♀♥♂♂♂♂
As I leave Riven’s office, I hear the count’s whisper in my ear and feel his strong arms around me. But I’m not physically being held, and the voices are only in my head. He makes assurances, groggy though they are, but he’s content, all the same. He thinks I’m still in his arms. And he promises to keep me safe. His phantom hold on me is light, protective, an embrace.
It distracts me from the student who leads me to my first class—the same student that rode his raven into school. The same one that Harlow cussed out and Pilot raced, nearly killing his competition to win.
As Tor leads me, he says nothing and I say nothing. I’m not sure what to say. Instead, I watch the few people walking the halls with us. Some are other students running to class. Others are teachers entering their domain. I missed orientation, and all I have is a piece of paper with descriptions of my subjects. And I have my taciturn guide.
The walk down the hall is awkward and silent. But I want to let Tor know it wasn’t my idea to cut him off mid-air and drop him from his mount.
“So, I’m glad I could see you again… to apologize.”
Tor glances back at me. “I know you’re new here, so let me give you a piece of advice.” He adds a snide grimace to the annoyance in his eyes. “Don’t show your weakness.”
“My weakness?”
He rolls his eyes. “Never mind. I forgot what I was talking to.”
“What you were talking to?” I demand, anger spiking inside me.
His dislike of me rolls off his aura in caustic waves. It wasn’t me that shoved him off his raven, but he doesn’t seem to care. He doesn’t like me. Might be because of the company I keep. But Harlow has my back. That I do know and this Tor guy hasn’t even given me a chance.
Down the hall, a door opens, and out steps a person with the cadence of a teacher. Sometimes it’s hard to tell by size and age which are the students and which are the instructors. His cropped white hair hangs above his shoulders, with his long bangs brushed to the side. His arched eyebrows, thin nose and lips are as refined as his haughty air. Even if I’d never seen one, I could tell by his regal, lifted chin and far-away gaze that he’s a member of the Elven society.
“Mr. Glassglow.” The elf’s lilt fills the hallway with a low but dangerous force. “Just the person I wanted to see.”
No matter the quiet volume of his tone, any powerful fae uses their words carefully. Magic resides in the high fae to the point that they are bound by much of what they say. Elves are a familiarity in my world, and seeing one here, in Dread, brings out a small sense of relief.
Tor stops, and I nearly walk into him.
“Dr. Ephesius.” Tor bows with the respect afforded a high fae.
The high one drops his apathetic eyes behind Tor to me, steps closer, and peers around Tor. “A dryad?” He’s as shocked to see me as I am to see him.
Goddess, where are my manners? I curtsy and lower my eyes, fit to remain in my reverence until released.
“Up, child,” the High Elf commands. “What brings you here, to Dread?”
Tor answers for me, “She’s an exchange student from the Academy of Divination.” My fellow student obviously thinks highly Dr. Ephesius, so at least we share the same respect for elves, or at least this elf.
Dr. Ephesius lays a gentle hand on Tor’s shoulder. “Would you wait in my office for a moment? I have a matter to discuss with you.”
“Of course.” Tor smiles for the first time, and his smile shines like the brightest star in the night. It makes me itch to know what type of affiliation he has to the high elf. Without another word, Tor sweeps past me and closes the office door.
Great, now I have to find my class on my own.
Once Tor goes in where Dr. Ephesius came out, the fae turns his apathetic eyes my way. I’m not fooled by his attention. Elves live long lives, and sooner or later, they become detached to the world around them. Judgement is still out on whether their perma-bored faces are a mask or if their centuries-long existence washes away their emotions.
He gazes through me for a period of time, making me uncomfortable. But I have to wait for him to speak. He’s my elder and such is protocol. Then, he finally speaks.
“It’s nice not to have to rush…” His voice teeters off, eyes gazing into nothing.
I wait, eyes cast to the side. His behavior is normal to me, but while he has the lifespan of time itself, I only have the patience of an oak tree. I’ll be late for my first class, and that’s not the impression I’d like to make.
“What makes you attend the Academy of Necromancy?” His question startles me. It’s a short one, so unlike the long-winded speeches of diplomacy and rank his kind are known for.
I look up to find his intense gaze set on my face. “Ah, I… I… was… am… to be the Priestess’s understudy, and…” This is so uncomfortable. Fae don’t ask direct questions. One looking directly at me is unnerving enough, and then there’s all the protocol he’s tossed out entirely. He’s given no “hello, I’m the son of this great and powerful wizard, and my name is ten syllables long and aren’t you impressed? And have some tea while you bow and kiss the floor, because if you don’t, I might be offended and blow everything back to creation just to show how mighty I am.”
The elf smirks—smirks at me! “Forgive my manners. I have stayed here
