32nd of Sifdras - 5th Auryn

  Cira has noticed my distracted demeanor over the past few days and asks me about it at breakfast before our Combat class. I grumble a response about not feeling well, pushing my untouched food to the side and Cira frowns at it.

  “Just skip it today.” She suggests calmly. “I’ll tell Professor Blackclaw that you are sick. You don’t have to go.”

  My pout becomes more defined as I hear the unspoken end of her sentence: you don’t have to see him today. I give her a reluctant expression as I pull myself up off the table. “No, I have to go.” I start, my voice thick with resignation, “If you tell him I’m sick, he will expect me to be in the clinic and I would rather not go back there. Who knows what kind of rumors would start about me after that.”

  Cira’s lip quirks pensively, “You really shouldn’t put so much stock in what other people say, though.” She gets up to leave and I follow suit as she finishes her thought. “Those that know you, know better than to put their trust in the words of others over your own. Even Natsumi believes you over those crazy tales of curses and bad luck.”

  As we walk to the training hall, I contemplate her words, thinking that they are just what I needed to hear. Who cares if other people think I’m unlucky or have a bad aura? As long as I’m looking for my own truth and people like Cira and Vesa are around, none of those lies really amount to anything. How did Cira say it the other day? A bunch of hot air? That sounds about right.

  I’m starting to feel better by the time we enter the large training hall, though I now lament skipping breakfast. The thought of dealing with Calas on an empty stomach brings all the same anxieties from the previous days, but before they can gain any sway over my emotions this time, I take Cira’s message to heart. Who cares if Vesa and Fara says he likes me? Certainly not me, because I loath that lanky beast!

  The thought brings me a confidence I haven’t felt since coming to Court and I smile at Tymon as Cira and I join him in the minutes before class. We all chat amicably about classes, research, and the events happening around campus over the weekend. There always seems to be something happening for scribes to have fun outside of classes, though most of them happen in the nearby town of Perlshaw.

  I am intrigued to learn from Tymon that the organization that plans these events is run by scribes, but is not actually affiliated with the Court in any formal way. I want to ask more about it, but my train of thought keeps getting derailed by an itching feeling, like goosebumps on the back of my neck. Like someone or something is watching me.

  When I glance back, as casually as I can, I see a familiar dark visage with golden eyes staring at me from the back of the room. Our eyes lock, a strangely neutral expression on his normally playful, goading, stupid face. My heart leaps, doing somersaults in my chest, despite my earlier efforts to tap down those annoying thoughts. I scowl, more at my own inability to brush off the insecurities of the previous few days. I pretend, for my own pride, that it’s all this beast’s fault and stick my tongue out at him petulantly before turning to Professor Blackclaw, who is starting class.

  The professor explains that we will be drawing lots for bouts today by choosing numbers out of a bag. The number represents the order in which the bout will take place and since there are two of each number in the bag, it will also determine our opponent. When our number comes up in order, the two people with that number will enter the dueling box and the bout will begin. Best of three wins.

  Everyone lines up to get a number from the bag Professor Blackclaw is holding. After the first couple pairs are announced he instructs us not to swap numbers with friends as he will consider it cheating and they will receive no marks for the week.

  Cira draws her number, a 17. Then Tymon draws his number ahead of me. He gets a 21 while I receive a 4. I walk back to my original place in the spectator’s section and look up as Calas is choosing his number, though he is last, so I suppose that means there is only one number to pull. Once he takes his number, Professor Blackclaw is calling for the pair with number 1 and two scribes from the class head to the dueling box while the rest of us fill in to watch.

  As Calas walks slowly away from the dueling box, he stares right at me showing me his number. Seven. There is a questioning look as if he is saying, “What lot did you pull, little mouse?” It irritates me at that moment that he doesn’t even have to open his stupid face, but I can still hear his stupid voice.

  I show him my 4 and his mouth quirks into a frown as if disappointed. Is there ever a time when he does not want to fight me? A small voice in the back of my mind answers my rhetorical question with the image of the concern he showed me at the lectern. I give a huff, pushing the thought away, reminding myself that there is no way he could like me. Ever! I turn my head toward the dueling box, but glance in his direction from the corner of my eye.

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  I track him as he wanders over to another group of scribes to chat before facing the dueling box to watch. After a moment’s pause, he turns his head toward me as if feeling my indirect stare and, at first, gives me a quizzical look. When I don’t react, except for maybe a slight pinch of color at my cheeks, an insufferable playful grin spreads across his face before he flashes me his tongue like I had. I turn my head quickly, shielding my face with a hand on my forehead, like I have a headache. And his name is Calas.

  The first bout starts and I am kind of glad that I don’t have to wait very long for my turn. Since this is a beginning course, most of the scribes present are first-years like Cira, Tymon, and I. But I know there are higher level scribes within this class by design. Professor Blackclaw explained during the first class that some first-years would be paired with those with more experience in combative arts and magics as a sort of mentorship.

