TO&FQ: Book 2 - Chapter 14 (RAW)

Chapter 14 - School Lunch

At a certain point in their existential experience, the oppressed feel an irresistible attraction toward the oppressor and his way of life. Sharing this way of life becomes an overpowering aspiration.

- Paulo Freire.

Seraphina could practically feel the curious stares pressing down on her from the classroom windows overlooking the main courtyard. She lifted her chin, brushing back a lock of her golden-blonde hair in a vain attempt at composure. It was mortifying enough to have everyone’s eyes on her, but the source of the spectacle was even more exasperating.

Standing at the Academy’s main gate was Ibn: a small, now leaner boy with dark, tangled hair and piercing red eyes. He wore ill-fitting armor that looked like it had been cobbled together from a chitin and various other animal hides and parts, all scuffed and battered by a week of hard travel. The smell of sweat, damp leather, and exhaustion clung to him, and there was a wild glint in his eyes—part haunted, part victorious. He had clearly fought tooth and nail to reach the Academy.

Seraphina shot him a stern look, her tone sharp as she tried to project an air of noble authority. “Ibn, you are late,” she chastised, her voice clipped., “And just look at you! Whatever are you wearing? Heavens, this is so embarrassing. You really do need a bath,” she added disapprovingly, shaking her head.

The boy’s face fell at once. Whatever effusive praise he had been hoping for, replayed a thousand times in his imagination as he struggled with wild beasts, vanished with her words.

“Now,” she said, softening her voice only a fraction, “did you bring what I asked for?”

Ibn nodded, once, as if afraid even that motion might draw more scorn.

“Good,” Seraphina continued. “Now hurry along to the servant’s entrance and have them see to you. You really do look positively terrible. What did I tell you about the fact that you represent the de Sariens? Some lessons just don’t stick with you, do they?”

Again, the boy nodded, staring at the ground as though it might swallow him. “Yes, Lady Seraphina,” he managed under his breath.

She released a measured sigh and forced a small smile. “You truly have the gift for bad timing. I am quite busy at the moment. That being said… well done, finally bringing everything—late though you are.” Then, in a gesture that was equal parts condescension and reluctant affection, she reached out and gently patted his head.

For Ibn, that gesture was enough. He might have hoped for more, but if a small spark of warmth was all she offered, he would clutch it tight. Even if the stares from the windows and the burning heat of his own embarrassment still lingered, he had returned victorious. 

And, in spite of the harrowing week spent in the woods, he realized that he had grown stronger. He had, in a way, bonded with the blade at his side. When life had been in the balance, the gifted blade had become both tool and protector. Was this what Lady Seraphina was trying to teach him? he thought to himself. Had he misjudged the young noblewoman all along? His young mind trying to puzzle out his lady’s intent as he slowly went to do as he was told.

***

Finally, after a bit of rushing about and asking some of the serving staff at the Academy she was able to join up with the rest of her group. Seraphina brushed an unruly strand of hair from her face and let out a small sigh. “It’s impossible to find competent help these days,” she lamented. Her Page, she explained, had somehow gotten lost in the woods while running errands.

Standing beside her were Rashana and Michelié, who nodded in understanding at Seraphina’s predicament. Rashana and Michelié both knew it would be boorish to question Seraphina too deeply about her servant’s failings, for such things were common annoyances among those of higher status.

The group continued their orientation of the Academy grounds under the guidance of Rashana, who walked ahead with graceful confidence. First, she showed them the rose gardens, a popular spot for students to sit with borrowed library books whenever the weather permitted. Next, they visited the Dullstone-lined magic training rooms, where more advanced students practiced offensive spells and honed their arcane skills.

From there, the half Al-Lazarian girl led them to the Academy’s laboratories, where aspiring Alchemists pored over recipes and eagerly attempted to perfect their concoctions. Across from them, Seraphina noticed Eloise with her own tour group, listening intently as an older student explained the workings of an alembic. Eloise caught Seraphina’s eye and waved cheerily. Seraphina offered a small wave back but made a deliberate show of ignoring Crown Prince Vellens, who stood nearby.

