@deathfxnds have a smol thing because your art got me thinking about the tattoos... i love you cyn ♥️
It is an old rite, by now: a pledge, remade every time he seeks the dark power kept within the box. Within that simple object lies enlightening darkness, old secrets and terrible truths, made from the shadow of shadow, the magic in the world that had been deemed too dark.
But darkness is a natural state same as light, Zed had come to understand. The mantle of night is but one of myriad examples, the reason why the luminescence of celestial bodies shone so brightly. Proof of that single truth: balance requires two opposing forces to meet, equal in strength, lest there be no equilibrium at all. It became his mantle, his willingly carried burden.
For the light to shine, it ought to cast a shadow.
There is no bitter taste as the ichor is absorbed; its bitterness lies in the dark truths it reveals, a harsh view of the world that demands only the strong survive. Power has its uses, of course, a currency more necessary than riches. A lure, too, all its own (what couldn't one achieve, if only he wielded enough power?). The first time he claimed the shadows as his own, Zed had been forced to reckon with all it revealed on his own, piece together the truth worth clinging to and shunning the temptation insidiously poised alongside it. He was not called master out of any lofty sense of self-importance, nor any aggrandizing notions his defiance ought to earn him respect; that most important of titles had been earned by his own merit, as he had dominated the shadows rather than allowed them to dominate him.
His younger acolytes are to be accompanied by the priestess, the keeper of the box, cryptic though her advice may be — but when he undertakes the ritual, it is alone, the room entirely his, no noise but the nigh imperceptible sound of his breathing. In the penumbra, he would stand before the object (accursed, some would say, though he disagrees; there are many dangers to the world, some of its own making, yet this is a corruption only the weak fall prey to, exposure of what already laid within), and he would pause ere reaching for it. A moment to brace himself, always taken, but significant nevertheless. Not hesitation (he had surrendered himself to the darkness long ago), but rather taking the time to meet his ambitions and his hatred, his anger and his guilt, and make his peace with the feelings he carries within his chest.
Only then would calloused hands slide open the lid, allowing the shadows to pour from the box as if possessing a will of their own. In some form, Zed thinks, they do; all things do, in this part of the world, alive even when lacking sentience. Writhing darkness would fill the room, a greater amount than most would be capable of taking without losing themselves irrevocably. To him, they are intimately known, after years of careful study and excessive practice. He knows what is to come even before the flavorless shadows enter his mouth, the odd something and nothing of the sensation familiar. He knows soon enough it changes, expands, becomes that of limitless ambition as he sees the truth beneath everything, feels the power course through his body, allows the shadows to envelop his mind.
He knows what is to come, of course — but Kayn does not.
Though the standard practice became leaving the acolytes under the care of Ysdra, he accompanies his pupil himself. Sentimental, Shi had condemned; you treat the boy as a son rather than a student, ready to hold his hand in the face of a test. Zed had sharply retorted he was merely interested in assessing his best student’s progress himself, since it was the first time he would truly make use of the Tears beyond meager droplets to be consumed. These would stain his skin, etch it in patterns as they saw fit. Many could not hold them, most not more than a small amount, and despite his unparalleled skill, Kayn was still young. If he wasn’t ready, the experience would take a heavy toll on him. And Zed was his master, was he not? A good mentor would not abandon his pupil at a crucial moment and leave him to handle the consequences. He was going to be a better master than the one he had, a quiet promise, sworn long ago; Kayn wouldn’t need to shoulder on his own any burden he wasn’t ready for.
Her criticism wasn’t new, nevertheless, and if it ever possessed any bite, it had long since lost it. Zed had taught him the base for every weapon he had mastered, the foundation of their principles, their purpose and their techniques; but so had he kept the child company in his sleepless nights, made sure he was properly fed, braided his hair when it grew too long. There had been walks through the wilderness, intent on making Kayn know the land and let Ionia know him in return, nights in festivals Zed would not have set foot in again if not for the boy, determined not to deny him anything.
Wherever you were born, he said, the day Kayn had formally become his pupil, you belong to that place no longer. We are ionian. This land shall be your land, your home, your mother. Respect it, and it will respect you in turn. Embrace it, and She will love you as one of Her own.
Fatherhood and mentorship simply stood divided by a blurred line, he had always justified it. He taught Kayn for the Order, as his master, but he would not leave his pupil without support. Now it was no different. It is a crucial moment, and though Kayn bears himself well, Zed can see the hint of too much tension upon his shoulders, the uncertainty of not knowing deep beneath the defiant confidence of his amber eyes. He always did have more defiance than sense, the master thinks, expression softer as the shadow of a smile plays upon his lips. He can do this, though he poses the question nevertheless. “If you would rather wait and further prepare —”
“No!” The protest is as immediate as it is filled with fervor, interrupting him before the last chance to back down is truly offered. Kayn catches himself before continuing, apologetic in his words if not in the stubborn protest in his expression as he looks up to meet his master’s gaze. “I’m sorry, master — but I can do it. I’m ready. I won’t fail you.”
No trepidation remains in his eyes, Zed notices, accepting his pledge with a stoic nod. “Stay calm,” A lesson repeated, learned from his own master. “But if you cannot do that, run toward your fear.”
“You have to be certain if you are to be precise. This power is dangerous, Kayn, as all power is. But without strength, we cannot protect that which needs protection, and without ambition we are rendered incapable of reaching for the strength we seek. Master it, and you will have an array of weapons at your disposal that can do far more than steel.” Crimson eyes turn away from the boy to approach the box, placed on a small stone altar. He stands on the opposite side, hands upon the lid, though not yet opening it.
