Meditation

Facet Meditation wasn't dangerous. The very nature of a Facet prevented it from harming its host.

It was, however, complicated, and required several steps and procedures to perform successfully.

The first step, and the reason why the Royal Mage Academy waited until year four, was building a solid basis of information. This information didn't have to trigger an increase in one's Facet progress, it only needed to exist in one's mind.

This was why every student started with Category classes for their first year at the Academy before moving to a class specific to their Facet in the second year.

The science behind a Facet; its relation to others in its Category; its historical, religious, and practical connotations; all provided a platform that one could build upon later when meditating on their Facet.

The second step, and the one Fate was about to undergo, was called Memory Anchoring.

The Mage had to think of a strong memory, one that embodied their Facet. For Fate, this meant the most negative memory he could think of. The stronger the memory was, and the better it encapsulated his Facet, the more efficient the meditation.

This left him swimming in options, and his choice was currently up in the air as he struggled to pick just one.

With some hesitation, he chose the last conversation he had had with Samantha before they had split apart for four years.

His eyelids flickered closed as he emersed himself in the memory, deeper than the imp shaman had been able to extract from him.

The lacerations that would become his scar were still fresh. While his shirt protected the gentle breeze from terrorizing him, the course linen that the garment was made of was like sandpaper.

Every breath rubbed the shirt against his back, not much, but enough to feel like someone was trying to slice a pound of flesh off.

His pride had been shattered, mashed to a pulp in front of the entire town as a consequence of daring to steal from Ms. Appleton. He was still in the process of piecing it back together, something that the hateful glares of the townsfolk did wonders to accelerate.

His pride, at its root, was a defense mechanism, something he had learned when he made his first Imprint. When faced with the Brergan villagers' glances and glares, it started to flow back together like parted waters, but it wasn't an immediate fix.

This realization was what allowed Fate to sit here now, receiving the help of Freyn's Skill. His pride was something he had developed when the world was against him. Now that he had companions, friends, and teachers, it was slowly becoming irrelevant, if not harmful.

With some difficulty, and plenty of goading from Kravoss, he had set it aside for the time being and accepted Freyn's help, if only because training would be impossible otherwise, which would defeat the purpose of being here.

But back then, his pride was present in full force. It's broken edges were jagged and sharp, and he was ready and willing to wield those sharp pieces against anyone that prodded at it.

Everyone except Samantha.

The dread of facing his father back then was weighing heavily on his mind. Fate knew that compared to the drunken rage of his father Terna, the whip might as well have been made of clouds.

But he couldn't run. Where would he go? He hated the man with the fury of a thousand suns, but he wasn't stupid enough to try his hand at living in the woods. He had no tools or idea how to hunt, and the winters would spell his death in short order.

It was a bright, beautiful day, one that even Fate would be able to appreciate had he not gone through what he just had.

The sun was high in the sky, birds were chirping, and the village was busy bartering for goods at the town market, allowing Samantha and Fate to converse in private where they were.

Fate inhaled, then exhaled.

To call Samantha attractive was an understatement, but Fate never liked her for her looks. It was the kind, curious glint in her eyes, which always looked into his own when they talked, that he appreciated.

She was the third person he had ever met that could look at him and see anything other than hate or fear, the second being Old Man Travis and the first being his mother.

As for his father… well, the man hated his guts, but not for his eyes. Terna saw Fate as a burden, and loathed the young Fate for being another mouth to feed.

Even after Fate's mother passed, and there was no one to make Terna pretend to care about his son, that loathing didn't fade.

But that glint in Samantha's eyes never had any trace of negative emotions. She felt no fear or revulsion when she looked into his eyes.

She saw a person.

And that was all he had ever wanted.

So looking into those eyes, normally overflowing with caring and understanding, and seeing nothing but disdain and pain had shaken him to his core. The words that left her lips afterward destroyed what little hope he had held that nothing would change between them.

"What makes you think I'd ever marry someone like you?" Samantha had said. The betrayed look in her gaze was masked by anger as she said anything that she thought would drive him away.

"You're a freak, and you always will be. And with that mark on your back, your chances of getting a job to support me are nil."

At the back of his mind, Fate knew that the last sentence wasn't true, not with the plans they had. If they had stayed in Brergan, then yes, Fate would be hard-pressed to get a job.

But in major cities, there were plenty of programs for criminals like himself to get a job, and few places in cities refused to hire someone based on the criminal mark.

As Cait had said, the mark was his penance for his misdeeds. The Empress was too kind to allow businesses to discriminate against a small-time criminal like himself, but how people looked at him was something even she couldn't change.

Samantha knew this too, and they both knew that she wasn't really talking about his scar, or worrying about his financial support. She was an heiress, after all.

She was talking about his eyes.

And hearing Samantha willingly stab at the thing he hated the most about himself hurt far worse than the thirty-six lashes had.