They continued to the chapel, the Academy’s original building. Dedicated to the Goddess, it was small, made from simple grey rough-cut stone, and reflected the now venerable institution’s once humble roots. Next, the group visited the stables and menagerie, where students learned about creatures from distant lands and even had the chance to ride exotic mounts. A distinct animal smell hung in the air, but Seraphina barely noticed.

Thanks to her magical necklace, she could hear the beasts within grumbling about their caretakers. She mused that if Cornelia—her serpent companion—were to grow any bigger, she might have to be housed here someday. Sensing Seraphina’s thoughts, Cornelia remained still and silent, not wishing to draw attention to herself.

Adjacent to the stables stood the glasshouses, maintained at a sweltering tropical heat so that all sorts of vibrant flora could flourish. Seraphina glanced longingly at the strange fruits growing within, her stomach growling faintly, but she refrained from stepping inside.

Finally, Rashana took them to the training halls, situated beside an empty tilting field. The clang of practice weapons and the grunts of exertion echoed through the spacious arena. Mostly young men—and the very occasional girl—were honing their skills, hoping to become the next generation of skilled warriors. There was no segregation here, for monsters outside the Academy walls did not distinguish between the sexes. A handful of privileged students from illustrious adventuring families also strutted about, eager to follow in their parents’ heroic footsteps.

As the group passed by, Seraphina’s emerald gaze lingered on the trainees a moment longer than was strictly polite. She silently justified her interest: she was merely assessing their form and posture, of course—purely an academic pursuit. And yet, she could not deny the moments when her eyes drifted downward to appreciate more than just their technique.

Michelié’s fascination, on the other hand, was far more blatant. Her entire face lit up with unconcealed interest as she scanned the rows of sweating, muscular figures. “Oh, Rashana, just look at them,” she whispered dramatically. “If we’re going to be stuck on this deserted island for three years, we might as well enjoy the view!”

Rashana glanced at her friend with playful reproach, the three golden bangles on her wrists clinking as she wagged a an elegant finger. “Must you stare so openly, Michelié? You’re embarrassing yourself.” However, the amused twinkle in her dark eyes took the sting out of her admonishment.

Gravens and Hughes remained studiously silent. Hughes however could not quite hide a flare of jealousy in his eyes.

Michelié responded with a mischievous giggle. “You can’t honestly tell me you’re not impressed. Come now!” Her laughter was contagious, and before long, Rashana joined in, their lighthearted giggles drawing the attention of a few curious onlookers in the training pit.

Seraphina, determined to maintain her composure, pretended not to notice the undercurrent of excitement. Her gaze roamed once more over the sparring students—strictly to gauge their stances, comparing them to what Kellan had taught her, she told herself, not to admire the ripple of muscle or the confident stances. She inwardly cursed the stray flutter in her chest.

“Milady,” came a soft voice interrupting her thoughts, “the others have gone quite a ways ahead.”

Seraphina turned to see Miriam. With an annoyed fixed smile, Seraphina nodded. “Thank you, Milly.” She adjusted the folds of her Academy robes and quickened her steps to catch up with the rest of her group.

Behind them, practice faltered as more than one budding would-be warrior found his attention diverted. The subtle sway of the young girl’s hips was not entirely obscured by her robes, and several pairs of eyes lingered on her retreating figure. A few more errant strikes missed their marks or simply stopped mid-swing altogether—an unfortunate consequence of so many distracted minds trying to commit Seraphina’s graceful exit to memory.

“Whatever took you so long?” Michelié teased brightly as Seraphina and Miriam finally caught up to the group.

Seraphina brushed a stray lock of hair behind her ear, feigning indifference. “Oh, Milly here had some questions for the seniors,” she replied coolly, inclining her head toward the maid. “She’s determined to learn how to wield a weapon, after all.”

“I am?” Miriam blurted, eyes wide with confusion, before a quick, pointed glare from Seraphina silenced her.

Michelié’s entire face lit up in a mischievous grin. “You must teach me whatever you find out,” she exclaimed, clasping her hands eagerly. Her plump cheeks dimpled in excitement.

