“My friends,” Zorian announced, his voice carrying effortlessly, “my heart has been stirred. The gentlest spirit in our academy deserves protection, and I intend to offer mine. I will win the affection of Anja Kost.” The declaration hung heavy in the bustling mess hall, cutting through the clatter of plates and drone of conversations. A ripple of whispers followed. Heads turned towards Anja, who sat a few tables away, her delicate features momentarily frozen in surprise. Patryk watched her, a prickle of unease sharpening his gaze. Anja, with her quiet strength and unassuming grace, was the only character in his novel he hadn’t hated. She was meant to be the first victim of Zorian’s charming cruelty. He watched Zorian rise, a platter of glistening crimson fruit magically appearing in his hands, no doubt pilfered from the high table by some eager sycophant. Zorian began to make his way towards Anja, his gait theatrical, his eyes fixed on her. This was the scene Patryk had written, almost verbatim. Zorian would offer the fruit, declare his intentions more intimately, and Anja, overwhelmed by the attention of the academy’s golden boy, would blush and accept. It was a well-trodden path to her eventual subjugation. Patryk shifted in his seat, the scarred wood digging into his thigh. His gaze swept the hall. A cadet, young and gangly, hurried past, balancing a steaming bowl of groat porridge. Patryk extended his foot, just enough. The cadet stumbled, a yelp catching in his throat as the bowl tilted precariously. Time seemed to stretch. Zorian, oblivious, was three paces from Anja’s table, extending the fruit platter with a flourish. His brow arched with feigned earnestness. “My dear Anja, a gift to sweeten your morning…” The spilled mash splattered. Not on Anja, but directly onto Zorian’s pristine white tunic, a viscous, lumpy glob coating his chest and shoulder. The crimson fruit platter, startled from his grasp, arced through the air. A fat, pulpy berry struck Anja squarely on the forehead, leaving a sticky, purple stain before bouncing into her lap. Silence descended. Then, a single snort broke the quiet, followed by a choked giggle from a far table. Soon, muffled laughter rippled through the mess hall. Zorian stood frozen, grotesque slop clinging to his tunic, a single crimson fruit rolling to a stop beside his boot. Anja, meanwhile, slowly raised a hand to her forehead, a delicate finger wiping away the purple pulp. A faint, almost imperceptible curve touched her lips, a brief flash of private amusement before she quickly composed herself. Zorian’s dazzling smile vanished. His eyes, usually pools of light, became chips of obsidian. He didn’t look at the cadet who’d stumbled, nor the laughing students. His gaze fixed on Patryk, sharp as a hunter’s blade, promising retribution. Patryk met his stare, a silent challenge in his own eyes, a flicker of satisfaction he swiftly suppressed. Minutes later, Zorian’s hand clamped around Patryk’s arm, his grip like a vice. “A word, Patryk,” he hissed, his voice silken, devoid of its usual public warmth. “In private.” He dragged Patryk through the academy’s winding corridors, past curious cadets and indifferent guards, until they reached a rarely used training yard behind the auxiliary barracks. The air here was damp, heavy with the scent of old stone and neglected earth. Zorian shoved Patryk against a grimy wall, the impact jarring his teeth. “You think that was clever, Patryk?” Zorian’s voice was a low growl, utterly unlike the charismatic cadences he used in public. “Humiliating me in front of everyone? In front of *her*?” Patryk pushed off the wall, trying to project indifference. “Just an accident, Zorian. You’re always so clumsy when you’re trying to impress.” A fist connected with Patryk’s jaw, a sharp crack echoing in the confined space. Patryk tasted copper. His vision swam, a kaleidoscope of grey stones and verdant moss. He staggered, but caught himself, leaning heavily against the wall. Zorian’s face was inches from his, contorted by a chilling fury. The mask was entirely gone. “Don’t you dare. Don’t you ever think you can make a fool of me,” Zorian snarled, his words spat out. Another blow, this time to the gut, doubling Patryk over. He gasped, the air knocked from his lungs. Zorian kneed him hard in the thigh, then again in the ribs, a rhythmic, punishing assault. Patryk collapsed to his knees, his breath ragged. Each impact was a dull thud, a bruise forming beneath his tunic. He clenched his teeth, refusing to make a sound beyond his involuntary gasps. This was Zorian. This was the monster he’d created. Seeing it so raw, so uninhibited, was both terrifying and grotesquely validating. “You are *mine*, Patryk,” Zorian whispered, grabbing a handful of Patryk’s hair and yanking his head back. “Your purpose is to