‘Atlas!’ Genevieve scolded.
‘That’s OK, it’s a fair question. We consider the white part of the nail dead and therefore no longer part of us. Of course it is considered more of a tradition than a religious belief these days: many dwarves trim their beards and hair; some of the younger dwarves even dye it. This is quite common knowledge in Corcillum. Where do you hail from?’ Othello asked in a measured voice.
‘I’m from a village to the west, close by the Vesanian Sea,’ Atlas retorted. ‘Are you from Corcillum originally?’
Othello paused, looking bemused. Seraph answered for him.
‘The dwarves were here before the first man even set foot in this land. They cleared the forests, flattened the earth, diverted the rivers, even put up the great marker stones that map out Hominum’s territory.’
Othello smiled, as if impressed by the young commoner’s knowledge of his people.
‘Mankind moved here two thousand years ago, when they made the long journey across the Akhad Desert.’ Seraph continued, encouraged by the rapt attention of the others. ‘Corcillum was the dwarf capital, so we moved in with them, working and trading. But then a great sickness swept through the city, hitting the dwarves particularly hard. Soon after, our first King took power, with help from what now are the noble families. They were a small group of summoners who controlled powerful demons, far stronger than the demons our modern day summoners control. That is why every royal and noble-born is able to summon; they inherited their ancestors’ abilities.’
‘It is also why we rebelled so often,’ Othello said in a hushed tone. ‘Foolish though it was, with our population so low and no summoners in our ranks. We never recovered our numbers after the sickness, thanks to a law forced on us by your King’s forefathers. We must live in the ghetto and may only have a certain number of children each year. We cannot even own our own land. The royals said we have brought it on ourselves after so many rebellions.’
A sombre mood settled over the others, but Fletcher felt angry, the same anger he had felt at Didric’s injustice. This was . . . inhumane! The hypocrisy of the situation sickened him. So this was what Athol had been talking about. Atlas opened his mouth to speak again, a look of disagreement on his face.
‘So, Seraph, you said you have done your research. Tell us a bit about what we should be expecting over the next few months,’ Fletcher interjected, before Atlas could start an argument.
Seraph leaned forward and beckoned everyone closer, smiling at the opportunity to show off what he had learned.
‘They are very fair here. Commissions are given based on merit, so the better you perform in the exams and challenges, the higher the officer’s rank you are given when you graduate. The problem is that it is weighted against us commoners. The demons we get given are not particularly strong, whilst the demons the nobles receive are from their parents, who take more care to capture powerful ones for their children. Some are even fortunate enough to be given one of their parent’s main demons, but that is rare. Fletcher’s demon I’m not so sure about – I’ve never seen one of those before. But, Othello, your demon will be very powerful when it is full grown, from what I have heard of Golems.’
‘So . . . we’re always going to only have our Mites?’ Genevieve asked, confused.
‘Not necessarily,’ Seraph answered. ‘It’s possible to capture another, more powerful demon in the ether, and add it to your roster. I don’t know much about how to do that, and apparently it is harder and riskier to do it with a weak demon. I’m hoping for something other than a Mite. They make great scouts and their pincers pack a nasty punch, but their mana levels are quite low and physically they would be no match for even a juvenile Canid.’
‘I see,’ Genevieve said, looking slightly less proudly at Azura as she took off and buzzed around the room. They all watched as she settled on the huge statue in the centre of the hall, crawling on to the stone man’s eye.
‘Who is that anyway?’ Fletcher asked the table.
‘I know,’ Othello said, pointing at the plaque beneath the statue. ‘It is Ignatius, King Corwin’s right-hand man and the founder of Vocans Academy, back when it was nothing more than a tent in a field. He died in the First Orc War a couple of thousand years ago, but he is credited with leading the charge that broke the orc ranks and ultimately led to their defeat.’
‘That’s it,’ Fletcher said under his breath, looking at his imp. It had crawled down his arm and was licking at the remains of the porridge in his bowl with relish.
‘What’s it?’ Rory asked.
‘Ignatius. That’s what I will call my demon.’
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