Chapter 4: The Quill's Covenant

Arwyn couldn't shake it. The Phoenix Quill. All day, it gnawed at him, a restless itch under his skin. He clung to the Delacroix Diary like it might vanish, flipping through its brittle pages in the quiet of his room. 

One passage, half-blurred from age, caught his eye under the dim glow of his desk lamp:

"The objects you make consume your Passion Energy. How much depends on three things. Size. Strength. Value."

He read it twice, letting the words sink in, then shut the book with a soft thud.

The next morning, he sat at the kitchen table, sketchbook open, pencil in hand. Nathaniel had spent the night scrubbing the house spotless, floors gleaming like he'd waged war on dust. Now he leaned against the counter, watching Arwyn with a mix of amusement and pity. 

Arwyn's latest creation sat on the table: a stick. A pitiful little twig, barely six inches long, thin as a straw. That was it. All he could muster with the dregs of energy left in him.

He let out a groan, loud and ragged, slumping back in his chair. "I can't, man. This damn Passion Energy…" His breaths came heavy, chest tight. He glared at the twig, jaw clenched, fingers aching from squeezing the pencil too hard. No matter how he pushed, nothing bigger came. Nothing stronger. Just this weak, sad scrap. "This is bullshit," he muttered under his breath.

Nathaniel laughed, a sharp sound that cut through the room. "A stick's good enough. I've seen worse." He snatched the diary from Arwyn's hands, flipping it open with a practiced flick. The leather creaked, pages yellowed like an old grimoire. 

"Here. Listen to this." He cleared his throat and read, voice steady and low:

"When the First Sketcher's hands grew heavy with despair,

their creations dulled to ash, their passion choked by airless nights,

they carved a quill from the heartwood of an oak that witnessed stars.

But it was not the wood that gave it power. It was the fire.

They held it to the pyre of their greatest failure,

watched the flames lick its feathers to cinders,

and from the smoke rose a truth:

'To create anew, you must first let the old burn.'

The quill, reborn in embers, scorched their palm as they sketched.

Its ink was not ink, it was light. Its lines not lines, they were veins.

And so the Phoenix Quill was born:

not a tool, but a covenant.

It does not grant strength.

It demands you earn your rebirth."

He snapped the diary shut, the sound echoing like a gavel. "Your stick?" Nathaniel nodded at the twig. "That's your pyre. Burn it."

Arwyn frowned, staring at it. "It's just a stick."

"And a phoenix is just a bird," Nathaniel said, tossing him a match from his pocket. "Till it's not."

Arwyn caught the match, rolling it between his fingers. Fire. The word tightened his chest, a knot he couldn't name. Burn it. Was he ready? He sighed, a shaky mix of fear and resolve, and struck the match against the box. A tiny flame sputtered to life, smoke curling upward. 

He picked up the stick, hesitated, then held it to the fire. The wood caught slowly, orange tongues licking along its length. Ash flaked onto the table, suspense hanging thick in the air.

He waited. For a spark. For meaning. For anything.

"Well?" Nathaniel leaned against the table, arms crossed, one eyebrow raised. "Feel enlightened yet?"

"No," Arwyn muttered, voice flat. "Just tired."

The last ember winked out, and then it hit: a searing heat flared in his palm, like a skillet sizzling against his skin. He hissed, jerking his hand back. A feather-shaped mark glowed there, etched into his flesh, pulsing gold in time with his racing heartbeat. Light threaded his veins, faint but alive. "What the hell?"

Nathaniel's smirk faded, replaced by surprise. "Huh. Didn't think you'd actually ignite it." He grabbed Arwyn's wrist, turning it to study the scar. "First Sketchers branded apprentices like cattle. It's a receipt. Proof you're willing to burn."

"You didn't mention branding!" Arwyn snapped, yanking his hand free. The mark throbbed, heat sinking deeper, tugging like a hook in his chest. Arwyn doubled over, gasping as pain ripped through him. "Ahhh! It fucking burns!"

"Breathe, kid," Nathaniel said, all trace of joking gone. "The Quill's covenant isn't free. It takes before it gives."

Visions flashed behind Arwyn's eyes. A towering oak stretched toward a starless sky, its bark scarred and familiar.

His parents' tree, Marco and Arlene's. A phoenix soared above it, wings blazing, then dove into ink-black water, ripples spreading. His own hand appeared, sketching a quill that glowed with light, not shadow. The pain ebbed, leaving him on his knees, sweat dripping onto the diary's open pages. The feather mark dulled to a faint scar.

"What was that?" he rasped, voice raw.

"A down payment," Nathaniel said, tossing him a bandage. "The Quill doesn't care about your mommy issues or your dad's sad art. It wants proof you'll rise from your ashes. Today, you paid interest."

