Chapter 3: Lessons in Darkness
The first days in the stone hut passed as if in a fog—a fog of pain, exhaustion, and bitter adaptation. The Master, as I now called him, was a figure of few words and sparse movements, yet every action was purposeful. I was no longer chained, but the boundaries he set were stricter than any iron. My range of movement was limited to the hut and a small surrounding area, a circle marked by specific stones in the forest. Stepping outside meant breaking the first rule, and though he never directly threatened, the coldness in his grey eyes was warning enough.
Lessons began, as he had promised, but not in the way I had imagined.
The first lesson was not reading the ancient letters in his books, or martial arts, or even further explanation about the Vars Eyes. The first lesson was silence.
"Sit here," he commanded on the second morning, pointing to the wooden floor in the middle of the main room, away from the windows and fireplace. "Close your eyes. And be silent."
"What am I to do?" I asked, confused.
"Nothing. Just be silent. And listen."
I obeyed, sitting cross-legged on the cold floor. At first, there were only obvious sounds: the hiss of burning wood in the fireplace, the sound of the Master turning book pages, the rustle of wind outside. Then, my body rebelled. The wounds on my back throbbed. Stiff muscles demanded to be moved. My mind jumped from memories of the lash, to Leon's pale face, to the cold feel of the dark coin in my hand. The restlessness was a living thing writhing in my chest.
"You are not silent," the Master's voice cut in, flat. "Even your breath is noisy. Calm it."
I tried. Drawing deep breaths, trying to mimic his calm. But it was impossible. After what felt like an hour—time felt very elastic in that silence—I shivered and opened my eyes.
"I'm cold," I protested.
He nodded, as if that was the expected answer. "Cold is a sensation. Sound is a sensation. Pain is a sensation. They are information. You must learn to listen to that information, not be enslaved by it. Tomorrow, you will sit longer."
It was a torture of its own. Sitting in silence, fighting every discomfort, every flash of memory, every hiss of fear. But slowly, over several days, something began to change. I learned to separate myself from those sensations. The cold remained, but as if it was happening to someone else. The pain became merely a signal, not a command to wince. And in the space created, I began to hear other things.
I heard the difference between wind sweeping treetops and wind rattling dead leaves on the ground. I heard my own heartbeat begin to slow, adjusting to the rhythm of nature outside. I heard a small mouse scratching behind the stone wall, and an owl shifting on the roof. And, most strangely, I began to sense their presence not as sounds, but as faint points of warmth in the darkness of my closed eyes. Like the heat trails I saw at night with my Vars Eyes, but subtler, deeper, and coming not through sight, but through something else.
"Good," the Master murmured one morning, when I could finally sit still for nearly half a day without moving. "You are learning to separate awareness from senses. That is the foundation. Without it, the Vars Eyes would only master you, bombard you with information until your mind shattered."
The second lesson dealt directly with my eyes.
He took me into the forest at dusk, to a place where giant trees formed a dense canopy, leaving the world beneath in permanent twilight.
"Look around," he commanded. "Tell me what you see. But not with the words of a guard or a hunter. Tell me with the words of an... observer."
I observed. "There's an old beech tree there, its bark peeling. There's a boar track in the mud, still fresh. There's a bird's nest on the broken branch..."
"Superficial," he cut in. "That's what anyone with half-functional eyes sees. Use your gift. Look at the color. Look at the flow of life."
I frowned, then let my focus soften, as I always did instinctively when searching for food or avoiding danger. The world changed. Ordinary colors faded, replaced by a different layer of colors, dimmer yet deeper. The beech tree wasn't just brown; its trunk emitted a faint, pale green glow, like mushroom light, brighter near the roots and fading upwards. That was its 'life', I guessed. The boar track wasn't just an imprint in the mud; there was a fading reddish-orange warm trail marking its path. Even the air seemed layered, with cold, bluish-green areas near the ground and faint, warm yellow currents rising from the last sunlit spots.
"I... I see light," I uttered, sounding awed despite trying to be cold. "Green light on the tree, orange light on the trail. Warm currents in the air."
The Master nodded, satisfied. "Good. That is the vital flow, the basic life energy that flows through all living things, and even inanimate objects that once lived or have absorbed it. That tree is strong, its roots deep. That trail is less than an hour old. The wind from the west carries warmth from the meadows." He stepped closer. "Now, look at me."
I turned my gaze on him. And I almost stumbled backward.
Normally, with my regular sight, he looked like a thin, pale-faced man with grey eyes. But with my Vars Eyes fully open… He was almost invisible. There was a faint silhouette, a human shape, but extremely dim, like a shadow overwhelmed by bright light. Around him, there was almost no color. No green of life, no orange of emotion, no blue cold of indifference. Only grey, like a dense, cold mist, and at its center, where a heart should be, there was… an absence. A small void, pitch dark, absorbing the light around it.
