Obinai exhales sharply, dragging his hands down his face. Shit… way to make the school day just a bit harder.
At the front of the room, Professor Dawsh allows himself a small, knowing smile.
"Correct," he says. "It was, indeed, the humans who sparked the flames of war. Their boundless ambition, their relentless thirst to expand and claim what was never theirs, set into motion a conflict unlike any before it."
Obinai barely hears him. His gaze flickers to the side, where Lyra reclines in her seat. Yeah, that's what Vale said, but this damn professor is missing something…
Professor Dawsh begins pacing again. "The human kingdoms, in their arrogance, sought dominion over lands long inhabited by other races. They believed—no, they were convinced—that it was their destiny to rule. And so, their greed ignited a war that consumed the entire continent."
Obinai stiffens. He can feel it—the weight of a dozen pairs of eyes drifting toward him.
His fingers tap against his desk, a restless rhythm. It takes everything in him not to react. But then again… he's never been one to behave in class anyway.
His hand shoots up.
The motion is sharp, but the professor doesn't acknowledge it. Dawsh simply continues his monologue, strolling leisurely through the aisles, speaking of ancient treaties and the so-called justice that ended the 3,000-Year War.
Obinai grits his teeth. Come on. He strains his hand higher. I never did this back home…
Seconds stretch. Finally, the professor's gaze flicks toward him, his expression barely concealing a flicker of irritation.
He exhales through his nose, halting mid-sentence, allowing the room to settle into uneasy silence before he speaks.
"Yes?"
Obinai lowers his hand. "What's your name?"
Professor Dawsh's brow twitches. "A bit direct, don't you think?" he muses, before inclining his head ever so slightly. "But very well. I am Professor Alaric Dawsh." He pauses, studying Obinai. "And you are?"
"Obinai." He doesn't blink. "And I've got some questions."
Interest runs through the room.
Dawsh gestures idly for him to continue.
"You said humans started this war, right?"
"That is correct."
"Then were they the only cause?" Obinai leans forward. "Because history talks about a champion—a human champion—who just up and disappeared. And after that, humans changed. It wasn't just expansion that happened. They started fighting harder. Desperation kicked in. But no one ever asks why." His gaze sharpens. "So, were they just scapegoats for other stuff?"
A hushed murmur spreads through the class. A few students exchange glances.
Professor Dawsh's smile is thin, almost amused, but there's something else lurking beneath it. He resumes his slow pacing.
"Ah," he exhales. "You raise an interesting point, Obinai." He clasps his hands again. "Yes… after Xandev's disappearance, humans did, indeed, change." He tilts his head. "More ways than one. The rise of the Soulless, for instance…"
Huh?
The professor doesn't elaborate. Instead, he pivots, leveling a gaze at him that feels like a dagger wrapped in silk. "But tell me this, Obinai—given the time they were allowed after banishment, could humans even work together without tearing themselves apart?"
Obinai opens his mouth—then hesitates.
Dawsh doesn't wait. "Do humans know peace?"
Silence.
"Can they decide on a ruler without division? Without bloodshed?"
Obinai swallows, his mind racing, but no words come out.
Dawsh makes his way to him as he speaks. "You, Obinai, are undoubtedly special." He practically purrs the word. "You are one of the few humans fortunate enough to sit among us, to learn—" he waves a dismissive hand "—your true history."
A bead of sweat trails down Obinai's temple. His fingers twitch against his desk. Wasn't there an election that tore social media in half when I was back there? Whole families practically disowning each other over it…
The professor's next words are spoken softly, almost a whisper.
"Your kind's insatiable hunger, your endless ambition… it nearly devoured the world."
Obinai's jaw tightens.
Dawsh steps closer, his shadow stretching over Obinai's desk. "You wonder why the elves detest you?" He pauses, sparing a glance around the room before resting on Obinai again. "Perhaps it is because, following Xandev's disappearance, your race executed in humiliating fashion the one hero they did have—Arelius Freiden."
A few students shift uncomfortably. Someone behind Obinai mutters something under their breath.
Professor Dawsh's lips curl slightly.
"Your own people," he continues, "turned on each other like rabid animals. And now, you sit here, alive, because the other races chose exile over extermination."
Another pause. A dramatic one.
Obinai barely blinks, and his vision blurs just slightly as heat pricks behind his eyes. He forces himself to sit up straighter. No. Not here. Not in front of all these people.
"And that's despite the nonsense spewed by those humans who raved about a reckoning… some warning." Dawsh exhales, the sound almost pitying. "How merciful of them, truly."
A soft chuckle follows. It lingers, sinking into the space between breaths, between thoughts.
The whole class is silent. Even the ones who normally don't pay attention are watching now.
Obinai swallows hard. His pulse thuds in his ears, but his jaw stays locked. If I say anything now, it'll just prove him right.
Professor Dawsh lets the silence stretch. Just long enough to make it sting.
