Radiance - The Alight Archives Book #1

64. This Thing Called Luck

Custas licked his lips as he bent forward, a hand slapped on the galbora tree trunk beside him. He hadn't kept track of how long he'd been running, just that his stomach was on fire, and his leg muscles pleaded for a reprieve with every aching pulse. Gasping for breaths, Custas wiped the beads of sweat that had accumulated on his forehead. Tired though he was, his mind raced for options.

Thanks to that no-good Professor Knight, he'd been placed in an irritating position. Now, he had a target over his back for both the Sparrows and Griffins. Fighting and dueling had never been his strong suits; it was why he'd much prefer to use his charmspeak—his words—to diffuse a situation, if nothing else. 

It was also the reason that he—and many other unsavory individuals—considered himself a great diversion, for when you could captivate someone with what you were saying, regardless of whether or not it was rubbish, you had the advantage of playing them to your rhythm.

If Luck had given him nothing else, it was that he was good with his tongue, but discounting that, what else did he have going for him now? Or, to be more specific, what did he possess in his arsenal that would make him pass this exam with an admirable grade, an even likelier possibility?

Custas smirked as he pressed his hands into his back and stretched, rising onto the tip of his toes as a satisfied groan escaped him. Back in Urista, there was a belief that the moment someone was born, their Goddess of Fortune and Promise—Maralyn—would subscribe a certain quantity of Luck to them. The more of it you were born with, the better your life would be.

Reflecting on his life, Custas felt that he had not experienced much good fortune. As a lowborn, he had been abandoned by his parents in a foreign land and ended up joining a violent gang just to survive, eventually being presented with the choice of imprisonment or training to become a Professional Sorcerer. Why?  Why had fate been so unkind to him? Why had Maralyn gifted him with so little Luck?

Sure, he had a talent for magic and was considerably skilled in the art of Summoning, but what good was any of that if he couldn't leverage them to attain his desires—wealth, recognition, a better life? Would graduating from this surging academy truly transform his prospects, or was he merely clinging to hope as insubstantial as seashells on the shore?

The prospect of leading a comfortable life was the sole source of motivation that sustained him through enduring the constant stream of challenges Glyph shoved in his face. The allure of capturing a noble status and escaping from the burdens of his current circumstances was a strong enough incentive to become a Professional Sorcerer, wasn't it? Wasn't it?!

Trudging through the dense forest, a deep, frustrated growl emanated from between his tightly pressed lips as he raked his fingers through his disheveled, dark hair. Despite the weight on his shoulders, he knew the exam took precedence over anything else. With a heavy sigh, he plunged his hands into his pockets and ambled onto the forest path. 

His gaze wandered to the left, then shifted to the right, and from first glance, both paths looked similar—almost identical—in his eyes: a winding trail of dirt enclosed by hedges of foliage and stellarium crystals poking out of the earth in clusters, and covered by the freckled shadows of the galbora trees' canopies above.

Amidst his retreat from Jesse and the other Sparrows that pursued him, he hadn't put much stock in where he was running to, just that he needed to escape his enemies before they did him in. Perhaps that was another strength Maralyn left him: knowing when to run away. As pathetic as it sounded, it kept him alive thus far.

With a furrowed brow, Custas knelt down and carefully picked up a sturdy stick from the ground. He began the intricate task of drawing a spirit circle, fully aware of its importance. Like with Enchantment, the accuracy of every detail was crucial when creating a spirit circle. Even the slightest deviation in a character or ring could render it ineffective, regardless of the amount of Essence infused or the strength of one's Bond with the spirit.