Chapter 1: Chapter 1: An elf and an Orc walk into a classroom
Syril's head was pounding; that's all he could focus on as he stared hopelessly at the sheet of paper sitting answerless on his desk. He'd spent all his previous night attempting to shove six thousand years' worth of dates, names, and locations into his brain, and the only thing he could focus on now was this brain-splitting headache.
This, of course, was no-ones fault but his own; he knew too well that zoning out, doodling, and daydreaming during the lectures was never going to make for an easy time in the exam.
Hindsight is 20/20, after all.
He took a sip from his water bottle, hoping it would dull the pain that pounded his skull and pierced his eyes. Thankfully it did bring him some momentary relief – unfortunately, it brought him no closer to answering the exam's last question.
He tugged at his collar, the button-up white dress shirt and accompanying red tie had begun to feel less like a uniform and more akin to a straitjacket. His back was ripe with sweat, and he his shirt was stubbornly stuck to the chair.
On the bright side, focusing on these things afforded him the luxury of forgetting about his pounding headache. His hand came up to his short blonde hair, running its way down to the back of his neck before resting on his cheek; he could feel the irritating stubble scattered on his face, a side effect of oversleeping and forgetting to shave.
Subtly, he looked up from his paper, feigning a stretch and casting his eyes around the lecture theatre, praying to see anything that could help him. When he saw nothing, Syril looked to desk next him, where his classmate returned the expression interrogatingly.
Syril quickly looked back at his paper. To make it appear that he was doing his work, he mumbled the question to himself, "Describe the effects that early Elven expansion had on the development of other societies,"
He took a deep breath; there was no need to panic, Syril was sure he could write a haphazard response before handing in his exam. He was confident in his ability to wring a pass from nothing.
A deep gravelly voice boomed through the lecture theatre, "Ten minutes remaining, start finishing up."
Syril looked up; his thoughts scattered by the echoing voice that had ripped away the silence. He stared hopelessly at professor Seabright, who sat comfortably at his desk, diligently finishing that day's crossword puzzle. The small wooden chair he'd somehow squeezed into, bent dangerously under his large frame.
Syril registered the meaning of the announcement, and white-hot panic shot down his spine. He looked back at the paper and willed his brain to remember something; anything, words on a page were all he needed.
Reasoning that anything would be better than nothing, he listed everything he could remember, regardless of how on topic it was.
'The elven expansion brought medicine and technology to other races…' Syril was sure that starting by rewording the question wouldn't win him any points. At this point, he was just happy to see words appearing.
He wrote frantically; words were misspelled, dates incorrect, and names jumbled, but he didn't care. He'd be thankful for any grade on this paper, and he just wanted this hell to be over.
"Times up, pens down, leave the tests, and get out of my classroom." Called the professor.
Syril anxiously looked down at his test again and tried calming his spiking nerves. Hastily, he threw his pencil, bottle, and runic dictionary into his bag, got up from his seat, and moulded into the line of students descending the theatre's stairs towards the door.
He looked around, studying his classmates' faces, desperately hoping to see a sign that they'd found the test as brutal as he had. But, instead, no one spoke, no chatter, no laughter, and Syril felt better at the sound of it all.
Maybe Seabright would be forced to curve the grades.
Syril was giddy at the possibility.
He passed through the classroom door, happy to be leaving the lion's den and returning home. As the line of students left the classroom and entered the hall, conversation began to build.
Something tapped his shoulder, "How did you go?"
"Davion!" Syril delightedly screamed as he pulled his brother into a hug, forcing his classmates to take evasive action to avoid collision with the conjoined pair. He shot apologetic glances to classmates who sneered at the pair and guided his brother towards an empty space in the hallway.
His brother didn't attend the academy anymore, having chosen to enlist in the scouting forces at the end of his selection year. He'd been stationed in some far off town for the last year; this had been the first time they'd seen each other since Davion left that morning.
He hadn't even said goodbye.
For the first time since he'd left, Syril stared at his brother, shocked by the transformation. Davion was always the brawn of the pair, but now he looked like he could go toe to toe with Professor Seabright. His face was lean; his usually long messy blonde hair was tied in a neat ponytail that hung lazily to the side.
Despite their age difference, they had looked so similar telling them apart was near impossible, hence why Syril would keep his hair short, and Davion grew his out. Syril assumed it would be a lot easier to distinguish the two now.
"Did your clothes shrink in the wash or something?" Syril teased.
"It was either this or my uniform," Davion glowered, "plus, wouldn't you describe this as more slimming anyway?"
"I'd describe it as a lot of things," Syril said, "Definitely not flattering though. That shirt looks like it'll break open any moment now."
He wondered how the students and faculty would react to a shirtless man on campus; at the least he was sure the city guard wouldn't be impressed.
