3. Stella
3
Stella
It’s hard to tell if I’m looking at the sun or the archway to the Reformation Academy because, shit, that thing is big. An elaborate gold crest sits atop an unreasonably tall gate swung open, beckoning me in. The campus is surrounded by a ten-foot wrought iron black fence with pretty swirly protrusions on the top that look like decoration but feel like weapons. The crest, a broad shield with a unicorn on one side and a dragon on the other, is engraved. It’s hard to see the engraving on the face, but I’ve seen enough pictures of it that I can repeat it in my sleep:
Robert Sinclair’s Reformation Academy Authenticity is just a diploma away.
I hoist my black backpack higher up on my shoulders, unused to carrying it with my wings out. My stomach rolls with nerves at what I’m about to do. Every part of me knows this place is dangerous, and I am walking into the lion’s den, but I know down to my very core that this is where I am supposed to be.
Plus, this is going to make a killer article. Something weird is happening within these gates, and if I can expose it, I’ll never have to worry about a job again.
I’m not saying my work could change the world, but it totally could. I have a responsibility to the entire supernatural community here, even if I wasn’t feeling this intrinsic call to attend.
Robert Sinclair is doing everything he can to remove us from society. I need to know why so I can stop it. Authentics are afraid of us and the power we wield. How did we let them get the upper hand on us? And why?
Whatever the reason, I need to stop it, and Robert Sinclair’s Reformation Academy is the epicenter of it.
But I have to wonder why no one else has done this.
Dragging my yellow, hard-shelled suitcase behind me, I can’t help but feel exposed with my wings out. I’m still reeling from that interaction with the police. Despite that and the open gawks I got on the bus on the way here, I know I have to walk in looking like my spirit.
I went all in on the Valkyrie look today. I’ve got on a pair of gladiator sandals and a pleated brown leather skirt with a corseted black bodice. I look like a drawing from a textbook on my spirit, but hey, it’s not like a school like this embraces individuality. My brown hair is braided in an intricate woven pattern my mother taught me.
Gods, I am still aching from that conversation. I know they’re upset and scared, but how they agreed to support me in this means so much. It’s not just about the job – even though that is a huge motivator. I really do think this is my ticket to a permanent position. But it’s mostly about our society as a whole and the way supernaturals are slowly being pushed out of a realm that is rightfully ours.
The fact that they sent me away with their blessing will carry me through the tough days that, no doubt, lie ahead.
At the end of the long path, which they should’ve warned a girl about, I see a massive white stone fountain. It’s carved to look like a middle-aged male Authentic, with his arm wrapped around a vampire’s shoulders. The vampire has a massive smile and a diploma in his hands.
How cute.
“Stella?” a soft voice asks, pulling my attention from the fountain.
“Yup,” I reply, turning toward the voice. A small, beautiful fairy stands in front of me. She’s maybe three feet tall with translucent green wings, pointed teeth, and pale blue skin. She’s wrapped in a plain white dress that shows absolutely no personality. Usually, fairies are eccentric in their clothing choices, layering on the accessories, colors, and patterns to the point where they hurt your eyes.
“I’m Rain. I will help you get your room assignment and course schedule. Can you retract your wings, please?”
My brow wrinkles. “I can, but I would rather not.” I gesture towards her wings. “Yours are out.”
She sighs heavily. Her voice is measured, with hardly any inflection. I noticed it the few times I interviewed simplynaturals. It must be a quirk of the process.
“Unfortunately, I am not one of the lucky supernaturals who can blend into Authentic society. Mine do not retract. Here at the Academy, we prefer that if you can hide a component of your spirit, you do. However, it’s not a requirement until your second year.” Her voice is filled with disdain as she looks at me from head to toe. “But I can see you’re clinging to the assumption that your spirit defines you.” She rolls her eyes and begins walking further into campus.
Wow, the brainwashing begins from the first tour. I should’ve expected it.
Would it be too conspicuous to pull my notebook out and start writing shit down?
It would, right?
As I look around the campus, I notice several students sitting around in the sun, reading books, and lying in the grass. At first glance, it seems like a regular school, but a strange buzz in the air makes my skin crawl.
“…and that is the dining hall. I am unsure what your kind eats, but we only serve Authentic food here. It is, however, excellent,” Rain says, making it very clear that I missed a part of what she was saying. “A new group starts every quarter, and most have been arriving for the past few days. We’ve got two more days until classes start. Hopefully, that will be enough time for you to get acclimated.”
“That should be plenty,” I say, struggling to get my suitcase over the ledge into the building she’s taking me into. It’s a classic brick building with three stories and ivy growing on the sides. If someone took a photo of the perfect Authentic school, this building would be in it.
In the foyer, a male sits behind a desk. With his pale skin and red eyes, he’s obviously a vampire, but he looks so sickly that it’s almost jarring. His cheeks are hollow, skin dry and ashen. Instead of wearing dark clothes like most vampires I’ve met, he’s in a rainbow-striped button-up shirt. His dark hair is buzzed off, and he squints when we come in from the sunlight streaming through the door. “Rain,” he says in a tone that’s just as monotone as hers, “is this a new student?” His eyes skip over me, barely registering me before he looks back at Rain.
“Yes, this is Stella Mikers, a new student starting quarter three,” she replies, gesturing for me to approach the man’s table.
