Hole 1
Rowan tried his best to steady his breathing, counting slowly in his head. His hands reached around for the materials scattered around as he looked up at the ceiling of his bedroom, his chest rising and falling on the carpeted floor. His eyes roamed to the scorch marks in the corner of his ceiling from where he first attempted to do an Ignition equation sequence: his dad was so angry. Rowan giggled at the memory between gasps of air as his arms spread out, his clammy hands desperate for something to ground himself. He felt the carpet bristling softly against his skin as he ran his fingers along it. He grazed some emblarwood—purchased recently from a spire vendor—beside him; its smoothness was a pleasant contrast to the texture of the carpet. Rowan’s breathing steadied as he closed his eyes and found himself floating on the sea he was previously drowning in.
Whenever Rowan felt like he was losing his grip, he tried to remember what he was privileged to have, like his room. Most people in the spire didn’t have a room of their own unless they were a certified Scholar; those people were usually quick to marry and give up such independence anyway. Rowan’s room was simple, all things considered: the bistre carpet had a plush texture he often ran his fingers through, the walls were the sand-like color of the stone they were made out of, and his bed and desk were really the only furniture that filled the room. He had a closet full of clothes he no longer wore and the room was littered with materials he’d collect when he escaped supervision to go on an excursion. It wasn’t much, his room, but the solitary space provided refuge to plan his future. A future that heavily relied on the outcome of his rite tomorrow.
“It’s okay. It’s just a test,” Rowan said between deep breaths. “A test you can pass. You’ve worked hard.”
When the room stopped spinning, Rowan sat up and leaned against his bed frame. He stamped his notepad on the ground with his foot, sliding it across the carpet toward him. With notepad in hand, Rowan reviewed his notes.
“It’s no different than a Transmission equation, really. It’ll take a lot more vi—a lot more than I could drum up, but...”
Rowan trailed off, looking over his notes while wiping his sweaty palms on his pants as he tried to focus on why he was attempting the rite in the first place. As if on cue, he heard a knock on his bedroom door.
“It’s Magnus,”
His father’s voice rumbled, like a precursor to a lightning strike. Rowan exhaled in frustration, standing up and cracking the door to see his father. His face was a monument amidst a storm, weathered and sturdy. His beard had grown scraggly of late, though he didn’t seem likely to groom it, considering Rowan had brought it up before. The black tufts knotted and clumped at the ends, like a spattering of mud on a lovely painting. His nose was prominent and crooked in the center of his face; Magnus insisted that Rowan’s mother was responsible for his prior broken nose, though Rowan was never able to verify that claim. The lines beneath Magnus’ emerald eyes told the story of a man who prioritized duty over rest. Those of Magnus’ generation often told Rowan that it was his mom who calmed Magnus’ endless desire to work—Rowan could never verify that either. The man’s eyes were as stern as ever, but his tone seemed less confrontational than it had been as of late.
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“You don’t have to say who you are: it’s not like anyone else comes knocking on my door,” Rowan said.
He didn’t stand up and open the door with the intention to pick a fight with his dad, but it had sadly become their default dynamic.
“To be fair, you haven’t exactly been leaving home as of late,” Magnus said.
“And know exactly why that is, so don’t play dumb.”
There was a pause between the pair, regret regarding the conversation’s trajectory, perhaps.
“I just wanted to wish you luck regarding your rite, tomorrow.”
“And?” Rowan asked, his nose twitching with irritation. There was always an ‘and’ or ‘but’ with his father.
“I also,” his father hesitated, wondering if this was a futile effort. “I also wanted to remind you that you don’t have to do this.”
“Get out,” Rowan said, walking away from the door.
“Rites aren’t for everyone—”
“Get out.”
“They can be extremely taxing, demanding on your body’s vi capacity,” Magnus said, stepping into Rowan’s room. “And we both know your vi capacity is—”
“Get out.”
“I’m only looking out for you,” Magnus said, balling his hands into fists. “You have a habit of reaching beyond your means and—”
“Please,”
Rowan’s voice quivered as he looked away to hide his tears from his father. Once he’d heard his father’s footsteps and knew he was alone, Rowan shut his door and leapt onto his bed, headbutting his pillow.
On good days, Rowan wondered why he was so down on himself. He considered himself attractive enough and, with how often his father tried to foist a suitor onto him, clearly he wasn’t alone in that assertion. He was blessed with the gift of gab and had an open heart for the world around him. On most days, it was all too easy to remember why Rowan was so critical of himself: it was all he knew. His father demanded greatness, yet constantly hampered Rowan’s ambitions. The constant cycle of dashed expectations had gotten so bad that Magnus had all but given up on Rowan, resigning himself to marry Rowan off and use him to continue the Hightower lineage; the very idea of being nothing but a stepping stone in his family’s line filled Rowan with rage. He refused to be a burden to Reinholdt spire and he rejected the notion of being a decoration on someone’s arm.
Rowan stepped onto the small balcony of his home, looking out on the spire’s quarters. The buildings and homes of various shapes and sizes, carved right out of the mountain’s structure, created a sightline of incongruity. Rowan always loved the view from his balcony. The vi carried between the drivelines hummed and glittered beautifully, lighting up the district like stars in the night sky. Rowan didn’t get to leave the spire as often as he liked, so this was often the closest he would get to stargazing. If he earned his cloak and became a certified Scholar, however, then Rowan could go anywhere. No one could stop him, not even his father. He trembled with excitement as he raced back into his room, ready to review his presentation.
