Chapter 13 #2
The tapping of chalk on the board continues. Professor Rinkin is written in capital letters at the top, and below are rows of numbers with complex codes of letters and different wavelengths beneath them.
I already hate this class.
Students are quietly waiting at their desks for the professor to finish writing as my eyes dart around the room.
I pull the edge of my long-sleeved gray shirt down and readjust myself in my seat.
It’s probably pointless for me to even attend Shadow Wielding.
More than likely, I won’t have anything to wield, but there’s still a ball of nervous energy burning in my stomach.
Especially from being in a room with so many dark wielders at once.
All levels of Noctryn attend this class, from first-years all the way through fourth. I stand out like a sore thumb in my gray-issued uniform against the sea of blackness surrounding me.
Neither light nor dark, I was assigned gray.
It’s kind of perfect since it matches my mood these days.
I’m stuck in a constant state of in-between.
The majority of Veils don’t trust me because, technically, I only tested partially light.
Which means I tested partially dark, and any Veil worth their weight knows you don’t trust Noctryns.
The Noctryns don’t respect me because I didn’t test entirely dark.
If you’re not pitch black, you’re not dark enough for them.
Hence, my state of in-between.
I don’t really belong anywhere but everywhere. Surprisingly, having too much of everything is incredibly lonely. I feel hollow inside as I sit in this lecture hall surrounded by over a hundred other students, unable to relate to a single one of them.
I hate when people play the victim mentality game, I really do, and I’m trying my best not to land on that foundation, but damn, I feel like the universe is against me right now.
I keep coming out swinging, but my arms are getting tired.
I’m not sure how much more fight I have in me when it seems all I do is face-plant into a heaping pile of failure.
I grip my quill as my eyes dart around the room again.
I usually feel the watchful weight of people looking at me, curious about the new Liminal, but everyone is actually otherwise occupied for once and not concentrating on me.
Some are skimming their textbooks, others are watching the professor write, and some whisper among themselves.
It’s the first time I haven’t had multiple sets of eyes on me with rampant conspiracy theories being thrown about, whispered behind their hands. For someone who strives not to be the center of attention, I’ve somehow landed on the highest pedestal of public judgment.
I had the audacity to be different.
People don’t like different.
It scares them.
And when they become fearful, they act rashly and judgmentally.
A prickling sensation burns its way up the back of my neck. As subtly as possible, I turn my head to the right, pretending to look out the window. Out of the corner of my eye, the only thing I see is a female student scribbling furiously into her notepad, not paying me a lick of attention.
The wooden chair groans slightly when I turn back around. The suffocating feeling of being dissected under a stare still wraps itself around me. One thing an introvert knows is when they are on someone’s radar. Ninety-nine percent of the time, it’s unwanted, and we’ll do anything to prevent it.
Throwing away all pretenses at this point, I turn in the opposite direction from before and look directly behind me.
An impassive face that could pass for stone for all its sharp angles and edges stares back at me.
He doesn’t even attempt to look away, just remains casually leaning back in his chair with his dumb, muscular arms folded across his chest. His glare is brazen as he looks at me without an ounce of self-doubt or apologies.
I wonder what it’s like to be so self-assured all the time.
“You’re late,” he mouths.
I reply in the only logical way there is.
I lift my middle finger and top it off with a sardonic smirk.
His dark brow lifts in response.
“I hope everyone has their books out and open on their desks,” the professor warns, still writing on the blackboard.
Kingston twirls his finger in the universal sign for “turn around.”
With an exaggerated eye roll, I turn in my seat. Not because he told me to, but because the last thing I want to do is get on the professor’s bad side on day one.
The guy next to me continues to bounce his knee.
It’s extremely distracting, but I try to focus on the stern-looking professor as she turns and faces the class.
She doesn’t make use of her podium. Instead, she walks back and forth as she speaks.
Her inklike professor robes swish in a theatrical way each time she stops and turns to walk in the opposite direction.
“As you know, some of your peers are just being exposed to this class, while others have prior experience. This is what we call a mixed-level course, filled with students from first year all the way to fourth,” she says while tapping the chalk in her hand.
I discreetly look around, and while some students are in their black fighting leathers, others are in their academy-issued standard uniforms. The one leniency Kintoira offers is that you can wear whichever assigned attire you want as long as it’s assigned.
The ones in uniform have varying grade levels embroidered on their shoulders, from one line to four lines.
I absentmindedly rub the singular line sewn into my right shoulder.
“As you’ve been told, this is a lecture course but leans heavily on the interactive side. Student engagement is a large portion of your grade as well as class participation.”
Kill me now.
The overly friendly smile lingering on her pear-shaped face causes a sense of suspicion and dread to creep its way into my gut. A smile like that is never good news. I’m not the only one she’s making nervous. Multiple classmates stir in their seats or make knowing eye contact with a friend.
