Rogue. A noun meaning a wild animal driven away or living apart from the herd and having savage or destructive tendencies.
I put my heart into the summoning ritual, the ultimate test for if I was truly worth my position, both as a mage in this esteemed academy, and as a member of the Valliere family. Magic talent be damned, I have always dreamed of being a hero like my mother, or at the very least an accomplished mage. I dreamed of riding through the clouds on a griffin, or manticore, or perhaps if I was lucky, a dragon.
My classmates mock me, say I am worthless, nothing. And I have fought with everything I have against their claims, to rise above them, but even I am not immune to the effect of constant reinforcement. All the evidence, even in my own observations and actions, say they are right, that I am nothing. A zero.
In the end, if I am honest with myself, I would be grateful for a rabbit, maybe a black cat, or even a mouse like Old Osmond. Anything to prove everyone wrong, to prove that I am truly a mage, that I am worthy of my name as the third scion of the Valliere.
And so, in the brief moment, when the smoke rose from in front of me, I felt the final vestiges of my will set ablaze. Even as I breathed in the smoke, I did not allow myself to move away. An intense lead feeling in my gut forcing me to stand in my place. I thought of what this means for my family name, for what my failure to summon would mean for my future, rooting me in place. Would I be disowned? If so, would I even be allowed to stay here at this academy? I am no fool, I know my status as a Valliere is the only reason I have not been removed before this failure.
"Another explosion? Is that all she's capable of?"
"I hear the southern mines need attention. She could work as a miner?"
"No, no. Clearly, she's summoned lunch."
"You're thinking with your stomach again. I don't smell smoked pork."
"That's because she didn't hit you with her spell!"
In this moment, as my classmates began to deride my abilities, blazing hatred boils. In this moment, I hate them. I hate them for being right.I hate them for being successful. I hate them for being so far above me they feel sure enough with themselves to mock me, a Valliere. With every fiber of my being I hate their cries and condemnations. If my hatred had a body of its own, surely my classmates would have been struck down. Most of all though, I hate myself. As the sting of tears reaches my eyes, I tell myself it is just the smoke.
When the smoke begins to clear, I see the shadow of a figure lying upon the ground. My heart skips once, twice, before it threatens to burst from my chest, the pounding in my ears muting everything else.I barely manage to stop myself from lunging forward into the smoke to embrace the small shadow and swing it into the air. I am not a zero, I am not a failure, I am a Valliere, I am a mage!
When the smoke clears enough for me to make out basic features, I am struck with a sudden curiosity. Instead of a baby griffon, or perhaps an insanely large cat, there is a young girl, perhaps ten or eleven. If I was to use one word to describe her, it would be disheveled. Her hair is that of a bright forest green, matted with grease and dirt, and the occasional red strand. Her white and red dress, one that even I would save only for the best of occasions, is torn and ripped as if the girl had just gotten into a fight with a wolf. Her skin is as unnaturally pale as it is dirty as if the sun is a thing thought of more than actually seen in her life, or she is sickly. I briefly worry I have summoned a dying girl before the flame in my soul shoves such thoughts away. I note she has quite a few cuts and bruises that are - healing right in front of my eyes…?. Ridiculous. Merely a trick of the light, bending amidst the smoke.
There is a long blade strapped to her side or at least it looks long when compared to her as if she is prepared for combat, but then, why the dress? Who fights in a dress of that high quality? Even owning something so extravagant...None but a noble would be allowed to don such fineries. Being so callous as to fight in it? That speaks of wealth to make the Princess gape or a carelessness no noble family would countenance. Either way, the dress is a brand, a sign that speaks of impossibility, or at the very least improbability.
On her other hip there is another object, with a handle like that of a pistol, but not one I have ever seen before. I determining it to be some sort of accessory. The girl has to be a noble, and no noble would use such a crude device.
There is a traveling pack of some sort underneath her, pushing her slightly into the air as she lays with her eyes closed. I can't quite make it out, but it is definitely made with no thought for how it would look with the rest of her outfit. Practical, but showing a complete lack of regard for her station.
There are contradictions, clues speaking of a girl trained to fight like that of a peasant, and others speaking of a noble with funds to spare. Each fighting each other inside my head, until the smoke clears and I come to a sudden conclusion.
The sword is in its holster, I have no idea if it is actually a blade or a practice sword. Normally the uncertainty would actually be helpful, as the girl's young age would allow me to safely place it in the 'practice sword' category.
There is just one problem, one glaring issue that made all my debate worthless. One truth that reduces my blood to ice.
When the smoke clears completely, and vision of details has been permitted, and everyone in the clearing moves away at once, completely silent, everyone taking a step back but me. Even I am held in place only by a determination I wasn't previously aware I held.
The dress is not made of white and red cloth, it is just white. The child is covered in blood, some of it still fresh, from her hair to her shoes, and from the pleased look in her newly opened deep violet eyes, it is not hers.
What does it say of me, that my heartfelt desire for greatness has brought forth a Child of War?