serve me. Remember that. Or next time, I won’t stop at a few bruises. You think you’re useless? I will make you truly useless.” He released Patryk’s hair, letting his head thud against the wall. “And don’t even think about Anja. She’s mine too. You’re lucky I need you to play the fool for a little while longer.” Zorian stepped back, straightening his porridge-stained tunic with a meticulous hand, as if the physical assault had been merely a minor inconvenience. He cast one last contemptuous glance at Patryk, then turned and strode away, leaving Patryk gasping, aching, but strangely exhilarated. The seed of doubt in Anja’s mind was planted. Zorian’s true face was revealed. The game was on. Later that afternoon, the Grand Hall of Trials buzzed with anticipation. Patryk, still sore but moving with determined purpose, found a spot near the back, subtly observing. Cadets, ranging from fresh-faced novices to seasoned third-years, queued before the central dais. Upon it sat a gleaming, fist-sized shard of pure, milky-white rock – a Sunstone Fragment. Each cadet would step into the illuminated ring, touch the relic, and awaken their mark. “Next!” boomed Proctor Veles, a burly man with a voice like grinding stones. Bastien Falke, Zorian’s perennial rival, swaggered forward. The nobleman was everything Zorian outwardly pretended to be: arrogant, entitled, but genuinely talented. Falke was also destined for a powerful, albeit flawed, gift in the original story. Patryk, knowing the triggers, needed to make sure it was the *right* flaw. He stepped into the ring, his ornate tunic gleaming. He smirked at Zorian, who stood with Anja and a small retinue of followers a few yards away. Bastien reached for the mineral, his fingers brushing its smooth surface. A faint tremor ran through the air. This was the critical juncture. In the novel, Bastien, filled with pride, would simply awaken a strong, pure power. Patryk had added a small, almost throwaway line about the ambient resonance of the hall impacting early awakenings. Now, he would use it. Patryk subtly shifted the weight in his boot, leaning his full weight onto his left leg. The floorboard beneath him, a loose plank he’d identified earlier, creaked. The sound was barely audible, yet it carried through the hollow floor, a low thrum that Patryk knew would subtly interfere with the delicate energy calibration within the boundary. It wouldn’t stop the awakening, but it would twist it, just so. Falke’s face contorted in a silent grunt of effort. The relic pulsed with a blinding, emerald light. Raw force radiated outwards, making the very air vibrate. Patryk felt it, a distant echo of the force that would tear through him if he wasn't careful. [Inscription Awakened: Kinetic Rebuke!] Veles stared. “Incredible! An active reflection sigil! Young Falke, you can return attacks with amplified force!” Murmurs spread through the hall. Such a power was rare, a shield and sword in one. Bastien, though pale, visibly puffed out his chest. “However,” Veles continued, his brow furrowing as he studied the glowing runes on the dais. “There’s a… a drawback. A significant one. The reflected kinetic energy, while amplified, also exacts a proportional toll on the user’s own physical reserves. A powerful strike reflected will leave you severely weakened. A fatal one…” He trailed off, his meaning clear. The Inscription was mighty, but a double-edged blade. A flawed gift for an arrogant fool. Bastien’s triumphant grin faltered, replaced by a scowl. He shot a venomous glare towards Zorian, as if blaming him for the imperfection. Zorian merely offered a saccharine smile, a silent taunt. Patryk allowed himself a minuscule, internal nod. Perfect. Several more cadets underwent their trials, some gaining minor abilities, others nothing at all. The atmosphere, however, remained charged, awaiting the true spectacle. “Next!” the examiner called, his voice booming. “Zorian Voron!” A hush fell over the hall. All eyes turned to Zorian. He moved with an easy grace, the confident stride of a man who knew destiny awaited him. His gaze swept the crowd, lingering for a fraction of a second on Patryk, a promise of future pain in his eyes. Then, he stepped into the boundary ring, his presence almost eclipsing the faint glow of the dais. He placed his palm on the warm crystal. It flared, not with emerald, but with a brilliant, blazing gold. The light intensified, consuming Zorian, making him glow like a nascent star. The entire hall vibrated, the very air singing with power. A tangible warmth spread through the room, a comforting, almost divine presence. Veles, visibly awestruck, stared at the dais. [Inscription Awakened: Solar Aegis!] The examiner cleared his throat, his voice now a reverent whisper. “His affinity is… Sunstone. A true hero’s mark!”

The Flawed Inscription