She finally drops the smile and, without missing a beat, delivers the punch line.
“Another thing you will be happy to know is that you won’t suffer alone.
As Noctryns, we tend to be self-efficient and loathe relying on others.
” Her arms sweep wide, and a faint dusting of chalk clings to her sleeve.
“However, this is something that must be accepted to be victorious in battle. Which is why, this year in my class, we will be working in pairs,” she says, her stern tone changing to an almost cheerful pitch.
Murmurs break out across the rows as people start claiming their prospective partner.
The loud rhythmic beat of clapping hands silences all noise.
Professor Rinkin stands with both of her hands still pressed together in the air, looking at us like we’re misbehaved children.
“You will not be with someone of the same year. Upperclassmen have much to teach the lower classes, but do not sell yourself short, first and second-years. You can remind them that they don’t know everything. ”
I’d rather run naked through a briar patch than be assigned to group work. I’ve always done better working on my own, and I don’t see that changing anytime soon.
Fidgety guy next to me is already looking at a blond girl across the way, so there goes that chance. Shame.
He could have bounced the shadows right out of himself.
The professor slowly crosses her arms, waiting for the voices to die down. “I should also mention that not only do I have you working in pairs, but I also assign them.”
A collective groan fills the room, causing her overly bright smile to reappear.
“Yes, I thought you might like that little tidbit, which is why I saved it for last. Now, for the fun part. Finding out who your partner is for the remainder of the year,” she says, smiling coyly.
“However, I should warn those who are new to the class, shadow welding is an exhausting process for those just starting and will bring forth character traits you didn’t even know you possess.
” She walks to the podium, running a finger along the spine of a text.
“To do this with a partner can be very intimate on so many levels. You will show your partner a vulnerability that not many, if any, will ever bear witness to. Once you perfect the craft, your vulnerabilities become your weaknesses, so you hold them close to your chest.” Her eyes bore into us. “Noctryns do not submit. Ever.”
Well, that should be easy to work with. I’ve been taught since birth that to show weakness is to show defeat.
Submission isn’t even in my vocabulary.
The professor sets the chalk on the podium and stands there, her hands now steepled as she looks us over. “Row one, turn to the person sitting directly behind you in row two, and introduce yourself to your new partner. Row three all the way to row seven, follow suit.”
I’m in row seven.
Fucking fantastic.
Everyone else is busy turning around or meeting the person sitting in front of them.
Not me.
Nope.
My eyes are glued to page 43 of my book. The words and images blur together because I’m not even focused on them, but I refuse to turn around.
I feel him reach forward and grab the tips of the hair hanging down my back. His long, deft fingers casually proceed to twirl them in circles.
“Looks like it’s you and me, Heathen.”
I spin quickly in my chair and come face-to-face with my new nemesis.
His lips are much closer than they should be.
So close that if I leaned forward even an inch, mine would be pressed right up against his.
His eyes are a contradiction. They’re warm like burnt honey but cold and calculating.
It’s as if the gods messed up when they put him together, but in the most beautiful ways.
His beauty almost hides his cruelty. Almost.
He doesn’t pull back, but to my credit, neither do I. We’re at an impasse, a battle of wills neither of us wants to lose.
I honestly don’t even know how we got here.
“My name is Nori,” I say through my teeth.
“I like Heathen better. It suits you more,” he replies. Elongated canines peek beneath the edges of his unkind smile.
I’ve heard stories about certain dark wielders who dug just a little too deep into the darkness and lost human aspects of themselves. It strips something from them. It tears away the tether that connects them to their humanity, piece by piece, until they’re more animal than man.
It gives him an even more lethal edge to his already deviant, unapproachable appearance.
I click my tongue, trying to appear unimpressed. “You know,” I say casually, “you feel familiar for some reason.”
He raises an eyebrow, not rising to the bait.
“It’s almost like I’ve hated you in more than just one lifetime,” I say, my tone calm but just taunting enough to push for a reaction.
He doesn’t give me one. The bastard is unflappable.
He smirks without saying a word, just enough to provoke me.
I narrow my eyes at him, imagining all the ways I want to cause him bodily harm, before slowly turning back around. How this man causes my ire to rise so effortlessly is beyond me. I’m usually better at letting the bullshit roll off my shoulders.
We don’t even know each other for goodness sake.
I rub my temples and pray for patience. At least we don’t have to partner up today.
We go over a few sections in the book before she proceeds to explain how shadow wielding comes from within the cortex of our being.
Basically, the dark energy that we consist of creates vibrations through electromagnetic fields and gamma brainwaves, resulting in shadows.
The formula of numbers and letters on the board is the supposed key to finding our footing and getting the process started.
In other words, I have absolutely no fucking idea what’s going on.