Arwyn clutched his hand, the scar aching but steady. His sketchbook hummed on the table, a low vibration he hadn't felt before. "So it's done? I earned it?"

Nathaniel barked a laugh. "Kid, you lit a match in a forest. Now the whole damn world knows you're flammable. Now, the Quill will wait for you in Terra Incognita."

"What—" Arwyn started, but Nathaniel cut him off.

"Shush." Outside, the wind howled. A streetlamp flickered in the distance, then went dark. Silence swallowed the night.

"It's an Erasure," Nathaniel muttered, eyes narrowing. "They're drawn to fresh burns. Congrats, Arwyn. Homework's early."

Arwyn glanced at the scar, then his sketchbook. Its pages felt lighter, eager. "How do I fight it?"

"Same as always," Nathaniel said, tossing him a pencil. "Start small. But this time…" He tapped the scar. "Mean it."

A faint light pulsed from the house, guiding them outside. Arwyn followed, stepping into a street gone still. The lamppost was dead, leaving the moon as their only glow, sharp and silver. 

From the shadows, an Erasure lunged, ita appearance a humanoid blur of static and ink, limbs stretching like warped film. Arwyn's mind snapped back to the diary: Size. Strength. Value.

Think. He stumbled backward, sketchbook open, pencil ready. Small. Fast. Mean it.

"Make a move, kid!" Nathaniel shouted from the porch, sipping coffee like this was a casual Sunday. "Don't just retreat! You committed!"

Fine. Arwyn's pencil scratched two quick lines, and he slammed the page. A long stick popped into his hands—a bo staff, rough but solid. Nathaniel's eyes widened, a smirk tugging his lips.

The Erasure's arm whipped forward, a tendril of glitching ink. Arwyn swung the staff hard, a wild arc from his shoulder. Wood cracked against the creature's jaw, the impact jarring his wrists numb. The Erasure reeled, its hand dissolving into static as it flickered.

"Not bad!" Nathaniel called. "Now stop swinging like it's a fucking piñata!"

The creature recovered, limbs sharpening into blades. Arwyn ducked low, rolling behind a parked car. Its tire hissed as he leaned against it, pencil flying over a new page. He sketched a coiled spring under the asphalt and slammed his hand down. 

A loud crrrang split the air as the street buckled, launching the Erasure upward. It smashed into a streetlamp, bending the pole with a groan. Sparks showered down, sizzling on the pavement.

"Pfft. Showoff," Nathaniel muttered, though his grin spread.

The Erasure writhed, its form melting into a black puddle that surged toward Arwyn's feet, dark and menacing. "Shit!" He leapt onto a dumpster, its lid denting under his weight. His pencil scribbled frantically—a funnel, a matchstick, anything—but Nathaniel's voice cut through.

"Too slow, kid! Use what you've got!"

Arwyn glanced at the staff, splintered from the hit. The stick. The pyre. "Burn it," he whispered. He snapped the wood over his knee, the crack loud in the quiet. 

Striking Nathaniel's match, he lit the broken end. Blue-gold flames erupted, clinging to the staff instead of consuming it.

"Hey," he said with a sarcastic edge, lobbing the flaming stick into the puddle. "Catch."

The Erasure screeched, a piercing ngaaaahhh that rattled his ears. Fire swallowed its form, ink sizzling into ash. Arwyn dropped to the pavement, chest heaving, the feather scar pulsing like a drum in his palm. "Damn…" Pain spiked through him, sharp and deep.

Nathaniel strolled over, crunching the charred remains under his boot. "Dramatic. Reckless. Stupid." He tossed Arwyn a half-melted chocolate bar with a chuckle. "You're learning. Fire as light to counter that thing? Unique."

Arwyn glared, hands trembling from adrenaline. He tore into the chocolate, the sweetness grounding him. "Did I earn it this time?"

"Nah." Nathaniel nodded at the scorched street. "You just pissed off its bigger brothers." He offered a hand, pulling Arwyn up, then patted his shoulder, eyes closing briefly. As a sketch of the First Delacroix, he could sense it: Passion Energy. 1539 Poules. A jump from the 500 he'd clocked days ago. Most Delacroix hit a thousand at best. This was something else.

"Not bad, kid," Nathaniel said, nodding. "Not bad."

Arwyn smirked, swaying on his feet. "That's… pretty nice." Then his legs gave out, and he crumpled, no wounds, just bone-deep exhaustion.

Nathaniel laughed, loud and warm. "So I do have to drag your ass back, huh?" The moon hung high, crickets chirping faintly as the lampposts flickered back to life. He hauled Arwyn inside, dumping him onto his bed with a grunt.