16. Michael
16
Michael
Authentic History is designed to be a propaganda course, teaching supernaturals that the Authentics of our society have sacrificed their blood, sweat, and tears to get to where we are today.
But that’s a lie.
No, this realm has been built on the backs of supernaturals. Authentics didn’t fight in the Rift War. Why send Authentics when an army of Berserkers and Valkyrie leads the charge?
The Rift War occurred centuries ago, and we still feel its aftershocks. Cracks between realms have always existed. Travel between realms used to be commonplace, which is how supernaturals ended up here in Vorista. Some will claim the realms our spirits hail from do not exist, but most scholars know that to be incorrect.
For a long time, the cracks, what we call rifts, caused no issues. But eventually, neighboring realms stopped honoring the peace treaties that had existed for ages, and the Rift War began.
Not much is known about how other realms fared, but here, in Vorista, Reighold was searching for weakness within Vorista, so they poured soldiers through the rift. Reighold had no supernaturals on their side, and we would have been poor strategists if we hadn’t used what was right in front of us, so the war was fought by supernaturals defending their homes. We came out victorious and held our ground until it was sealed, preventing another attack.
It’s not recorded how the rift was sealed, but I can bet it wasn’t thanks to Authentics.
Before the war, Authentics and supernaturals lived together in relative harmony. But two years after the rift was sealed, that changed.
Now, I teach descendants of the warriors who fought for our realm that the victory was only because Authentics, with their level heads and superior decision-making skills, could reach an agreement with Reighold. It’s not documented what that agreement is, but there has not been an attack since.
That we know of, of course.
“Thank you for your attention today, class,” I say, leaning against the front of my desk. “As you can see, the Rift War was a dark time for our people, and we are lucky that the Authentics were quick enough on their feet to end the fighting before a catastrophic loss of life on either side.”
“It sounds like we lost plenty of good supernaturals,” a blue-haired male says from the back row. “Do our people not count as loss of life?”
It’s an effort to keep my face from showing how I truly feel. The male is not wrong, but it’s not as if I can tell him that here, of all places. I clear my throat, clasping my hands in front of my belt.
“Of course, supernatural lives are important. However, the outcome would’ve been very different without the Authentics to present a level head during wartime negotiations.”
He narrows his eyes like he’s trying to see through me as if my words are a beacon that announces my lies. “That’s what the textbook says, sure.”
“Alright, that’s it for today. Have a great rest of your day!” I call to the class, the male’s words lost with the shuffle of feet and bags as his classmates hurry out of the class.
But he doesn’t hurry. No, he stays stretched across the back rows, his arms wrapped around the chairs beside him. He’s got the look of a musician, with shaggy blue hair and a bleach-dyed shirt, his black pants ripped and baggy on his hips. He’s slender, with stretched ear lobes and a pointed face that seems permanently twisted in a scowl. We stare at each other, a silent standoff before I sigh.
“How can I help you?”
“I merely want to know why you’re teaching things you don’t believe,” he shrugs.
“Of course, I believe what I’m teaching.” My voice drips with condescension. “That’s why I’m a professor here.”
He finally stands up and slowly walks down the stairs towards me. His combat boots clomp loudly, putting my teeth on edge. “I don’t think that’s why you’re a teacher here.”
“And what makes you say that?”
“Call it a lucky guess,” he shrugs. “I can just tell.”
“Well, this time, you’re wrong. What did you say your name was?” I narrow my eyes at him, making a note to mark down who he is and pay close attention to the work he turns in.
He grins widely. “I didn’t,” he whispers, walking out the door. “You’ll find out eventually, I’m sure.”
I watch his back as he leaves, my stomach in knots. Last quarter was easy for me, but I feel like I am seconds away from exposure this time. First with Stella and now with this male, it’s becoming abundantly clear I am not doing as good of a job as I thought at appearing simplynatural. I need to up my game.
The salad I grabbed from the teacher’s dining hall is halfway gone when someone sits beside me. A minotaur, who I think is named Charles, sits next to me. He teaches Meditation for Violent Spirits or something like that.
“Good afternoon, Michael,” he says in a deep and rumbling voice. “Haven’t seen you in the teacher’s hall much.”
“I tend to grab and run to eat at my desk,” I say slowly, matching the glacial speed at which he speaks. It’s common for simplynaturals to talk a little slower than average, their cadences clipped and even. “But I thought I would benefit from some company today.”
“Well, you’ve got it.”
It’s strange watching a minotaur eat. The head of a bull and the body of a male – it’s a little disconcerting until you get used to being around them. He eats a bite of salad, chewing slowly, his powerful jaw flexing beneath the brown fur that covers his face. His horns are massive and curve upwards to the ceiling, but their color is dull, and they’re starting to chip in places. I want to ask him what happened, but that doesn’t seem like a polite thing to do.
We eat silently for ten minutes until I can no longer stand the quiet. “What do you think of this quarter’s new students?” I ask.
“Interesting,” he replies. “They’re spirited. They seem to be missing the point that they are here to control their spirits. Instead, several seem to be flaunting it.”
“Ah, I have noticed that. But they tend to calm down after a few quarters, don’t they?”
Charles has been teaching here for three years, and while I never took his course since cervidae are not violent spirits, I know he has always been all in on the simplynatural agenda. “They do. By the start of the second year, they’re much more willing to follow the rules. We have a year of rebellion out of them, but it will lighten up the longer they’re here.”
“And that’s from the repetition of the classes?” I’m not sure what I’m fishing for here, but that’s the root of why I went undercover. Why and how are all of these spirits losing their fight? What is changing with them?
“Robert’s program is all-inclusive, with every element designed to allow our students to reach their maximum potential,” he parrots. I’ve heard this line a thousand times, on every television spot and every ad. “We’re lucky to be on the ground floor, Michael. We are the ones that get to see the plan in action.”
“I feel like such a small part of it,” I sigh, pushing my salad away. “After all, I only teach Authentic History.”
Charles narrows an eye at me, trying to ascertain my intentions. “You don’t feel like you’re contributing enough?”
“I wish I could do more.”
He nods, pushing back from the table and grabbing his empty plate. “I can ask around. Maybe you can be on the assessment board. Robert does all of the exit interviews himself, but a group of us rotate out for the assessments before they move on to the interview.”
This is my opportunity. I’ve wondered about this part, but I’ve been unwilling to go through it myself. If I ever want to leave campus, I have to, but this allows me to see what’s happening while staying here to get more information. “I’d love that,” I answer honestly. “I think I could be a great addition.”
The minotaur nods and walks away, leaving me feeling closer to my goal than ever before.