"However, Obinai," he muses, turning back toward the front of the room, "you are right about one thing."
The shift in his tone makes Obinai tense. The class leans in slightly, collective curiosity simmering.
Dawsh adjusts the cuffs of his robe. "Even though humans began the war," he says, "the atrocities that followed… oh, those were shared in full." He places a hand over his chest, shaking his head ever so slightly. "Every race, every kingdom, played their part in keeping the flames alive. The elves, so noble in their self-perception, still bathed in blood. The dwarves, meticulous in their craftsmanship, forged horrors. The orcs, fearless warriors, tore through enemy lines with reckless abandon. And the godkin?" A slight chuckle. "Even they were not above cruelty."
Obinai clenches his fists under the desk. Then why the hell do you talk like we're the only ones who deserve blame?
Professor Dawsh exhales, his fingers steepling together. "The 3,000-Year War was a time of unspeakable darkness, a time when the worst of every race was laid bare. And though humans may have lit the match," his gaze flicks back to Obinai,"it was all of us who fed the inferno."
Dawsh allows a moment for the statement to fully sink in. Then, he turns back to Obinai. "If you are quite finished with your question," he says, "I do have a lecture to complete."
Obinai swallows the frustration clawing up his throat and sinks back into his seat. He can feel the heat of every gaze still on him. Damn it.
The professor pivots smoothly, resuming his monologue as if nothing had happened. But Obinai hears none of it.
His thoughts won't stop spinning.
Why isn't this taught in human history? The thought bites at him. He's studied wars before. Read about victories, defeats, alliances. But never this. Never this.
Was it erased? Hidden? The more he thinks about it, the worse it feels, like something is writhing just beneath his skin. Did my teachers lie to me? No, that didn't make sense. This wasn't some random missing detail—this was everything.
How could an entire race just… not know?
Professor Dawsh's voice fades in and out, his lecture continuing like nothing happened, but Obinai can't bring himself to listen.
Is there more?
He thought he was prepared for whatever this school threw at him. Thought he had braced himself for the way people would look at him. Talk about him. Talk around him.
But this?
The words, the implications—it lingers. It sticks.
And he doesn't think it'll be shaking loose anytime soon.
...
The lecture drags on, the droning of Professor Dawsh's voice like the rhythmic ticking of a clock. Some students sit hunched over their desks, scribbling down notes with the mechanical focus of seasoned scholars. Others, like Bram, are in a losing battle against sleep, their heads bobbing every few minutes like broken marionettes.
The professor, oblivious to—or perhaps choosing to ignore—the sluggish energy of the class, continues.
Then, a horn bellows from beyond the academy's walls.
A single, deep note.
The sound reverberates through the halls, wrapping around the students like an unseen force. Conversations still, quills pause mid-scratch, and even Bram jolts upright, blinking blearily as if surfacing from a dream.
Professor Dawsh exhales sharply, a whisper of irritation curling at the edge of his otherwise composed demeanor. He straightens his cuffs, turns back to the class, and with a small, imperious nod, declares, "Well, that concludes our discussion for today. I expect you all to review the next chapter in preparation for tomorrow's quiz." He glances over the room. "It will encompass all we have covered thus far, so do not arrive unprepared."
A collective rustling spreads through the room as students begin packing up. Books snap shut, chairs scrape against the floor, and the once-dead atmosphere suddenly shifts to one of movement and hushed conversation.
Bram, still shaking off sleep, squints at the room in confusion as he walks over. "Huh?" He smacks his lips groggily. "Wait, class is over?"
Obinai, who has been sitting rigidly, hands pressed against his temples, lets out a humorless chuckle. "You literally just woke up."
Bram rubs his eyes with the back of his hand. "Dunno what you're talkin' about. I was listenin'. Mostly."
Obinai gives him a dry look. "Really? What was the lecture about?"
Bram stares at him, brain clearly struggling. "...History?"
"Uh-huh."
Bram waves a dismissive hand. "Doesn't matter. Ain't like I need to know any of that. What's important is the good stuff—the sparrin', the fightin', the—" He stops mid-sentence, jaw cracking in a yawn so wide it looks painful. He smacks his lips. "Man, I could really go for some food. You eat yet?"
Obinai shakes his head, not in response to Bram's question but at the sheer absurdity of him. "You're actually hopeless."
"Nah, just got my priorities straight." Bram stretches, then claps a hand on Obinai's shoulder. "Anyway, I gotta head to my next class. You remember where you're goin'?"
"I'll figure it out."
Bram grins, giving a lazy thumbs-up. "Cool. If ya get lost, just follow the herd." With that, he saunters off, shoving his way through the crowd.
Obinai lingers for a moment, fingers tightening around the strap of his bag as he makes his way into the hall.
Movement in the crowd catches his attention.
Kaelen.