“What’s your spirit, Stella Mikers?” he asks, searching for my paperwork. I know I put it on there when I filled out my application, but maybe he’s trying to make conversation.
“I’m a Valkyrie.” I can’t stop the pride that leaks into my voice. We’re one of the rarest spirits since females are the only ones who can be born as Valkyries, and the supernatural population has been declining rapidly, with females in particular not being born as often anymore. No one knows the cause, but forcing us to ignore our supernatural instincts can’t be helping.
Or maybe it’s what Mom said, and we were wiped out in the Rift War.
He looks up from the paperwork, squinting at me. Does he need glasses? His eyes seem stuck that way.
“I believe you may be our first. You’re in the Mythology tower.” He hands me a large packet of papers and a set of keys. “The papers have your schedule, the rules, and information on your scholarship. You’ve got a key to your room and the indoor pool, but you are not allowed access to the gym because of your spirit.”
“I’m sorry, what?” I say, shocked.
“We’re here to learn to be better than our base instincts, Stella, so I am sure you would understand why a Valkyrie being given the chance to increase her strength is counterintuitive to that goal.” That would have sounded condescending if he had any personality, but I am so stunned I barely notice.
I’ve been here ten minutes, and I’ve already been told to hide my wings and that I can’t go to the gym, two things that speak to the true nature of my spirit.
What is going on at this school? I knew it would be packed to the brim with propaganda, but I thought they’d ease me into it instead of raw dogging me with the reality of my situation.
I take the papers and keys from his outstretched hands, rolling my eyes and not responding to his statement. “Where is the Mythology tower?” I ask both of them. “I’d like to get settled in my room.”
“Follow me,” the fairy says, heading through the building and out the other side. Here, we exit into a massive courtyard. Four archways are built, and a tower looms behind each of them. Each arch has a placard on top and its own unique look.
Rain points to the archway on the right. The tower behind it is made of rich, dark wood, stretching a few stories high. Plenty of windows dot the side. “That is the Shifter tower. Despite its name, it’s not just animal shifters. It is anyone who has a perversion of the Authentic form, such as vampires and selkies.”
My mind twists on the word “perversion.” Is that how they see us?
“The windows don’t open. Couldn’t have any of the avian shifters flying out, could we?” She continues walking around the courtyard, stopping at the next arch. “This is the Demon tower. Pretty self-explanatory. Angels and other celestial beings live here, too.”
This dark stone tower is similar to the Shifter tower, with the most noticeable difference being the size of the windows, which let in what I am sure is an obscene amount of natural sunlight. “Angels in the demon tower? I bet they hate that.”
“It is not ideal, but the two are more alike than you’d think,” she deadpans. Rain abruptly stops in front of the third tower, a light grey one with a terracotta roof. “This one here is the Folklore tower. It’s where I live. All of us here originate from folklore passed down throughout Authentic history.”
There was a time when supernaturals were not integrated into society. That time, what we now call the Age of the Authentic, produced many myths and tales about supernaturals. It’s always interesting to read a book from before the integration and hear your spirit written about it like it was someone’s invention.
It’s wild how far we’ve fallen. It started with the Age of Authentic when supernaturals were in hiding, and then there was the time before the Rift War when we lived in harmony. Now, Authentics are trying to destroy what makes supernaturals so special.
“And here we are,” Rain says, stopping before the final arch. It’s black like the others, with plain script spelling out ‘Mythology.’ “I trust you can find your room.”
She doesn’t wait for me to reply and walks away, going through the archway to her tower. The supernatural society designates someone a Mythological spirit if the tales of our spirits had a religious or literary origin, unlike the Folklore supernaturals, whose stories of existence were passed along through fairy tales, tall tales, and rumors. Angels and demons are considered Mythological spirits by society at large, so it’s interesting that they’re separated from the rest here. It must be a lodging issue.
The tower is made of white stone and is circular, stretching four stories high. I’m told the Academy can host over three hundred students at one time, so I’m not surprised the towers are pretty big. Gold metal accents the windows, blinding me as I approach the front door. The tower is quiet inside, with an open-concept library on the right side and a student lounge on the left. It’s almost lunchtime, so I wonder if most of the students are there or if they’ve left campus because it’s a Saturday.
Can we leave campus? I should look into that.
The tower is silent as I roll my suitcase through the entryway.
I pull out my keys and check the tag hanging on one. “Room 402, got it,” I say to myself, pushing in the pull bar for my suitcase and hoisting it up as I climb the stairs. Weren’t they supposed to check my luggage for contraband?
Guess I got lucky.
Room 402 is directly across the hall from the stairs, and when I open the door, I’m surprised to find it’s pretty spacious.
Honestly, it’s way nicer than my apartment. All white furniture, black bedding, and delicate gold curtains are arranged around the room, with a glass-topped table pushed against one wall. It’s like staying in a fancy hotel. Even the pillows look so fluffy that I want to roll around on them.
In the corner, I have a small closet, and I toss my suitcase into it, before shrugging off my backpack and unlacing my sandals.
I’m not sure how my ancestors ever wore these in battle. They’re like walking on cardboard.
A narrow door across the room is cracked open, which I hope is an en suite bathroom. I have no desire to trek down a hallway every time I have to piss.
I open the door to evaluate what I’m working with and find two sinks, an enclosed toilet room, and a shower with opaque black glass for privacy. Thank Odin. I can shit in peace.
As I’m looking around, a door I didn’t notice opens.
“Oh.”