Seraphina’s initial instinct was to roll her eyes—she usually found girls like Michelié hopelessly tedious and frivolous. And yet, there was something about this particular girl’s sunny disposition that prevented Seraphina from staying annoyed for more than a moment.

Rashana, walking just ahead, arched a well-groomed brow at the exchange but said nothing. She was long accustomed to Seraphina’s mercurial temper and Michelié’s buoyant energy, knowing exactly how far each could be pushed.

“Forgive me, La—Seraphina,” Graven interjected. The new, less formal way of addressing his noble charge still sounded strange on his tongue. “I didn’t realize how far ahead we’d gone.”

Seraphina tipped her chin up, schooling her features into polite composure. “Think nothing of it, Graven. If anything, I should apologize for holding the group back. I imagine you’re all famished by now.”

From the corner of her eye, she spotted Miriam’s look of utter astonishment. Was this the first time Seraphina had ever deigned to apologize for anything?

“Oh, of course. Lunchtime!” Rashana chimed in smoothly, as though eager to steer the conversation into less perilous territory. “The refectory beckons. And even you, Michelié,” she added with a playful glint, “will find it up to your exacting standards. Their Pacquesh stew is simply to die for.”

“Senior Rashana,” Hughes ventured, “at what time are first-years allowed to eat?”

Delighted at being addressed by the honorific “Senior,” Rashana brightened visibly—far more than Seraphina ever saw her react to her own aristocratic title. “Meals for first-years run from the first-afternoon bell to the second bell. That’s roughly the thirteenth glass,” she said, her rare smile belying her usual reserve. “Seniors eat after that. If you’re late, the staff might still serve you. They certainly did for me.”

Seraphina quietly noted that this indulgence likely stemmed from Rashana’s noble lineage rather than any particular kindness on the Academy staff’s part. She doubted Hughes would enjoy the same leniency.

“Lead on, then—lead on!” Michelié prompted, clapping her hands. She stood on her tiptoes and sniffed dramatically in Sir Graven’s direction. “Is it my imagination, or can I smell the stew already? Then again, it might just be Graven here. He looks rather… tasty.”

Graven offered a stiff, forced smile, clearly unused to such talk from the opposite sex.

“Don’t be ridiculous, Michelié,” Seraphina said with an airy laugh. “Let’s not add cannibalism to your ever-growing list of appetites. I doubt society would approve.”

Michelié’s eyes sparkled with mischief. “But I heard Lord Fauntel—”

“Not here,” Seraphina hissed with a bright, pointed smile. “You can regale me with those scandalous rumors later. Over lunch, of course.”

“You’re positively devilish sometimes,” Michelié said, wagging a playful finger at Seraphina.

Rashana, unamused by the girlish gossip, interjected in a low, serious tone, “I’ve heard that human flesh supposedly tastes like pork.”

Silence fell momentarily. Graven broke it with a disbelieving chuckle, breaking is aura of stoicism. “Where in the world did you hear that?”

Rashana gave him a measured once-over, an enigmatic smile tugging at her lips. “One hears all sorts of things, especially if one happens upon certain… intriguing texts in the Academy library. The institution is quite open-minded and has a few rare volumes.”

“Open-minded about… eating people?” Seraphina asked, quite aghast. This wasn’t the sort of knowledge she’d expected to gain at the Academy.

Miriam shifted uncomfortably, lowering her gaze. 

“Some volumes from the original missionaries of Qis do discuss… that sort of thing,” the dark-skinned girl admitted sheepishly. “In great detail, I might add.”

Seraphina pressed her lips together in distaste and sighed inwardly. Really, was this the conversation she needed before lunch? The very thought left her appetite dwindling. Then again, she mused, this might be a blessing in disguise. Lately, she felt she had been indulging in far too many treats—she and her perpetually hungry serpent, Cornelia, were growing altogether too alike.

“All right,” she said briskly, her voice firm. “Talk about normal food only, from here on out. If this type of conversation continues much longer, I fear I’ll be skipping lunch entirely.”

With that, the small party made their way toward the refectory, the tantalizing aroma of the freshly cooked food providing a welcome distraction from topics far too grim for a midday meal.