"What… what is that?" I whispered, my voice trembling.
"That is me," he answered, his voice calm. "I have learned, over many years, to cloak my vital flow, to leave no trace readable by sight like yours or certain tools of the Order. To become a ghost." There was a small note of intellectual pride in his voice. "It is a defense. And one day, if you last long enough, I will teach you to do it. Because as long as your life-radiance shines like a torch in the night to those who can see, you will always be quarry."
The warning settled in my stomach like a stone. I always knew my eyes made me different, cursed. But to hear it described as a 'torch' calling all predators… it made real a new level of my vulnerability.
"The Order of the White Rose," I asked. "Can they see like this?"
"Some of them. The most trained ones. The Inquisitors, in particular. They call it the 'Eye of Truth'. They use it to detect deviations, forbidden magic, cursed blood like yours." He turned away, breaking the illusion of his absence, and looked like a normal man again. "But their sight is rigid, dogmatic. They see the world in black and white, cursed and holy. Your sight, if trained, can be far sharper. Can see nuance, flow, lies."
"Lies?"
"Every living being emits subtle changes in its vital aura when lying, fearing, or planning betrayal. A calm killer might have a cold heart, but his intent emits a distinctive deep red hue, like frozen blood. A traitor might smile, but there is a pale yellow vibration, like shame, around his hands." He looked at me. "You've felt it, haven't you? Before that old Bearded Man whipped your back, you knew his anger was peaking."
I nodded slowly, remembering the almost blazing reddish aura around the slaver before the first lash landed.
"That was your instinct. We will turn it into science."
Days turned into weeks. A routine formed: meditation in the morning, sight lessons at dusk, and in between, physical work. The Master taught me how to move silently—not just carefully, but with full awareness of every muscle, every shift of weight, so I could walk over dry twigs without breaking them. He taught me the basics of using a knife—not to fight like a knight, but to survive, to kill quickly and quietly if necessary. "Noisy violence is a failure," he said. "True violence is something that happens before the victim realizes it."
The food was simple but nutritious: roots, vegetables from a small garden behind the hut, occasionally rabbit meat he trapped. My gauntness slowly disappeared, replaced by hard, lean muscle. The wounds on my back healed into rough scar tissue, a physical reminder I would carry forever.
One night, when heavy rain hammered the roof and we sat near the fireplace, my courage peaked.
"Who are you, really?" I asked, looking directly at him. "You're not a noble. Not a priest. Not a wizard from folklore. What are you seeking?"
He wasn't angered. He put down the thin book he was reading. "I was once like you. A tool. In a different war." His eyes, reflecting the flames, lost focus for a moment, looking into the past. "I was trained by an... organization. Not the Order, something older, more hidden. They called themselves The Ars. Collectors of Forbidden Knowledge."
The Ars? The name felt strange and dangerous on my tongue.
"They believed knowledge, all knowledge, is neutral. That the Order of Thymol's ban on magic, divination, and other ancient arts was an act of dumbing-down to control the masses. They collected, studied, and sometimes practiced what the world calls black magic." He snapped his fingers, and a small flame appeared at his fingertip for a fraction of a second, not yellow-orange, but pale green like the tree light I saw. Then it died. I held my breath. That was magic. Real.
"But," he continued, his voice flat again, "I found that The Ars were just as dogmatic as their enemies. To them, knowledge was everything, the humans holding it were not. They would sacrifice an entire village to obtain an ancient scroll. I... disagreed. I left them. Took some valuables." He glanced at his bookshelf. "And since then, I have been an independent observer. A collector of personal truths."
"And me? Am I one of the 'valuables' you're collecting?" I asked, my voice containing a challenge.
He measured me with his gaze. "You are a question. An experiment. Vars blood is potent, but always wild, uncontrolled. Those who have it usually go mad or die young, hunted by the religious Orders and others. I... wanted to see if it could be tamed. Refined. Made into a proper tool, not a crude sword that eventually wounds its wielder." He leaned forward slightly. "You have lasted longer than I expected. You have resilience. And something else... a stillness within you, beneath all that pain and fear. That is why I paid the coin."
The dark coin. "Right... but—what does that coin actually mean?" I asked. "Why were the slavers so afraid?"
He stood, retrieving a small box from a high shelf. Inside, on black velvet, lay one coin exactly like the one used on the dock. It was made of an unfamiliar metal, not silver, not iron. It was pitch black, but reflected light in a strange way, like oil on water. On one side, the same symbol as on his robe was engraved: an empty circle with a dot in the center. On the other, there were seemingly random scratches, but upon closer inspection, they formed a very simple eye.