  That might be the case in the designated pairs, but the gap between a first-year and one of the higher level scribes is extremely evident in a randomized situation such as this. The difference in skill is clear when two first-years are put together in a bout versus when those with experience are put together. The bouts are faster and more intense in the case of the more experienced students, as if this violence was nothing at all to them.

  Watching the third bout, I’m scared nearly out of my skin when Calas’s low, dusky voice whispers in my ear. “Greyson is your opponent. Don’t let him overpower you. Your best chance is to attack first, but nothing earth-based. He is annoyingly proficient with water-based magics.”

  I glance toward his voice and, at first, see nothing there. I watch with interest as the illusion slowly dissolves, spreading little threads of light and shadow from around his body. The distraction of watching the aether makes me forget to hate him and I whisper back. “How do you know that?”

  “Which part?”

  “Uh, all of it. I guess.”

  “Well, I asked around to find out who had your number. And unfortunately, I have come to know Greyson over the previous year.” There is a glint of unpleasant memories in his golden eyes as he watches the bout instead of me.

  “That bad, huh?”

  He shakes his head subtly, scruffing the close-cut, coal-dark hair at the back of his neck. “You have no idea.”

  I watch in silence as the bout ends while my mind whirls with this new perspective. He seems so quiet and tame, right now. Had he just sneaked through the crowd using illusion magic to warn me? To prepare me for what was to come? It seems so out of character for him. No mention of ‘little mouse’, no taunting games, just a bit of bad blood with another scribe.

  I get up to go take my spot in the dueling box, when Calas gives me one more piece of advice. “Hey, do me a favor. Be the vicious mouse and mop the floor with him, okay?”

  “Sure.” I say slowly, not knowing how to take these parting words.

  As I take my place across from Greyson, my mind is preoccupied with what happened between the two of them until the blond boy across from me flashes an arrogant smile in my direction.

  “Well, aren’t you adorable? I remember you, I think. Aren’t you Duskwood’s little mouse?” He asks me in a horribly nasal tone.

  I only scoff at him, none-too-pleased to be called by that “title” nor the adorable part by this person. His leer at me gives me a creeping feeling that I suppress a shiver from. With his nose up in the air as if to lord over anything below it and his body language exuding a pompous attitude, I am starting to see why Calas would rather not see him.

  The professor tells us to prepare and then begin. Taking the advice I was given, I snap a weave of air knives into existence and propel them forward in two groups. He mutters a word and a blaze of fire engulfs them and vanishes, the threads turning to ash and scattering.

  Not waiting for him to utter again, I call the fire threads he used to form fist sized cores of lava in the same place my air knives had been. Unfortunately, Greyson forms a barely visible wall of water with a single word at the last second and the fire fizzles out in puffs of steam. He smiles viciously at me, a glimpse of his true nature.

  I don’t have time to be disappointed in my attempts or disgusted by the amusement in his expression. He speaks another word and hurls the entire wall my way with a faint shimmering ripple of movement. I barely get my shield up in time, but am still pushed back several feet from the wave.

  By reflex, I am already weaving pellets out of earth and getting a running start to send them his way. As I loose them, a giant wave of water, twice as powerful as the previous one, comes rushing forward to meet me. I hadn’t even heard a word from him this time and it envelops the pellets easily. Even though I am bracing against my shield made of light, the crashing wave washes me completely out of the box; shield and all.

  Greyson laughs haughtily at the quick bout and I hear his taunting tones. “Well now you have a drowned mouse.”

  At first, the words enrage me and then shock fills me when I find that he is not addressing me at all, but Calas, who is still where I left him, glaring daggers with his golden eyes back at the blond boy.

  “Honestly, Calas, what are you even teaching the girl?” Greyson taunts as he steps out of the box unscathed.

  Calas lets out a slow breath, a loosely tethered rage plain on his face. Before he can respond though, Professor Blackclaw’s harsh voice cuts in, “That’s enough! Back to your seats. Number 5 you are up!”

  I stand up and attempt to dry myself off before making my own way back to my seat, but it is a futile exercise as I only manage to ring out the most saturated parts of my clothing and hair. I decide to go to the changing room instead of my seat and I am glad that Cira follows me there.

  She smiles softly at me as she uses soft tendrils of air to clean and dry my clothes and hair. Once I am dry, I am shocked and a bit confused to find tears, unbidden, streaming down my face. It feels so foolish, so silly, to cry over losing and yet, I really did want to mop the floor with him.

  I don’t know if I kept crying because I actually agree with Calas or if I’m just a sore loser. Either way, I am so thankful that Cira doesn’t say anything at all, but instead embraces me, holding me warmly as I sob quietly in her arms.