The morning in Aethelgard always started with the same damn ritual: the incessant clanging of the city bells, followed by the distant, rhythmic thud of the Matriarchal Guard's morning drills. It was a symphony of order, a constant reminder of who ran things. Me? I was usually just trying to coax my coffee pot into producing something vaguely drinkable. My small apartment, perpetually cluttered with bits of salvaged parchment, discarded styluses, and half-finished rune diagrams, felt like a tiny, defiant island in a sea of rigid efficiency.
My own eyes, a dull, unremarkable grey, were a testament to my supposed emptiness. In a world where every woman was born with the potential to channel, to weave the very fabric of reality with their will, men like me were… voids. Abominations. Or, as the Matriarchal Guard liked to put it, "unnatural disruptions to the sacred flow." I hunched deeper over my workbench, trying to blend into the shadows of my own workshop.
"Come on, you miserable heap of metal," I muttered, tapping the side of the pot. "Just give me caffeine. I'm not asking for miracles, just basic functionality."
The coffee pot, being inanimate, remained stubbornly uncooperative. I sighed, rubbing a hand over my perpetually rumpled dark hair. Another day, another battle with inanimate objects. And then, the real battles would begin.
My job was simple enough: I was a "sound-scribe." I fixed broken instruments, tuned chimes, transcribed ancient musical scores, anything that involved sound, but in a mundane, non-magical way. It was ironic, given my secret. My power wasn't flashy, not like the women's vibrant displays. It was subtle, insidious, and utterly forbidden. I could manipulate resonance. I could make objects vibrate, or silence them. I could amplify sounds, or make them vanish. I could even, if I pushed myself, subtly alter the very frequencies of the air around me. I called it Resonance Weaving, and it was my curse.
I'd discovered it years ago, a terrified, scrawny kid trying to make my annoying neighbor's yappy dog shut up. I'd wished, with every fiber of my being, for silence, and for a terrifying moment, the world had gone utterly, unnaturally quiet. The dog, the birds, the distant market chatter – all gone. It had lasted only a second, but it had been enough.
Enough to know. Enough to live in constant fear.
Now, as I meticulously etched a repair rune onto a cracked flute, my senses were on high alert. The cacophony of vendors hawking their wares outside, the laughter of children, the distant hum of the Conduits – it was all a symphony of potential exposure. Every loud noise, every jarring sound, made my skin prickle, a tiny tremor in my core threatening to unleash something I couldn't control.
Lately, things had been… off. The Matriarchal Guard, usually a symbol of unwavering justice, had been getting heavier-handed. More patrols, more interrogations, more 'inspections' that felt suspiciously like shakedowns. They were tightening their grip, and it chafed.
Just yesterday, I'd seen a squad of Crimson-Eyed Blood-Weavers roughing up a street vendor, a sweet old woman with Brown eyes who sold the best spiced bread in the Artisan Quarter. They claimed she was hoarding essence, a ridiculous accusation. Her power was minor Terra-Weaving, barely enough to keep her stall from blowing over in a strong wind.
I'd stepped in, of course. "Commander Thorne, with all due respect, this seems a bit excessive for a few loaves of bread."
Thorne, his own Crimson eyes like chips of flint, had just glared at me. "Are you questioning Matriarchal authority, Scribe Kael?" His voice was a low rumble, a clear warning.
"Just questioning the necessity of terrifying an old woman over a few crumbs," I'd shot back, my own Grey eyes holding his gaze, trying to project an air of calm, logical annoyance. My heart had been hammering, but I couldn't just stand there. "Her essence signature is barely a flicker. You're wasting resources."
He'd dismissed me with a sneer, but the vendor had given me a grateful, if terrified, look. It was a small victory, but it felt like something. It felt like I was doing my job, truly. But it also felt like I'd painted a target on my back.
Now, as the city bells finally ceased their clamor, replaced by the distant shouts of Guard recruits, I knew I couldn't ignore the unease anymore. The Matriarchy was supposed to protect us, to maintain order. But lately, their order felt less like a protective embrace and more like a suffocating chokehold.
I finally gave up on the coffee pot, grabbing a stale piece of bread from the counter. My stomach rumbled in protest. "Right," I muttered, chewing slowly. "Time to go pretend I'm not seeing all the cracks in the foundation."
I pulled on my worn scribe's tunic, the familiar weight of my stylus pouch a small comfort. My Grey eyes scanned my workshop one last time. The half-finished rune diagram for a complex sound-dampening chamber – a theoretical exercise, of course – lay on my main table, a dangerous secret in plain sight.
As I stepped out into the bustling, rain-slicked streets of Aethelgard, the air felt heavy, charged not just with the city's usual essence hum, but with a subtle tension. The Matriarchal Guard's presence felt more pervasive, their patrols more frequent. I saw the wary glances exchanged between citizens, the way conversations died when a Guard patrol passed by.
My route took me past the Artisan Quarter, usually a vibrant hub of creativity and commerce. Today, it felt subdued, almost grim. The usual laughter was muted, replaced by a low hum of anxiety. My Grey eyes picked out the subtle signs: a vendor nervously adjusting his wares, a child clutching their parent's hand tighter than usual, the lingering scent of stale essence where a Guard patrol had recently lingered.
I passed by the old woman's stall. She gave me a quick, furtive nod, her Brown eyes wide with a silent plea. I gave her a reassuring, if forced, smile. My heart ached for her, for all of them. They were just trying to survive, to make a living, and the Matriarchy was squeezing them dry.
The growing unease in the city, the heavy-handedness of the Guard, it all felt wrong. It felt like a betrayal of the very principles I'd sworn to uphold. I was a scribe, a mender of sound, a quiet observer. But the Matriarchy was tearing things down, creating instability.
I continued my walk, my mind a whirlwind of conflicting thoughts. My loyalty to the Matriarchy, once absolute, was cracking. The foundation I stood on felt less solid, more prone to shifting. And I had a terrible feeling that soon, very soon, something was going to give. And when it did, I wasn't sure which side of the fissure I'd be on.