Chapter 2: Snakes Born in Flames

"If it's too cold out here, I'm sure there are potatoes that need peeling in the kitchen, Ronan," a Trainee cackled.

"I think he'd slice his fingers off before he even finished skinning a single potato," another Trainee giggled. The Trainees clamored and looked at Ronan in disgust.

"That's enough," Titanoboa said, not really wishing to protect Ronan but wanting to get on with his lesson. "Before you is a torch."

Titanoboa paused at the torch closest to him, then waved his hand. A fireball sprung from his palm and ignited the torch. With his other hand, Titanoboa closed his fist, and the flame on the torch died out immediately.

"If you want any chance of surviving outside of our temple," Titanoboa said, "then you must master the Serpent Nightblade magic of fire manipulation."

The Trainees looked on at Titanoboa with eager faces despite the chill making them tremble.

Titanoboa set a hand on his snake tattoo and said, "You all bear the Mark of Serpent, which means our fire magic now lives inside you. That warm feeling under your skin is your Essence. It's what creates your magic, and it grows as you do."

Signaling to the tattoos of snakes coiled around one of his arms, Titanoboa added, "With every monster I've killed, every fire spell I've cast, and every obstacle I've overcome, my Essence has been building, and reveals itself through my Mark of Serpent."

Ronan admired Titanoboa's strength, and thought of all the good a powerful man like Titanoboa could do for others.

Closing his eyes in a deep focus, Titanoboa continued, "To cast our magic, first feel the flames inside you. Imagine the harsh words of your greatest enemy, the passing of a loved one, or the moment you saw your lover kiss another."

Titanoboa opened his eyes and the top of every torch burst into crackling flames. The snake markings on his arms glowed red and steamed, as if Titanoboa's very blood was boiling.

The Trainees cheered the spectacle on, and just as fast as Titanoboa had ignited the torches, he clapped both his hands together and the flames all went out.

"Now," he said, "At your Ranks and with your Essence, you won't be able to cast anything without the help of your Nightblade sword. So raise your weapon and use it to help direct the fire, and when you've lit your torch, use your free hand to extinguish the flame."

Following their Master's orders, the Nightblade Trainees held their swords out in front of them, and conjured in their minds bad memories that soured their faces. Soon, flames started to shoot out from their swords, and the marking on each of the Trainees glowed and steamed as the torches ignited.

"That's good, just like that!" Titanoboa assured, his commanding and masculine voice urging the Trainees to continue. For an hour, the Trainees cast fireballs from their swords, charring the blades with soot and ash, and lighting their torches on fire, putting them out, then repeating the process with more control.

Everybody, that is, except Ronan, who couldn't so much as get embers to spark from the tip of his blade. Ronan focused on Titanoboa's words and tried to muster the horrible memories that lit a fire in his own stomach. Ronan thought of being held back by his instructors for being too slow with his magic, and the constant ridicule he faced from his peers. Most of all, he thought how amidst this harsh winter weather, the real coldness came in the form of his loneliness, for he had no friends, no companions, and nobody to trust except himself.

"Ronan still can't do it!" a Trainee shouted, lighting his torch and putting it out so fast it was almost one movement.

Ronan ignored him. He clenched his hand around the sword's hilt and imagined a life where he was useless and incapable of accomplishing what he had devoted his life to doing. Sparks fizzled at the tip of his steel sword, and the trainees all stopped to watch Ronan. Ronan grunted and put his free hand on top of his other, and with both hands guiding the sword and with anger in his belly, Ronan cried out in determined fury as warm sweat dripped from his brow.

But the sparks on his sword died, and no fireball was cast.

The Trainees all laughed and shook their heads.

"Pathetic," Titanoboa whispered to himself.

"Alright Trainees!" he yelled. "I've seen a lot of good work today. You've earned yourselves a warm meal. You'll notice that after practicing magic like you just have, your Serpent marking will feel stronger. That's because it's growing as your Essence grows. Think of your marking like a muscle. The more you exercise, the stronger it becomes. The more magic you cast, the more in control that you are, the greater your power will be."

One of the Trainees raised her sizzling forearm. Through the steam, a second tally mark magically etched itself into her arm under her snake's stomach.

"Very good Trainee Robyn," Titanoboa said, a large smile making its way on his otherwise stoic face. "Your efforts have made you a Rank 2 Serpent."

Robyn was given a round of applause, and even Titanoboa joined in the praise. Trainees hugged Robyn and wrapped their arms around her shoulder, encouraging her to keep training.

"Everybody!" Titanoboa said, commanding the attention of the Trainees. "Get to the dining hall before your meals get cold. Robyn, you will be the first to receive a helping of wine this evening. And on your way to the feast, make sure to hand your sword to Ronan. Ronan, you're to clean and polish each and every sword before eating, and if there is any cold soup left, you're welcome to a few spoonfuls of it."

Laughing, the Trainees piled their swords into Ronan's open arms. He teetered and nearly lost his balance as the heavy steel piled on one after the other.

Finally, Titanoboa approached Ronan and said, "Scrub the char from those blades. I want to see my reflection in them tomorrow morning."

"Yes sir," Ronan grumbled, nudging the swords up in his hands with his knee. His back was ready to give out, but he still headed towards the weapons chamber, where he planned on cleaning the swords so well that Titanoboa would have no other option than to say what a good job he's done.

Tired, hungry, and embarrassed, Ronan struggled up flights of stone stairs, then dropped all the swords to the weapons chamber floor with a clatter. He picked up a rag near a window, then a great distance away saw a strange, thick black haze appear for a moment in the white and gray clouds.

For a second, the air from the open window grew incredibly heavy, and Ronan gasped for breath. He fell to a knee, then collapsed over, staring at the mountain of work in front of him. He needed to eat, and the faster he got his work done, the faster he got something in his stomach.

With a deep breath, Ronan got back to his feet, and he picked up the rag and the bucket of sword polish.

He checked the window once more and saw only the raspy and gray clouds that reminded him of his many failures. Still, he started to polish the blades, unaware of the marching army that approached from where the black clouds had appeared.