Chapter 15 #2
I look at the obscene decadence surrounding me and think of the coal workers caked in black dust as they cough their lungs up at the bar, spending what little coin they make on a beer to drown the pain.
The farmers who break their backs in the fields each day to feed our kingdom while they starve, barely able to afford a loaf of stale bread.
The queen’s taxes make life extremely hard for the civilian population, barely able to make ends meet.
Is sleeping soundly on hay beds really worth all their sacrifices?
Then I think of those human children I saw in Doraan, running down the street with rags for clothing.
They’ll die before adulthood without magic to get by.
Surely, this decadence is unnecessary for a war university?
We can still be trained just as well and sacrifice many of the luxuries afforded to us, so the civilians we boast about protecting can go to sleep with full stomachs and have days off to rest. Suddenly, suffocation cinches tightly around my throat, drowning in the wealth surrounding me while remembering what it’s like to be cold and starving with no one to give a shit if I make it through the night or not.
My eyes wander around the room, looking for an escape. I eye Kissa and give her a pleading look that says save me. She rolls her eyes and, to my relief, starts to slink my way.
Finally reaching me, Kissa purrs, “Sorry ladies and gents, I need to borrow my Chivalry pal.”
I start towards her, but Winx tugs at my wrist. I look down at her disappointed face, feigning a half-smile. Thankfully, she finally lets me go. I’m not her precious prize to garner the spotlight with her friends, it’s like a dagger twisting in my gut that she sees me as such.
“You’re a lifesaver,” I say once we’re out of earshot.
“Don’t get used to me saving you. You’re the dumbass who decided to sleep with the Chancellor’s daughter. You made the bed you’re lying in. You’re in way over your head with that one, and I’m not getting in the middle of you two.”
“Yeah, I know it wasn’t smart. You know males are not the only ones to think with a brain that’s not between their ears,” I retort.
Kissa rolls her eyes so hard, I think they might tumble right out of her head. “Just keep it in your pants when it comes to our unit, or I will claw out those unique eyes of yours,” she hisses. She’s kind of terrifying… which makes me like her all the more.
“I will hold you to that. I have a feeling you and I are going to be friends.”
She gives me a side eye, but I see a subtle smile hinting at the corner of her mouth. She brings me over to the group of Fae along the wall. They have a decanter of Smokewhisper libation on the table.
I notice a Pesche pouring the amber liquid into an empty glass.
The aquamarine scales of her sylph-like frame shimmer beneath the faerie lights as she moves.
Darker blue scales appear in a pattern, forming eddying shapes, almost like a tattoo.
Her hair—waves of candy red with matching eyes shining bright across the scales that frame her forehead—stops at the right side of her shaved head, revealing a fin-like ear.
Her neck is bejeweled by an obsidian and citrine choker, mirroring her jet blazer with sulfur-yellow embroidery.
Her fashion sense is impeccable. She slides the full glass across the table to me.
“Drink up. I can tell by your Aura that you need this after dealing with that bunch of self-indulgent Nightbloods. They’ll suck the life force right out of you if you’re not careful. I’m Orion Nightshade. Welcome to the team.”
I clink the table with the glass and then lift it up to her with a tilt. “May the Celestials never dim.”
I recognize her name from the scroll; she’s our Persuasive.
I heard some have the ability to read Auras, the energy radiating around you, displaying your emotions like a waving flag.
They’re extremely powerful; even the strongest mental shields cannot hide one’s Aura.
At Gildorea, Persuasives are not allowed to read others’ minds without their consent, unless it’s in their specific training sessions, but an Aura reader would not be held to this same rule since it's impossible. They definitely weren’t playing around when they made our Wing designations.
If we survive as a Zenith until graduation, we’ll surely be stationed on the frontlines of the Blackwood.
I peer to the side of Orion. Leaning against the wall is an Elarian with short, messy hair, the bright color reminiscent of fall pumpkins.
Which matches the freckles strewn across his face.
His cheekbones are chiseled above hollows that meet his defined jaw, leading up to his pointed ears decorated by glittering piercings.
His muscular shape is painted in tattoos that peek out along his chest and up his neck, where his red-and-black checkered flannel shirt is unbuttoned.
I’m glad to see someone rebelling against the dress code.
