Devran — EP53 Journal

Let it be known that having a hole in one's chest, be it metaphorical, metaphysical, or in my case, literal, does wonders for one's perspective. The world seems larger when a part of you is missing. Colder, certainly. Louder, somehow, and no meal tastes quite the same. I now find myself afloat — literally — sailing down the Kogi River like some ill-conceived metaphor for destiny. I'm heading toward a meeting that will probably decide the fate of Juramentum. You see, my life, I must confess, has never once been called "typical" by anyone whose opinion I respect. I hail from Xahar: city of silk, song, shadow, and sin. It's the sort of place where dreams go to gamble, and souls get pawned for the promise of power. My father... gods, what a word... is a man who turns suffering into profit and wears wickedness like perfume: heavily, and with no sense of moderation. So, when an opportunity arose to flee the city with my brother in tow, we took it with both hands and joined the fray... some would say a battle, others would say a theatrical display, between Darius the Bold and the people of Juramentum. It was like stepping into a legend mid-verse: balls of fire flew, a woman became a storm given form, and a boy channeled light like it was song. I nearly applauded. But instead, I dodged. Juramentum, they told me, was the city of understanding. A place where the secret of the world is studied, sung, and spoken in the open air. A cradle of knowledge. A sanctuary for seekers. They, however, neglected to mention the spears. My arrival was met not with applause, but with suspicion... chiefly from my twin, Weisa. She looked at me as though I'd spilled ink on her favorite book. Her words were knives dulled only by the absence of outright disdain. Since then, the air has changed slightly... and so has my sister. Somewhere between suspicion and sorrow, she saw me. Or at least the shape of the brother I might have been had the world been kinder. She asked if I am good. What a deliciously cruel question. Is good a matter of intent, or result? Is stealing from a tyrant to feed the poor noble, or criminal? Is wounding a bully to protect the weak valor, or vengeance? So no, I do not know if I am good. What I do know is that I am trying. The first warm smile I met was Marcus, "the bringer of light," and a peculiar man. He wears calm like a veteran wears scars. Were it not for him, I might've taken the next boat out. But he reminded me why we stay in places that hurt us: because they might also teach us. That said, there is a saturation point for strangeness, and I am fairly sure mine passed. Reality in Juramentum is... negotiable. Lore becomes law. Stories become scaffolding. I've seen dreams argue with logic and win on a technicality. Never mind a unicorn from legend that towers 20 paces from me. I am, quite frankly, impressed I haven't gone completely mad. Then there is Lord Titus Metellus Glabrio Vorn. The city's ruler, warden, and joy-thief. He wears his title like a blade, always aimed downward. Older than me by four winters, though he acts like a man weighed down by thirty. Perhaps forty, if you count the rigidity in his spine. He fears laughter and not having control. Has bound my abilities — mathematical, magical, magnificent — in bureaucratic chains so tight I swear they creak when I breathe too hard. He sees my power as a threat, a volatile weapon to be locked away until he deems it necessary. He fails to grasp that it is a part of me, as vital as breath. And what is the cost of this control? Vulnerability. Inaction when action is needed. A city left more vulnerable because one of its chosen is leashed by the whims of a fearful lord. It is a foolish bargain he strikes, trading potential salvation for a fragile sense of dominance. Lord Vorn did extend an olive branch last eve, inviting me to "story time." Sat me down like a child and tried to feed me wonder wrapped in words. And I must admit — he has a touch of the tale-teller. Not polished, not subtle, but with meaning. I see the loyalty in his followers, and loyalty is no small thing in a city built on secrets. So very well. I will abide by his decree... if only to outlast his stupidity. But my spirit chafes under this invisible chain. My gaze turns outward, beyond the city walls, to places where the wind answers to no lord and the land offers sanctuary without conditions. So when I return, I shall reside outside the city. Chest hole and all. With my fractured kin, my stubborn resolve, and my wind-forged name. Because stories... real ones... are not born in the soft places. They rise from ruin. They burn in pain. And they are told by fools like me.