The dark elf moves with a slowness with his posture tense. A hood is drawn up, obscuring most of his face, but Obinai doesn't need to see his expression to know something's off. There's something about the way Kaelen walks—something... predatory.
Obinai's instincts prick. That's not right.
Before he can decide whether to follow or ignore it, an arm drapes over his shoulders.
"Ah, there you are, ever the pensive one," a voice drawls.
Obinai turns his head slightly and is met with the sight of Elrik, the spiky-haired elf from the combat test. The elf's uniform is worn like a suggestion rather than a rule.
"Didn't expect you to be the sort to lose yourself in intellectual musings," Elrik continues, giving him a light squeeze before letting go. "I'd have thought you'd be more action-oriented."
Obinai exhales, rolling his shoulders. "Something like that."
Elrik smirks. "Ah, worry not. Professors such as Dawsh revel in their own verbosity, believing it an indication of wisdom. In truth, it merely signals their fondness for hearing themselves speak."
Obinai hesitates, then asks, "You think he was exaggerating?"
Elrik tilts his head, considering. "Not in the slightest. History is an ever-shifting narrative, sculpted by the hands of those who wish to preserve their own legacies. The truth, more often than not, is buried beneath layers of embellishment and omission." He shrugs. "The knowledge we receive is but a carefully curated selection, tailored to fit a palatable tale. The rest? Well, that is left to those with the inclination—and the nerve—to unearth it."
Obinai frowns. "So, you believe there's more to it?"
Elrik chuckles. "Oh, without question." His grin widens, eyes glinting with something unreadable. "The real matter is this—do you possess the fortitude to seek it?"
Obinai doesn't answer right away. Then, finally, he mutters, "I have to. Thanks."
"No problem," Elrik replies. "That instructor has a rod so far up his spine I suspect he might actually be fused to it. But alas, it is but one class. We shall endure."
Obinai huffs out a small laugh, shaking his head. "Right."
As they walk, Elrik's gaze flicks around the corridor, eyes subtly scanning the students milling about. His nose wrinkles slightly. "This undoubtedly appears as though we're en route to combat class," he muses. "But first, we endure magic theory. And only then, once the mind is sufficiently primed, do we proceed to the actual engagement."
Obinai blinks. "Oh… alright. I guess that makes sense."
"Naturally," Elrik drawls, rolling his shoulders back. "Throwing oneself into battle without an iota of understanding? Tactless. The dim-witted masses may believe brute strength reigns supreme, but any true practitioner knows that intellect is the keystone of power."
Obinai snorts, shaking his head. "Yeah, no sense in charging in blind."
Elrik gestures vaguely as they walk. "Magic theory, while tragically undervalued, remains the bedrock of any competent mage's arsenal. It is the difference between wielding a scalpel and a club. One must appreciate the finer workings, the delicate intricacies, or else one is simply a brute swinging blindly. And we both know the world has enough of those."
They finally arrive at the classroom, a grand space lined with rows of wooden desks. Diagrams of complex magical circles sprawl across the walls, annotated with impossibly tight, spidery handwriting. Shelves stand like silent sentinels along the back wall. The chalkboard is already cluttered with dense equations and scrawled spell components from the previous lesson.
Before Obinai can step inside, Elrik fluidly steps in front of him. Then, with a smile, he reaches out and brushes some of the grime off Obinai's shirt.
"You know," Elrik murmurs, "I have the privilege of being one of the select few Seraphina deems worthy of trust. A rather important station, wouldn't you agree? It falls upon me to maintain a certain… order on her behalf."
Obinai stares at him, unsure where this is going. "Uh… okay?"
Elrik's smile lingers, but it doesn't reach his eyes. "You, Obinai, are—how shall I put this?—a spectacle as a human. As a magician, however? A crude mockery at best. A punching bag—a stepping stone upon which greater talents refine themselves." He tilts his head, considering. "It would be wise of you to acknowledge that."
Obinai's fingers twitch at his sides.
Elrik leans in just slightly. "When Seraphina walks past, you bow. You lower your head, as is proper, and you show her the respect that is so obviously her due. Understood?"
Obinai blinks. His brain stutters. Then, before he can stop himself, a laugh bubbles up—soft at first, then sharper, until it's a breathy, borderline-hysterical chuckle.
"What?"
Elrik's smile tightens. His fingers twitch—just for a fraction of a second—before he claps Obinai on the back with a force that feels more like a reminder than encouragement. "Glad we understand each other." His grin widens. "Now, shall we? The books await."
With that, he strides into the classroom, leaving Obinai standing there.
After a beat, Obinai exhales sharply, shaking his head. Then, suddenly, the laugh from before comes up—nearly hysterical—until he has to steady himself against the wall. How many schools was I expelled from because of shit like this? Jeez. He wipes at his eyes, still grinning. "All these fuckers are gonna hate me," he mutters. "Damn."
With that he steps inside...