∴ A Capital Vice∴
Wrath was always going to be your downfall, from the heated debates with the masters to the vicious scuffles in the cloisters. Twice already the abbot has taken you aside to remind you that your tuition is a matter of charity, and that further outbursts will not be tolerated. He sent you away with a dose of Hail Marys and a look of disdain.
It’s that contemptuous look – and not the Latin prayer – that you dwell on now. Perched on your low wooden bed, muscles aching from the beating you took in sparring practice, you meticulously clean your sword and scowl. Your fist clenches around the feder’s blood-red grip as you let anger take over. Anger with the abbot for that superior sneer. Anger with your father for signing your life away to these warrior zealots. Anger with yourself for being so easily riled.
“I heard the abbot gave you hell today.” A familiar voice distracts you from your melancholy, heavy with good-natured gloating. Your cellmate scuffs over the reed-strewn floor toward you, a chicken leg in his hand and a grin on his face. “What was it this time, the belt or the switch?”
In a flash of fullered steel you’re on your feet, half-polished sword slicing the air between you and the intruder. In a strange moment of calm before momentum takes hold, you realise you’ll never forget the look of horror on his face.