Path of a Calling

Untitled Part 1

Not so long ago, this had seemed like a sanctuary. Not a home, precisely, because Moriah had one of those already, but a place devoted to growing her into what she was fated to become.

Somewhere along the way, it had become stagnant. Smug. Smothering, and she couldn't place a finger on exactly when, and how, that had happened. Now was even worse, it felt like a cage. A very pretty cage, a very comfortable cage, but a cage nonetheless. Her teachers spoke of maturity, of transitions, of focus, and it seemed that lately Moriah had neither maturity nor focus.

It was an odd feeling, because until this, she'd always been accused of being too focused. Too mature for her admitted youth. Too adult. Yet here she was, staring vaguely into the dancing motes in front of her, her attention miles away from her teacher's lecture.

Something is not right.

She frowned, puzzled over the thought. It had been a long time since she felt the touch of destiny upon her. It was as if that had all vanished when she had ascended. She was supposed to be closer to Aion as one of its daevas, but there had been little evidence of that since she had sprouted wings. But now, it spoke again, and it seemed to speak contrary to those who were charged with her guidance.

Leave.

Leave here? It was insanity. Pure foolishness. So many fought, studied, waited to be accepted here, and she considered leaving it like it was nothing. Wasting it. The chance of a lifetime, and for an immortal, that was a terrible thing to lose.

This is not the place for you.

Not the place for her. Moriah glanced out of the window next to her, unaware that she wrinkled her nose pensively. Here wasn't right? Where would be more right than here? Everyone she knew, everyone she trusted, all agreed that there was no place better for Moriah than the finest place of learning her calling had.

But they aren't Aion.

Truly enough. For all of their grandeur, those who surrounded her were not Aion itself. For all of their pride, they were merely the servants. It seemed to Moriah as though they often forgot that, but that had always remained firm in her heart. She was a daeva. She was a servant. She was a tool. A weapon. She dropped her gaze to her desk before her, to the hand grasping the still stylus before her. While it was lovely, fingers adorned with rings and gems, its purpose was obvious. Her claws folded in, curved and lethal, black as the hair on her head. It had felt wrong to blunt them as so many here did, so she left them as they grew. It had been awhile since she'd even noticed them, so much a part of her, but they were longer than usual, their darkness deeper. She rested her index finger on her desk, warily pulling it down the battered surface.

A pale line appeared in the wood, and she frowned at the vandalism...and at the edge they'd attained. "You and I, we are weapons, Moriah." It seemed as if those words had come so long ago. She had lost sight of that truth. She had let them lead her away...

No. You have learned a great deal here. Lessons you need. Steps on the path to your Calling. But it is time to go. For now.

"Moriah!"

She hissed in guilt, tearing her eyes from the surface of her desk and up to her teacher. His voice hinted that this was not the first time he'd called her name, she'd ignored the earlier times. "Yes, Master Harven?" She stuttered, feeling the stare of her classmates upon her.

"Ah, yes, springtime in Pandaemonium." He breathed with a chuckle, not a hint of anger or exasperation in his bearing. "The answer to...." He pointed at the slate board beside him and her gaze flicked to it. Thankfully, she did indeed know the answer to the question written out there, knew it quickly and without conscious thought.