and dance enough times to know the melody by heart? I'm the rogue note, the dissonance in their symphony, and their predictable outrage simply fuels the spark of defiance in my eyes. Let them drown in their own righteousness, these pale moths drawn to the sickly glow of their own fabricated light. For in the shadows, where they dare not tread, I find my freedom, my power, my own twisted kind of redemption. Bring on the accusations, the pronouncements, the hollow condemnations. This time, their chorus will fall on deaf ears, for the abyss has whispered secrets in my ear, and its melody drowns out their predictable droning.

"Eden," says one of the members, "I asked you a question."

Shit, I wasn't listenig.

I look up to see stern faces, or is it anger? I can't quite tell. They are always the same, same faces, same motivations.

"Eden," the tone is rougher.

How do I save this? Wait, who am I? How should I act? What am I doing? What type of personality should I have? I take a deep breath, pull my legs and shoulders together and lower my head.

Slowly, slowly. You need to be smart about these things.

"I can see you look remorseful," says one of the members of the women's council, "but what is remorse if you keep doing the same thing time and time again?"

Boredom gnaws at me. These games are getting stale. Time to rewrite the rules. Focus. Connection. Control. Not this endless cycle of getting caught.

I needed an advocate. A champion in this ridiculous court. Seven faces stare down from the women's council table. A semicircle of judgment, mirroring the council of youths before them. My fate, a coin toss in their hands. If they escalate to the elders' council, the fallout wouldn't be contained. My family would pay. The irony is suffocating. Why should one's choices strangle an entire bloodline? Their expressions are stoic masks, but I am an expert at finding cracks. Adane, chin held high, nostrils flaring in outrage – a lost cause. Amaya? Futile. My gaze lands on Muriel, daggers glinting in her eyes. Not a good sign.

Gurien's expression carries a touch of empathy - typical for an overly trusting idiot who is easy to manipulate. Her sympathies towards me are linked to our earlier encounter. It rekindles a memory - my interrogation regarding the missing choya seeds. Back then, I, the child of the outsider, the half - Foundation, was a convenient scapegoat for the priestesshood's watchful eyes and also, without their full confirmation, the rightful target. I needed the seeds to trade with Zig for materials to make a necklace for my mother.

Her chamber, then, was draped in cool shadows, scented with the cloying sweetness of incense. Her gaze, sharp as a hawk's beak, pinned me down, as I wove a tapestry of half-truths and feigned innocence, a performance honed by years of navigating the minefield of suspicion. It was one of my proudest achievements as all I had to do was to act confused so she could dominate the conversation and act confident as the conversation went on.

She listened with an unexpected openness as I spoke of the sting of being an outsider, of straddling two worlds yet belonging to neither and the interrogation, which could have resulted in a public flogging, became a conversation as I talked on subjects that I knew she wanted me to talk about and allowed her to think that she was helping me. By the time the session was over, all she could do was sing praises about me, telling me how I was the most intelligent young person she has ever met, which I found very gratifying.