Caelan walked towards the right, to the group of students staring at him. They neither seemed excited nor conflicted at his arrival; they didn't know him after all. He breathed deeply and observed his surroundings. He noticed people from both sides—the ones in the courtyard that had unstriking confidence and calm were now nervous wrecks. Some individuals who looked anxious in the courtyard were now standing on his side, albeit still anxious.

  The two groups were standing beside a large door, probably the corridor to their dorms. It seemed as if the academy's purpose was to flush out the weak from the strong; this was clear to everyone. On his side was Gale, smiling as he grinned, with Cassandra standing on the other side, then looking towards Caelan. Their eyes locked, as if Gale was saying, "Look at me now!"

  Caelan didn't care; his heart was calm. It is true that it's hard to judge a character from their appearance and speech alone; however, there were always clues. A strong person wasn't always confident, and a weak person wasn't always pessimistic and socially awkward. To judge so quickly would be the sign of a weak mind, and Caelan knew that immediately. All he knew about Gale was his personality. He was a shy, attention-seeking brat who looked towards other people for validation. However, that didn't mean he was weak; that was yet to be revealed. Judging by the intricacy of the wave mark on his right arm, he was somewhat strong.

  His fractal mark looked like a frozen wave caught mid-motion, curling endlessly into itself. Deep cobalt blues folded into pale, icy whites, forming spirals that both felt fluid and crystalline. The waves recurred, each crest giving way to smaller crests, each curl unraveling into finer, feathered patterns.

  At the end of the induction, both groups were excused and told to head to their dorms through their nearest door. Caelan entered the large corridor, the pale white stone revealing his reflection. He saw stairs leading to tiny, further doors; the stairs stretched endlessly in a spiral. In his invitation letter, he was given a key imprinted with the letters 157. That must be the dorm number; it was definitely a long way up.

  He walked upstairs to his dorm; it was only a few more flights of stairs. At this moment, he was exhausted. It had been a long day; his legs started to give out, sweat trickling down his back, dampening his shirt.

  He unlocked the door and headed inside. Inside was a large, neatly folded bed. It contained two shelves, one full of academic books and materials, the other empty—used for his clothes. There was a ceiling fan with light emitting from its center, and a wide desk. It wasn't anything special, especially considering the rest of the academy, but to Caelan, who had lived in an orphanage his entire life, it was spectacular.

  He got out his clothes and equipment and hurried to bed. He fell in exhaustion and closed his eyes. Tomorrow was the start of his classes, and the most important one was Pattern Discipline—the class about structure and learning to control their marks.

  Caelan woke up, his back itching violently, as if someone was scratching it with aggression, digging their nails deep into the flesh. He felt his back pulsating, like a living heartbeat. He had gotten itches before, but this was his worst one. He grunted in pain.

  "Shit, why is this happening?" he asked himself as he scratched his back repeatedly. His face started to turn red. He got up and removed his shirt. He looked in the mirror, gasping in shock. His back had turned blood red, his mark going from green to stripes of intense crimson. The mark appeared to be broken and out of place, with branches vibrating on his skin and displaced from their normal position. He gently touched his back and the hole in his centre.

  "Huh?"

  The sensation wasn't skin-deep; it felt like pressure beneath muscle. It felt wrong, like a rope pretending to be a snake. Caelan scratched his chin; he couldn't articulate why it felt wrong.

  "Could it be—no, that's impossible."

  He tried to calm his breathing; this was the first time he panicked. He had to think. His thoughts felt like puzzles wanting to come together.

  He slowed down his breathing, closed his eyes, and began to articulate his thoughts clearly; nothing would come from overthinking. He inhaled and sat down on the floor, perfectly still.

  He first needed to confirm if this really was a deformity. Any deformity, when pressure is applied, would react with obvious pain.

  Realising this, Caelan pressed smoothly on his back with his fingers, applying pressure near the branch and the hole on his back. He didn't feel anything different. The pain and itch he already felt didn't intensify; it was as if he was touching smooth, healthy skin. That didn't seem right. Maybe he wasn't pressing hard enough.

  He grabbed a soft cloth and started softly punching his back—still no response. Once again, he didn't feel the pain intensify nor the itch; all he felt was the weight of his fingers. If this was true, that meant he didn't have a deformity or injury at all, and the pain was originating from elsewhere. This was terrifying. That meant he had been lied to, but for what purpose he still didn't understand.

  His breathing intensified once again, his body burning hot inside. He tried to stabilise himself, but his nerves refused.

  That led to only one other option: the branch mark on his back seemed to fracture beyond the point of being compatible with his body. It was rare, but it did happen. It was the only other thought he could think of.

  Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit.

  He remembered something from his studies at the orphanage. Marks respond to pattern recognition. Fire responds to heat, river reacts to flow, and branch reacts to growth, division, continuity. That was it. To confirm it was a branch, he had to test if his mark corresponded accordingly.

  He quickly grabbed a piece of paper, his tongue over his lips as he hunched over and sat at his desk. He focused intensely on the pattern of the branch, tracing out the first branch in one straight line, which then gave rise to two branches, each giving rise to two more, and so on. He huffed and quickly put the paper on his back where the mark was.

  He observed quietly. It was quiet beyond words, the only sound coming from the ceiling fan and Caelan's own breath.