Syril glanced back up at Davion, "What are you doing here anyway? Weren't you sent to help with the riots in the Wigston mines?"
His brother coughed, "Well, it got sorted out pretty quickly, so they offered me a few weeks of leave."
For a moment, a darkness had glossed Davion's eyes, the usual emerald color replaced by an acidic green. But then he smiled and Syril was left wondering if he'd imagined it.
Davion looked at him quizzically, "What? Aren't you happy to see me?" he put his hand to his forehead and faked a sob, "My brother, already sick of me, the horror, the audacity oh the agony."
Syril firmly kicked his brother in the shins, "Gods can you go back to the mines already?"
Davion chuckled, bending down to rub the spot Syril kicked him, "Still a bit short-tempered, I see."
Syril scoffed, "you were the short-tempered one. Davion remember when you chased me around the house with a bat, screaming that I stole your favourite pen?" Syril glowered at him, "because it's been hard to forget that one, Uncle still looks at me funny when things go missing."
His brother looked at him, shame burning in his eyes, "You're going to find this hilarious. I found it under my bed that night. it must have rolled out of my bag when I got home from school or something." Davion made a half-hearted attempt at a smile and laugh.
Syril stared at him, mouth open, speechless; the injustice dawning on him, "He grounded me for weeks! I missed Riz's birthday party. She didn't talk to me for months afterwards!".
"Hey, don't blame me..."
"Well, I'm going to." Syril interrupted
"…he was just stressed, Sy. you know what happens to thieves in this town..."
Syril, threw his hands into the air, exasperated beyond words.
His brother sighed, "I'm sorry. Are you happy now?"
Syril kicked him again, "I am now."
Davion smiled, a smile that Syril stubbornly did not return. He placed a hand on Syril's shoulder and pulled him in for another hug, "I've missed you, Sy."
Syril looked up at his brother; he'd be lying if he said he hadn't missed him too. They had been inseparable after all. They were brothers, but more than that, they were friends, each entrusted with the secrets and wishes of the other. Syril was happy to be with his brother again, so the hug shrouded him in a warm glow; it felt like a piece of himself had returned.
Something he would never admit to Davion.
Syril pulled away, aware that people were staring at the two of them, "Ok, seriously, what brought you to school? I don't need you to pick me up, it's only a ten-minute walk home."
Davion sighed, "I needed to talk to Seabright, and I figured I could catch you at the end of your exam and say hi."
Confused, Syril looked back at the door, half expecting, half dreading to see Seabright walk through it, "What do you need to talk about? Have I done something wrong?"
It didn't make sense to him, it was too soon for it to be about his exam, and he knew he had at least passed his other assessments in Seabright's class.
Unless Seabright preemptively arranged a meeting about this exam…
Could he do that? Why would he do that?
"Not everything is about you, Sy." Davion chuckled, "and it's not interesting, don't stress about it."
He opened his mouth to argue but was interrupted by a loud cough beside him.
"Mr Elmdew, if I'd known you'd be dawdling outside my classroom for half our meeting, I would've gone and had a tea,"
Professor Seabright had seemingly materialised beside them. Syril hadn't a clue how he had managed it; the professor was the textbook definition of an orc.
He towered over them both, which was impressive because Davion was six feet tall on a bad day. His back was as broad as the classroom door, and his neck was as thick as a tree trunk.
Syril looked into the professor's brown eyes and tried his hardest not to stare at the large porcelain white tusks extending out from his lower gums. Despite being a professor for the past year at Renria academy, Seabright was still as intimidating as the first day he walked into the classroom.
Davion went to shake Seabright's hand, "I'm sorry, professor, I just saw Sy, and we started catching up…"
"My time is just as important as your own, Mr Elmdew. You'd do well to remember that." Seabright clasped Davion's much smaller hand in his own, giving the image of an adult guiding a child.
Davion nodded in agreement, "Sorry, Sir, I will next time, I promise."
Seabright's lips pursed, obviously content with the response. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a golden timepiece, "Come along then, Mr Elmdew. If you make this quick, I can still make my shows."
Davion turned to Syril, mouthed, "I'm sorry," and followed the professor into his classroom, closing the door behind him.
Syril turned, content with walking home alone, yet his feet would not move. He stood alone in the empty hallway, the sun setting on the horizon, its warm glow only serving as a reminder of the quickly fading time. He needed to get home; his uncle had organised a runic tutor for him and given him the express instructions not to be late.
Yet he did not move; it was as if an overwhelming force was demanding he stay. Every nerve in his body was screaming; every instinct he's ever experienced told him something was wrong.
He couldn't understand it; Seabright had only just started in the school this year; how did Davion know who he was?
His brother's words tumbled around Syril's head, "Not everything is about you…", what other reason beside Syril would there be to meet with his professor behind closed doors?
