A Storm of Shadows (Shatterborn Book One)

Chapter IV, Seven Years Later

A/N: Onigiri=Rice Balls, Kudamono=Fruit, Ocha=Tea

                     It was always the darkness that she remembered first. In the first grey light, she would lie awake, shivering. That time, before any of the monks were awake, was the time she hated most-when she could feel the absence of energy in the silence of the walls. Lying there, alone in her alcove, Emmaline would whisper prayer after prayer to the Nine, hoping for a guardian against night.

            This day was no different. The whisper of stray leaf against cold stone, the creak of wooden banister rippled through her unconscious mind and dragged her primal self to wakefulness. Her eyes flew open, instantly alert, the fear too real to ignore.

            Slowly, as her mind subsided to a steadier pace, she sat up. It’s not real, she thought to her fear.  Yes, Emmaline, it is, her fear whispered back.

Her eyes trained on the doorway, she edged slowly to the stone wall behind her futon. The darkness of the hallway licked against the doorframe. Emmaline refused to ask for a torch outside her door. It was weakness, to fear dark, and she was determined to fight it on her own terms.

For several minutes, she glared fiercely at the shadows, willing them to recede. She saw her own will, her own Sora, glowing bright from her body and pushing at the dark. Her concentration flared brighter, radiating into the hall beyond.

This was when she had to stop, every time. If she burned too bright, she would wake one of the older monks, and then all of them would know what it was they felt in their sleep.

As the light subsided and collapsed back into her, Emmaline drew in a shuddering breath. Her first Test of the day was done. It was not her choice to face her hardest Test first; that was simply how it went.

Her body stiff and aching, Emmaline clambered off of her futon. Consistent poise is a stone in the path to greater Sora, chided the Voice. Emmaline allowed herself the ghost of a smile. Then, with somewhat more gracefulness than a few moments previously, she began the first set of stretches in her routine.

Arching her back towards the ceiling, hands together and stretched, Emmaline paused.

The barest breath of cold against the nape of her neck sent tremors down to her gut. She wobbled, her focus broken, and lurched sideways toward the wall. Her breath was a trembling shudder of air and as she turned, it condensed into mist.

Like an anchor, Emmaline trailed the tips of her fingers along the wall as she walked to the warped window. Like the rest of the monastery, it was older than a lot of the rivers in the plains below. Time had not been kind to the glass, as it rippled and bent along its length.

She tugged up her sleeve and rubbed it on the glass.

Through the ripples, she could see no more than a few meters before the valley gave way to thick, deep fog.

Emmaline lurched back. Her heart thumped, kicking into fight or flight mode, surging adrenaline around her body. Against the chill dawn air, her skin burned. 

But amidst all her survival instincts, she felt no strength. No bravery. Only fear that gripped her throat and crushed her lungs, that screamed through her mind with rampaging glee as it set afire all self control.

The slightest of whimpers escaped her white lips.

A shadow flickered in the fog. It slithered, closer and closer, sliding in and out of view. Emmaline backed slowly away, towards the door-then stopped.

No way forward, no way back, the Voice chuckled. Two ways in and no way out. What now, Shatterborn?

The shadow grew form, and tentacles. The darkness drew strength from her fear and licked at her feet. And still, within, that binding fear that battered at her mind.