  "Interesting," he thought to himself. He noticed the pain and itch subside immensely, turning from a raging tiger into a quiet scratch. He sighed in relief, his eyes closed as he dropped beside his bed. The pain had finally gone. However, what did this mean? Branch marks respond to growth and division; it cannot be one or the other. This test likely confirmed the suspicion that it was a branch mark, but he had to be certain.

  The river mark and the branch mark are similar in structure; however, one expands without any growth, whilst the other expands by growing in form into separate versions of itself. If he drew the river pattern and the pain didn't subside, it would confirm that his mark was a branch mark and the pain was indeed originating from his fractal.

  He took the paper off his back, the itch returning slowly, and quickly drew the river mark on another piece of paper. He then once again held the paper to his back.

  Caelan closed his eyes, trying to think of what this meant. Nothing came to mind as to what he was experiencing; he had never studied this, never seen this anywhere in the world. The itch and pain once again subsided, giving him relief. That meant only one thing.

  A false mark? How? What did this mean?

  He had been lied to all these years, and he was only just starting to realise it now. He had always thought the itch came from his supposed deformity—I mean, it made sense at the time. There was no other explanation.

  This only left one other question in his mind: what mark did he have?

  He had to test everything, see what the mark responded to, narrow the possibilities.

  He traced all seven marks and tested them one by one. Some subdued his pain; others did nothing. This didn't help him as much as he thought it would. He then went to his bookshelf and picked out books on religion, imperial history, and geography. He studied the imperial sigils, the academy seals, the executor insignia. Instead of using paper, he now directly traced them lightly over his back, working from memory.

  There was no change; the itch considerably worsened. That was a strong sign. It rejected imposed authority. Most marks synchronised with it—in fact, all of them. This was strange. Maybe he had missed something? Maybe the books didn't include all the details on the marks?

  He then studied repeating patterns, prayer, and circular diagrams. All marks respond to prayer and pattern differently. He prayed, tried repeating different patterns, and drew circles around himself. He experienced temporary relief, but it was unstable; the itch returned faster than before. That meant repetition alone isn't sufficient, and recursion itself did not equal repetition.

  He now paced himself, his breathing normal. Although he was nowhere near solving this, he was closer, and that made him intrigued—fascinated by what this could be. However, now was not the time for this. It was time for the first class: Pattern Discipline. He had to be wary. He could not reveal what he had found out. Every step had to be calculated; he could not say the wrong thing.

  He put on his uniform and headed downstairs past the dorm.

  As he walked through the corridor, he met a group of boys huddled together, walking in a pack. The one in the middle had long blond hair tied in a bun, green eyes, and a smirking expression.

  "Hey, you're the one from yesterday, aren't you? Caelan, right?" he asked.

  Caelan smiled warmly at him. He had to fit in and act normal.

  "Yes, and your name?"

  "I am Zorian. You made quite a spectacle yesterday—what was that anyway?"

  Caelan scratched his cheek as he saw Zorian smiling smugly at him.

  "Well, to be honest, I'm not sure myself. Maybe the instructor just had to double-check where to put me," he replied.

  "Hmm, fair enough."

  Zorian's smile faded, his face turning grim and his eyebrows narrowing. It seemed as if he was challenging Caelan, to see who was inferior. However, this wasn't the time for this. Caelan quickly walked past the group, his face expressionless. He wasn't frightened nor intimidated. All he cared about was not being revealed.

  He walked into the classroom. It was empty—no seats, no desks—just the smell of thin air. This was where they would conduct their training to recognise and release their marks. The students spaced out across the room. At the centre was a woman instructor, looking at them strictly.

  "Welcome. You have already been classified. This class exists to determine how much of you is excess," she said coldly, walking around the room with her hands behind her back.

  Caelan started to sweat.

  "Marks are not gifts. They are deviations that must be stabilised."

  His itch had returned, as usual, eating at his back.

  "In this class, you will learn to recognise your fractals, harvest their power, and make them your own."

  He had to remain calm. On the outside, he remained unbothered, but on the inside, it felt as if he was dying slowly.

  "Now sit. The first step to make your marks your own is to close your eyes and concentrate on its pattern, its edges, its recursion, and go deeper into each layer, this is what we call a zoom."

  Everybody in the room sat on the floor, closing their eyes and concentrating their minds on their pattern, their faces scrunched, teeth gritting against each other.

  "You may feel a slight twist in your chest, but that's normal. The most important thing—some of you may notice peculiar, abnormal behaviour occurring to your body and your near surroundings. That is good. It is you bringing out your mark's power."

  As she spoke, the first person to respond was Zorian. His body emitted small sparks around him. Then the whole room became chaotic. Some grew small blades on their skin, some shed vines out of their bodies, some changed the way their entire bodies looked.

  "You may feel extreme exhaustion, but that is also normal. If you do, then it is okay to stop. Your injuries are your fault alone."

  The teacher walked around and quickly stopped by a young girl who was sweating intensely. There was no change to her surroundings or body. The teacher frowned.

  "Get up," she said angrily.

  She forcefully dragged the girl outside the class as tears ran down the girl's face while she wailed.

  Caelan concentrated on his mark. He focused intensely on the branching pattern, the growth, the division. He knew his mark extremely well. Nothing happened.

  The teacher walked across and came to a stop near him.

  He concentrated further, going deeper into the geometry.

  Still nothing happened.

  The teacher frowned, preparing to drag him out.

  In that instant, the whole ground beneath them began to shake. The walls warped, closing in on them, and the ceiling appeared to fall.

  The whole class started to scream.