He rubbed his temples, the headache returning, the pain pulsating through his eyes like liquid fire. Syril wasn't sure if he was crazy with curiosity or maybe just plain crazy, but he resolved both warranted the same answer; he needed to know what was happening in that room.
He turned on the heel, casting his eyes over the wooden classroom door. How was he supposed to get in? He tried the handle, sure to only subtly move it so as not to cue in the victims of his eavesdropping.
Yep, the door was locked.
He tried it again, a little harder; still just as locked.
So instead, he opted to inspect the handle itself; maybe he could pick the door. Granted, Syril didn't know the first thing about picking locks, but he didn't see any harm in trying.
He knelt and inspected the handle. He quickly became sure of two things, one, it was a handle for a door, and two, it was silver.
He groaned; what was he doing? He didn't know how to pick locks, and he didn't see any other way of getting in short of breaking it down.
He put his ear to the door, hoping to hear what was said, but the pair was either too quiet or too far away. He sat down and rubbed his temples; his head felt full of lead; his eyes burned to the brim of tears, and his mouth tasted metallic.
Something was wrong; he'd never felt pain like this. Syril squeezed his eyes shut to stay the tears as a sharp pain filled his gut.
He felt as if he'd been stabbed.
He looked down; a dagger protruded from his stomach, its bound handle bobbing in time with his breathing. The blood pooled quickly around its base, staining his shirt.
He'd been stabbed.
He looked up, Davion's emerald eyes bore lifeless into his own, the acidic darkness he'd seen earlier now painted clearly on his face.
Confused, Syril looked around, expecting to see the long, empty hallway; instead, he leaned against a mahogany desk in the centre of a classroom. Exam papers, stationary and the days newspaper had been scattered across the floor.
He pulled his hand away from his stomach, blood coating his green sausage-like fingers. He pulled himself away from his brother, exam papers scattering underneath him. He opened his mouth to speak but could only grunt.
Blood, so much blood; he lost his balance, it was becoming harder to stay upright, and he felt a jolt as his head hit the floor.
He coughed, desperately trying to empty blood from his struggling lungs. He clutched the golden pocket watch tightly in his hand and used the pain to focus his foggy brain.
He must keep Davion away from it. For whatever reason, Davion wanted it, and he couldn't allow that. So he focused all his energy on the watch, willed it to do his bidding, willed it to aide him.
He gripped the watch harder, willing it, begging it, to follow his bidding. It could help him. By the love of the Gods, please help him.
He watched as the figure resembling Davion stepped closer towards his fetal body, kneeling to pull the knife out, his green eyes devoid of emotion. The figure spoke, but Syril did not hear, his ears rang, and blackness overcame his vision. He again appealed to the watch, begged it. But it remained cold in his hand, the faint ticking now a metronome of death, each beat lulling him into an endless sleep.
Tik
Tok
Tik
Tok
And then silence.
In some deep corner of his mind, Syril was aware that he was no longer holding the watch; a wave of exhaustive panic blew through his body. Where had it gone? Did Davion have it? Had he failed in securing the watch's safety?
He watched as the figure knelt, now just a black shape through his fading vision, reaching towards the hand that once clung to the watch.
The figure stopped, and through his ringing ears, he could distantly hear the figure scream with rage.
Seabright smiled, the watch was gone, but Davion did not have it. As his mind's fog grew thicker, he felt the burden of the watch lifted, and peace overcame Darek Seabright as he blinked away his last moments of life.
Syril screamed. His eyes flew open as he threw up over the floor. He looked around; twilight overwhelmed the sky in the hallway, and he was only vaguely aware of the crowd around him.
"Sir, I think he's awake."
"Yes, thank you, I can see that" Syril looked up into the face of someone he knew but could not remember, "Son, are you ok? I think we need to get you to an apothecary".
Syril was confused; his head was still pounding, and his hand felt like it was on fire…
Oh gods
He wrenched, but he had nothing left inside him.
"Son, you need to come with me right now."
No, he wouldn't; he couldn't. The force was back again, pulling him towards the door.
Hands grabbed him, fruitlessly trying to pull him up and away from the door. He fought; he needed to get in; he needed to know it was not real.
He turned, clawing at the door's silver handle, distantly aware that it was now unlocked. He threw it open, stumbling into the room; his head was on fire, his hand wet with blood, and his eyes filled with tears.
There, in the centre of the room, in a puddle of his still wet blood, Cold and lifeless, sat Professor Seabright.
Someone screamed.
Movement all around him.
He fell to his knees, and something fell from his bloodied hand. It hit the floor with an audible clang.
His heart skipped a beat; his stomach turned inside out. Syril knew it before he looked down. There, on the floor, sat a golden pocket watch; and despite all the chaos unfolding around him, all the screaming, all the crying, he again heard the same metronome.
Tik
Tok…
Weekly Power Status
-- Power
Ranking 
-- Power
stone