His eyes flare bright amber when they meet mine; he’s a powerful Lilliac, like Winx. He lifts his chin up and down to me in a smooth nod.
“Cinder Ignis Blazeheart.” There’s something about how he pronounced Ignis that pulls at a string in the back of my mind, like a memory just out of reach.
I remember his name from the scroll as well; he’s part of my Chivalry, a Pyro, but there’s something more I can’t put my finger on.
Something Sully had told me about the Ignis family line.
Oh well, I’m sure it will pop back into my head at some totally useless point in time.
On the other side of Orion, a male finishes his drink.
He’s much taller, more slender than me, with a head full of short white dreadlocks that appear dipped in gold.
His hazel eyes are framed by round, golden spectacles, shimmering against his ebony skin with a jaw made of gold that only makes his debonaire imperial mustache stand out all the more.
He’s clearly an Automaton, a subspecies of Elarian so enthralled with Runic magic, they replace parts of their body with Rune Tech.
They’re consigned from a young age to become the very best Runic Engineers. Consecrated to the craft.
“Pour me and this one another, Orion,” the Automaton grumbles.
“She has a name, Gearin,” Orion scolds. I remember his name from the parchment as well. Gearin Griswald.
“My name—”
“We know,” the group says in unison. Geez, okay. Everyone knowing my name dredges up being curseborne all over again.
“I’m Fenwick Brightspar,” a surprisingly short but muscular Elarian says on my right.
She jumps slightly up and down, almost like she can’t wait to finally introduce herself.
She’s bright-eyed and bushy-tailed. Her hair shorn just below her jaw in a straight bob, parting it down the center: one side is white, the other sable.
Sunburst eyes gleam against her warm skin and soft features.
The energy of excitement is practically radiating off her.
“I’m so, so excited we have you on our team! We are going to totally kick ass during Fortress Battle this year.” Fenwick beams. Literally. She’s a Radiant, able to harness the power of light and solar energy. I can’t help but smile down at Fenwick. Her happiness is almost infectious.
The hairs on my neck prickle. I peer behind Orion to a mass of unfurling shadows. Ugh. Not this fucking guy.
“Finally, the fun has arrived,” a confident female announces—her voice almost masculine—walking in next to S?las. Shadows cascading off the pair like smoke.
“I found this little gem playing a prank on a second year. Disguised as Chancellor Ashfel. The poor ensign nearly pissed himself. But her cerulean eyes flared at the sight of me, giving her away,” S?las jabs.
“The kid didn’t even notice until you blew my cover, ya fuckwit,” the female argues, flipping S?las a lewd gesture.
Jostling her powder-blue hair, woven along one side of her head, snarling into a group of long war braids down her back.
Zaffre-blue tattoos swirl up her left arm to the bottom half of her scalp, shaved into an undercut beneath her braids.
“You’re going to have to get better at shielding so you don’t blow your cover when you’re on mission. Or we’ll be in need of a new Spycraft for Zenith Wing.” S?las elbows the female at his side.
“Well, if it isn’t the Savaé fucking Entropaé.
As I live and breathe,” she says with a feigned bow.
The female is clearly a Lilliac by the neon blue flaring in her eyes during her perusal of me.
With the facts S?las has previously said, I surmise she is Seraphina Denova, our Unit Visci. Designation: Spycraft.
“Yeah, everyone knows me. I fucking get it. Tell me something I don’t know.” I huff, bristling as I down the rest of my Smokewhisper libation.
“Damn, S?las! She’s as feisty as you said.
You’re lucky ya only ended up with a dagger at your neck and not at your balls, my friend.
” Seraphina smacks his back, knocking the wind out of him.
It’s clear they’re thick as thieves, but she comes off as much more fun than her intolerable shadowy counterpart.
A jagged, hyperpigmented scar transects her chiseled face.
It’s at home alongside her sharp, angular features.
Her eyes are a deep cerulean, flaring ultramarine when she catches my appraisal of her rippled, battle-hardened body.
I’d heard those raised by the Maidens with exceptional powers could be deployed for missions before Universitás, but part of me always hoped it wasn’t true.
I can see the subtle pain hidden behind her mask of brash jokes and flirtation.
Broken things tend to recognize one another…
I wonder what broke S?las to make them so close, hiding behind masks of similar construction. Nope. Not going there.