"This is a Bargain Coin," he explained. "From the old organization. The Ars used them in the black markets, in the underworld. One coin represents an unlimited debt. Whoever accepts it acknowledges that the bearer has an absolute claim over what or who was bought. Refusing to hand over the purchased item... means declaring war on the entire network of The Ars. And they, though I no longer associate with them, still have long, deadly fangs."
"So they're still looking for you? That Ars group?"
"Possibly. But they prefer to wait and observe. Like me." He put the coin back in the box. "They may have heard of you. A potential new tool. That makes us both more at risk."
A chill not from the rain crept up my spine. I had escaped one group of predators only to be caught between two others: the Order of the White Rose who wanted to exterminate the likes of me, and The Ars who might want to claim me as their new tool.
"Then why aren't we hiding somewhere better? Why here?"
"Because sometimes the open place is the most hidden. The Order of Thymol would not expect a bearer of Vars blood to live so close to Blackwater, in a forest they consider 'blessed' by the Goddess who holds the White Rose. And The Ars... they would appreciate the elegance in boldness." He looked at me. "Fear is a prison, Apprentice. We must be cautious, not fearful."
That night, I slept restlessly, tormented by dreams of black coins with blinking eyes and grey shadows that swallowed light.
Lessons continued, going deeper. He began teaching me basic symbols. Some were ancient Veridian script. Others were signs from the arts of The Ars, symbols for elements, for warnings, for traps. "Knowledge is defense," he said. "A trap you do not understand is more likely to kill you than a sword."
He also began testing the limits of my sight. He would hide small objects—a sharp stone, a key somewhere inside the hut or just outside, and have me find them using only my Vars Eyes. It was difficult at first. I was used to using my sight passively, as a way to navigate a hostile world. Now I had to actively direct it, focus it like turning a lens. But slowly, I began to be able to distinguish between the natural light of a tree and the faint glow emitted by a stone that had absorbed solar energy for hours, or metal holding the cold of the earth.
One afternoon, about a month after my arrival, the lesson turned into something else.
We were in the forest, and I was practicing tracking a rabbit by its almost faded vital aura alone. Suddenly, the Master stiffened. His hand waved, commanding silence. His face, usually flat, creased with alertness.
"There are people," he whispered, barely audible. "Three. From the southwest. Not ordinary hunters. Moving with purpose."
I froze, trying to see what he saw. With my normal eyes, nothing. Then I switched to my Vars Eyes, and held my breath.
In the distance, through the curtain of trees, three silhouettes were walking. They were not like the Master. They shone. Too brightly. Each radiated a strong, organized golden-yellow aura, like a cloak of light enveloping them. Within that light, on their chests, glowed a symbol: an intricate white rose, with thorns that looked like small tongues of flame. The Order of Thymol.
But that wasn't what made my blood run cold. Among them, walking sluggishly, was a fourth, smaller figure, its vital aura dim and vibrating with pale blue fear. That figure wore the familiar rough garb of a knight's servant. His hair, once tangled, was now roughly cut, but I still recognized him.
It was Max. The brown-haired boy from the dock.
"They have a guide," hissed the Master, his voice cold as ice. "They are searching for something. Or someone."
Max pointed in the general direction of the hut. His face, which I had seen full of futile anger, was now full of fear and something else… desperate hope? Had they promised him freedom? Forgiveness?
"They have detected you," murmured the Master, more to himself. "The residual flare of your aura when you used your sight to threaten Leon… or perhaps The Bearded Man sold information after the coin was given. Fool."
"What do we do?" I whispered, my heart pounding.
He looked at me, and in his usually empty grey eyes, I saw a flash of calculation. "They are Order Scouts, not full Inquisitors. Trained soldiers, but not that formidable. They rely on guides and basic detection tools." He grabbed my shoulder, his grip strong. "This is a test, Apprentice. The first real test. They cannot find this hut. They cannot take that guide away to tell others."
"You… you're going to kill them?" I asked, shocked.
"If necessary. But it's better if they disappear. This forest is vast and holds many secrets." His eyes bore into me deeply. "You can hide. I will handle this. Or… you can help. Use what you have learned. To protect this place. Your sanctuary."
A choice. Not an illusion like on the dock, but a real and bloody choice. I could run, hide, let this mysterious figure fight for me. Or I could stand, use my cursed abilities, for the first time not just to survive, but to act.
I looked toward the three approaching golden lights, and the blue dot of fear among them. I remembered the lash, the shame, and Leon's empty stare. Max might be a traitor, but he was also a slave, just like me. A tool.
"What's your plan?" I asked, my voice sounding steadier than I thought.
A thin, almost invisible smile touched the Master's lips. "We will give them a ghost to hunt. Follow me. And do exactly as I say."
And for the first time since the dark coin changed hands, I did not merely follow. I stepped with him, deeper into the forest, toward danger, my heritage wide open and ready to be used. Theory lessons were over.
Now, it was time for practice.