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 muchmore 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 bedifferent.
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 hisdumb, 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.
