Chapter Text
It was late. What time precisely, Linhardt couldn’t say for sure, but certainly late enough that the candles were the only source of light left, and most of the monastery was fast asleep. Late enough that Professor Hanneman would have several choice words for him if he found Linhardt working in his lab at such an hour.
Better to ask for forgiveness rather than permission, he figured. And better to keep working rather than to trudge all the way back to the dormitory in the pouring rain.
Oh yes, it was raining too. Another thing Linhardt had barely noticed until now, as deep in his work as he was.
He stifled a yawn as he carefully carved the intricate lines of the sigil into the polished wood surface in front of him. Birch shavings littered the ground at his feet, ink stained his fingers, and it seemed his hair had come untied at some point. He blew a stray strand out of his eyes as he leaned forward to finish the last point…
There – perfect. Well, nearly so. To really ensure the flow of magic through the sigil went uninterrupted, the lines on the outer edge would need to be deeper. And then he could get around to testing it…
Somehow. He hadn’t quite figured out the best way to do that yet.
“This may be the most dangerous piece of magic I’ve seen in a good long time,” Hanneman used as he poured over the book in his hand. “A spell with the power to remove a crest from a living subject…I shudder to think what might happen if this power fell into the wrong hands.”
“It can’t possibly be as simple as one sigil,” Linhardt said, trying and failing to peer over the book before Hanneman snapped it shut. “Professor Hanneman, surely you don’t think I intend to use this for some dastardly agenda of my own.”
“Certainly not, but this isn’t the kind of stuff students should be mucking around with. Not unsupervised, at least.”
“You’re here,” Linhardt offered. “I can understand Seteth removing these dark magic books from the monastery library, but to shy away from research into even the most taboo subjects does a grave disservice to the ideals of progress.”
Hanneman huffed, eying Linhardt over his monocle. “Don’t lecture me about progress, mister von Hevring. I’ve been studying crests since before you were born.”
“All the more reason for you to be a sort of…faculty adviser to me in my research. It would be mutually beneficial for us to study this together, don’t you agree? Who else could you find who has my level of expertise in the field of crest research? Besides you, of course.”
Fingers tapping on the front of the book, Hanneman sighed. “You may have a point. As long as you don’t attempt anything out of this book without my direct supervision.” As if to make a point, he turned and placed the book inside the lockbox under his desk, locking it away and pocketing the key for good measure. “Manuela would have my head of any students died in the course of this research. And of course, I couldn’t live with the idea either.”
All things considered, getting into the lockbox had been almost disappointingly easy. He’d had enough experience getting into his father’s safe back home as a child whenever he decided to lock his books away to try and urge him outside. After a few times, the old man seemed to just give up.
But those skills had served him well now. He’d never thought he’d have the opportunity to use them again.
He glanced at the book, open on the desk, eyes following the curves and points of the sigil stretching across the pages. Every piece had to be perfect. Otherwise the results could be disastrous. Anything from the magic simply fizzling out to blowing up half the monastery.
And that would be a massive pain.
Linhardt got up to light a few more candles for better light, and to close the shutters on the window to keep out the rain. Couldn’t have the book getting water damaged now.
Hanneman frowned as he looked at the drawing of the sigil on the chalkboard. “I thought this reminded me of something,” he said. “Look here – these inscriptions along the edge. That’s very old magic. Almost as old as the Ten Elites themselves.”
“So the power to remove crests may have existed for almost as long as crests have,” Linhardt mused. “Fascinating. I wonder…what would motivate a person to want to rid themselves of a crest they were born with?”
“There are those who aren’t born with their crests at all,” Hanneman said, his tone solemn. “It is possible to stitch a crest onto a person’s soul artificially, though the practice is…to put it gently, monstrous. Perhaps this was created in response to just one such event. To excise a crest foisted onto a person without their consent.”
“Something like that would take a massive amount of power.”
“Precisely.” Hanneman nodded. “And that is exactly what this sigil seems to call for. It’s blood magic. To work at all, it would require an…offering of sorts. If I’m right, it would need the blood of the very person whose crest is to be removed.”
Linhardt pressed his carving knife against the wood, digging it into the groove he had already left there on the surface. Carefully, he deepened it, blowing away the shavings as they curled up by his fingers.
Just how would he test something like this, he wondered? Even he wasn’t so desperate for results that he would force an unwilling test subject into this spell. Hanneman would have his head, not to mention that if done wrong, something like this could kill.
And Linhardt didn’t particularly want blood on his hands.
Still, he couldn’t help but wonder – who was it who developed this spell in the first place? The book had been written by an anonymous author, and there was no telling whether they were the ones who created the sigil at all. It was likely that they weren’t, if this magic was truly as old as Hanneman seemed to think. So who had been the first person to carve this sigil into existence? Had they used it at all? Had their subject been willing? Had they lived to tell about it?
Outside, a massive roll of thunder cracked the sky, and pain shot up Linhardt’s finger.
For a moment, time seemed to slow. The carving knife clattered to the floor, a bead of red trickled sluggishly over his pale skin, dropping and spreading into the grooves in the wood.
The world flashed white, all the air forcing its way from his lungs as he toppled backward. His back hit the floor, and suddenly he felt as if a clawed hand was tearing into his chest, ripping something inside of him.
Tearing him apart.
“What would happen, do you think,” Linhardt asked as his fingers trailed along the edges of the sigil on the chalkboard, “If this spell were used on someone who was born with a crest? Rather than someone who received one after birth?”
“Hard to say when we’re not even sure what the result would be either way,” Hanneman said, frowning. “The entries in this book don’t mention any successful cases of this being performed on anyone at all. Though, in the realm of scientific discovery, it’s safe to assume there were many failed attempts before success. If there was success at all.”
“But isn’t it…intriguing, at the very least? A person’s crest is as integral to them as any other part.”
Hanneman looked worn, yet thoughtful. Like he didn’t want to think of such things but couldn’t stop himself. “Forcing a crest onto a person who was not born with one is a violent, and often deadly ordeal. Few survive the process, and those that do are left with scars that may never heal. I shudder to think of what would happen if someone were to rip away a crest that was inherited from birth.”
“So you don’t think a person could survive such a thing?”
He shook his head. “Survive? No. But perhaps death would be preferable to something as horrific as that.”