Page 24 of The Song of Sunrise
“Akemi wishes to enroll in the Watch,” Castor states, and my heart practically jumps through my throat.
Markus laughs and wipes his chin once he notices us standing still, awaiting his approval. “A Teller is meant for entertaining people with their hopeless fairy tales, not for rigorous training, fights, and battlefields.”
Maybe it is my rage at his pompous statement that causes my mouth to fly open in defense before thinking. “Tellers are highly regarded historians of the Lus’Civitas. Anotherequalfaction of the Governance along with the Watch, mind you.” I square my shoulders and look straight at the Elder. “Without us, humans would not know our own histories, the facts, the battles that you so promptly referenced. They aren’t fairy tales; they are legacies put to words so that we do not repeat our same flippant mistakes in a century from now. The same mistakes that nearly ended this earth. When the ancient relics of the Old World fade, who will remember? Tellers are the real guardians. The guardians of truth, of purpose, of loss, of hope. We are the keepers of ancient war strategies. Living, breathing anthologies when towns like Ashwood are decimated. Who remembers then?”
My pulse is screaming, and my chest heaves up and down. I catch my breath and raise my chin slowly to meet those beady black eyes once more. Eyes so unlike Castor’s. “Learning to fight seems simple compared to memorizing thousands of stories.”
The only reaction Markus gives is the slight up tilt of an eyebrow as he walks around the desk, stopping only inches infront of me. He peels off a leather glove. I flinch as he extends a ruined hand toward my face. He places a finger in the gap between my clavicle bones at the base of my neck. A shudder of disgust travels down my spine.
“You may stay,” he says before rounding back to his seat.
“Thank you, Father,” Castor says.
“Never again speak to me in such a manner, Akemi”—Elder Superior Markus glares at me—“or your story will end much more abruptly than you anticipate.”
His threat is pungent and dark, like oil on my skin. I feel the need to wash myself raw to erase the memory of his touch. Castor turns and guides me out of the office. Only when we are back in a large main black and white tiled corridor does Castor finally let go of my lower back.
“So… the Elder Superior is your father?” I ask awkwardly.
Castor looks at me and shrugs. “If I could pick another family, I would.”
“I don’t even know mine,” I hear myself faintly say before I can stop myself. Castor’s head tilts to the side slightly as if he is about to say something when Leaf jogs into sight with another smaller figure trailing behind.
“Hey! How did it go?” Leaf asks, his sunny disposition already warming my mood.
“About as good as it usually goes. But… Akemi’s in!” Castor puts his arm around my shoulders and pulls me close.
“I was hoping you’d say that, because I found her official roommate.” Leaf hops to the side to reveal a short, beautiful woman, with gorgeous dark, curly hair that parts in the middle for bangs, tapering eventually to her shoulders. Her pixie-like features, big green eyes and blushing round cheeks, contrast with her olive skin and all black attire, including platform boots and looped ring in the center of her small, upturned nose.
“Hi. I’m Ramona!” She offers a quick wave. “Leaf says you’re one heck of a storyteller.”
I smile coyly. “I can’t promise you anything.”
“Ramona is a Legacy cadet, so she’s got plenty of room to share,” Leaf adds, smiling fondly at Ramona.
“Yes, I guess one of the only good things about being born into a long line of Watchers is the bigger rooms. Definitely not the moving every few years and forced-enrollment in the Watch,” she deadpans.
I like her.
“Oh come on. You are a natural with all things weapons. You secretly love it here,” Leaf counters.
“We’ll see. Glad I have someone else to hang with now other than these two.” Ramona reaches forward and grabs my hand. “Come on, I’ll show you to our room. I’m sure you are sick of smelling their body odor by now.”
“Hey!” Castor and Leaf both say, but we are already five steps ahead before they burst into arguing with each other about who smells worse.
For having such short legs, Ramona walks at a ridiculously brisk pace. I can barely keep up with her. She seems to have boundless amounts of energy, despite the late hour. She chats the whole way to our room about how she is training for her first-stone like me, that she has an “in” with the cafeteria staff so we will get the “good bean brew,” and how she will take me shopping tomorrow for proper training leathers.
I cannot help but admire Ramona’s oozing confidence as I follow her sure-footed steps. She wears a plain black high neck sweater in an Eastlander style, but her version is distressed andcut off at the shoulders. Her dark cargo pants swish and jingle with each quick step.
But the most unique part of Ramona’s style is the choker around her neck. Strands of black leather weave toward a central point where three hollowed silver hooks lie empty, like claws reaching outwards grasping at air.
“We’re almost there,” Ramona calls over her shoulder. We pass a long corridor with a large floor-to-ceiling glass wall on our right. Through the wall, I can see a dimly lit library full of books.
I lean in closer to the glass, cupping my hands around my eyes to see though the reflective surface better. The inside of the room is one from my dreams. Stacks of books pile high in every corner. Shelves host books at heights impossible to reach but by ladder.
Books. Hundreds, maybe thousands, of them. Since the dawn of the New World, books are quite rare. Coveted by many as a luxury. A lump forms in my throat and I try to swallow. Marrow would have loved it here.
SMACK!