Kayn’s gaze follows his hands, examining the box with no small amount of curiosity, standing as if eager to open it himself rather than wait a moment longer. Wait he does, nevertheless; patience, too, is an important lesson, one every assassin had to learn to make use of the best opportunities. Their trade was not gruesome slaughter; they struck where they ought to, fatal in their precision, saving the many with the deaths of the few. An old lesson, one he is certain his student has not forgotten. What taste for blood the boy possessed, it had never been directed to purposeless killing. His dedication is without equal, his skill bound to surpass Zed’s own; a worthy successor, one day, if he successfully made use of the shadows.
That he needs not to know, for now. It wouldn’t do to add more pressure to an already difficult trial.
“But remember, my student, that no power comes without a price, the most dangerous of all to be found within yourself,” He continues, piercing gaze not softening as he looks at Kayn. The time for gentleness, albeit subtle, has passed. The darkness will not offer him sympathy, after all. “Do not be greedy for more than you can pay. Remember strength is to serve your purpose, not for you to become a slave to seeking ever more of it. Know the shadows will show you many things, terrible and wonderful and true — there is enlightenment to be found in them, if you are wise enough to see it, and utter doom if you are not.”
Rather than another long pause, Zed continues immediately; sowing doubt in the boy’s heart is not his intent. His hands leave the box, falling to his sides, before one moves to grip Kayn’s shoulder. “I know you are ready, Kayn. There is nothing to fear.” Retracting his hand, Zed crosses his arms. “Go on. Gaze into the shadow, and make it part of you.”
A nod in agreement, and the younger reaches for the object, no hesitation before he opens it. Immediately, the Tears writhe and pour from the box, darkening the room. Kayn opens himself to them, recites the words as he had been taught, and a portion of the shadows flow towards him, eliciting a surprised gasp as they are ingested and the surge of power travels through his body. Half a second later, it truly hits him, the truth the shadows keep: with enough strength, one can not only survive but shape the world around him — strength now within his reach, every muscle made more resilient, his body faster and more powerful. Never again would he need to be powerless, a certainty felt more than thought, even as marvel mixes with dread and the mystical forces prod at his uncertainties, fan the flames of his rage, make him incandescent with turmoil. Darkness dances across his mind to an unsung melody of everything there was and is and will be; he cannot understand everything, but this is having the universe at his fingertips, he knows, and if he can control this, then he can control anything. Greatness lies on the horizon, should he be bold enough to claim it.
Impetuousness demands Kayn claim it now. He wants to, and he wants to devour the darkness and dominate it as he had every weapon, one more tool in his arsenal; but his successes had not been built on foolishness, reckless though he may be on occasion. You do not sacrifice a finger in your eagerness to master the sword; neither do you surrender yourself to the power you seek to claim.
Soon enough the inebriated state of trance begins to fade, alongside the terrifying power he would scarcely be able to control. It is still there, Kayn notices, except less… raw. Not muted, but more somber, a well to tap into rather than an ocean to drown in. He feels the light, cold brush of the swirling patterns forming from inside. Dark ink-like matter etches itself from the base of his thumb, circling his wrist. It is a relatively thin pattern, not going much beyond that. Insignificant compared to his master — but more than many veterans of the Order successfully claimed so far, he notes, with an inevitable sense of pride. There would be more, eventually, he is certain. One day, he would yet be Master Zed’s equal.
Crimson eyes remain watchful as it all unfolds, expression neutral. It belies what is in his heart, momentarily fearing the boy would go too far, incapable of starting slow. Kayn proves him wrong and his worries unfounded, nevertheless, exerting his will when it’s time to stop. The master of the yánléi watches as the tattoo forms, dread replaced by pride. Not for a moment did he sincerely doubt the boy’s capacity, but this was no meaningless feat.
“How are you feeling?” The question seems to almost startle Kayn, as if only upon hearing his master’s voice he recalled he did not have the room to himself. Wide-eyed surprise does not last, and glances at his right arm again, turning it briefly to examine the pattern.
“Strong,” Kayn replies, no mention made of inner conflict or revelations found amidst his trance. Zed does not pry; it is not his right to know if his pupil does not wish to share, not this time. “You know, I always wondered if you chose the patterns yourself.”
The commentary catches the master off guard, casual as if he spoke of clothing rather than the damning power behind the rift between their order and the Kinkou. A brow raised in question, the disbelief is not entirely kept from his tone. “You expected me to have come up with the way the tattoos are arranged?”
“It wasn’t impossible that was the case,” The boy argues, even as the last of the ichor withdraws back to the box that keeps it, Kayn closing it right after. “Doesn’t it sound more absurd the shadows simply chose a certain pattern?”
“Not when you know they are part of Ionia’s natural magic as much as the magic we witness freely shaping the land,” As serious as he meant for the reply to sound, Zed doubts it truly comes across as that. If anything seems absurd it is that this is Kayn’s chosen topic; he can’t help but wonder what lies concealed beneath the collected demeanor his pupil exhibits. It will be days before he truly settles, no longer feeling the need to keep a watchful eye, to ensure Kayn is truly fine, even if the younger refuses to say it. Yet there is one small thing he can do, to acknowledge his student’s effort, to praise his success (to ensure he knows no matter what comes, he will not have to face it alone, never again to be left behind or discarded as if merely a tool).
Mentorship and fatherhood share a blurred line; yet neither as master nor as mentor would he ever look at the boy as mere weapon when he is so much more. “You did well today,” Sincere and open, as he always strives to be towards the boy, regardless of how challenging that can be. “I am proud of you, Kayn.”
