"Yeah, kinda. We can fix it later," I mumbled, shrugging off the persistent thought of my perpetually broken door, a familiar, resigned sigh escaping me. It was just another morning in Dolorian, after all. "Now, I can continue."
We, the Dolorian first-years – myself, Henry, Jove, Gianna, and Yor – stepped out of the vast, cavernous comfort of our dorm, the humid, earthy scent of the deep rock giving way to the crisp, fresh morning air. The massive black obsidian cliff, our unique home, loomed behind us, its jagged, unyielding face catching the first rays of the rising sun, which painted its rough surface with streaks of deep purple and fiery orange. Below, the academy grounds stretched out, a vibrant contrast of manicured green lawns and winding cobblestone paths that led towards the distant, gleaming spires of the main academy building.
Our path wound away from the stark precipice, leading us through a meticulously kept garden, where dew-kissed flowers of every conceivable color bloomed, their sweet, delicate fragrance mingling with the earthy scent of damp soil. Beyond the gardens, wide, bustling thoroughfares opened up, already teeming with life. The air here was thick with the murmur of hundreds of student voices, a symphony of footsteps on polished stone, the rustle of robes, and the occasional distant peal of laughter from a far-off courtyard. Sunlight streamed through tall, arched windows of the surrounding buildings, illuminating dancing dust motes and casting long, shifting patterns of light and shadow across the worn flagstones.
As we moved through the throng, the distinct colors of the dorm robes painted a vibrant, moving tapestry. Merlin Dorm students, a sea of deep blue emblazoned with the wise owl crest, moved with a quiet purpose, some already engrossed in scrolls, their brows furrowed in concentration, others engaged in earnest, low-toned discussions. Armania Dorm students, clad in crisp, gleaming white robes with the proud lion crest, strode with an almost regal confidence, their movements fluid and graceful, their chatter a bright, clear sound that carried easily. And then there were us, the Dolorians, our rich, vibrant purple robes and the watchful wolf crest standing out, a splash of bold color amidst the more subdued hues, a silent declaration of our unique, chaotic identity.
Jove, predictably, was already a whirlwind of unrestrained energy, occasionally bumping into a passing student and offering an overly dramatic apology. "Apologies, noble scholar! My boundless enthusiasm knows no bounds!" he'd declare, his hands gesturing wildly, usually earning a weary sigh from Henry.
"Must you be so... much?" Henry grumbled, adjusting his own purple robe with a meticulous hand, his gaze fixed straight ahead, avoiding eye contact with anyone, especially Jove. "You're going to cause a pile-up."
"Oh, come on, Henry, admit it!" Jove retorted, nudging him playfully, a move Henry deftly sidestepped. "A little dramatic flair never hurt anyone! Besides, imagine the stories they won't have to tell! 'Oh, yes, I had a very nice scone on my first day.'" He shuddered theatrically.
Gianna, ever the beacon of warmth, walked between Yor and me, her soft smile a constant presence. She occasionally exchanged a polite nod or a small wave with students from other dorms, her presence radiating an approachable kindness. Yor, as always, moved with a quiet, almost ethereal grace, her dark eyes taking in every detail of the passing crowd, her expression unreadable but attentive. She seemed to observe the patterns of movement, the subtle nuances of interaction, with a detached but complete focus, like a silent guardian.
As we approached our classroom, the noise grew louder, a concentrated hum of young voices, a palpable anticipation for the day to truly begin. The flow of students narrowed, funneling us towards a large, ornate doorway. It seemed all the first-years had already gathered.
I spotted my cousin, Enchidna, her blood-crimson short hair and curled horns immediately recognizable even amidst the throng. She was dressed in the crisp white robe of Armania, the fabric pulled taut across her undeniably generous chest, emphasizing the alluring curve of her full breasts that seemed barely contained. She waved at me enthusiastically, her whole body seeming to vibrate with excitement. "Ven! Over here, you big lug!" she called out, her voice bright and clear, cutting through the din. "My Armanian sisters are all so proper," she muttered, rolling her eyes playfully, "I swear they'd faint if I actually laughed." Sitting next to her was Esutora, the Iskiran from Armania Dorm, her white hair gleaming. She greeted me with her usual teasing smile, a knowing glint in her pale blue eyes. "Well, well, if it isn't the Void Prince," Esutora purred, her voice a low, silken murmur that seemed to wrap around me. "How's Selyra doing after your... private tour of the dorm?" Her eyes twinkled mischievously, a seductive challenge in their depths.
I was surprised. "How do you know?" I blurted out, wondering how news traveled so fast, especially since she wasn't in my dorm.
Esutora just smiled, a knowing glint in her eyes, her head tilting slightly. "Iskirans have a bond," she explained, her voice soft but clear, "that allows us to know everything about each other. And some things are just too delicious to keep to oneself, wouldn't you agree, Void Prince?" Her gaze lingered, a subtle invitation in her eyes.
I took a seat behind them, with Gianna settling quietly beside me. The classroom buzzed with chatter, a mix of excitement and nerves, a palpable anticipation for the day to truly begin.
Suddenly, the air in the bustling classroom seemed to thicken, a palpable pressure descending as the grand oak doors at the front swung inward with a deliberate, heavy thud that silenced every whisper. Professor Inka Thorkelssoon strode in, not merely walking, but commanding the space. Her dark, practical robes seemed to absorb the light, and her sharp, uncurled horns caught the faint glow from the windows, giving her an almost monolithic presence. Her expression was a familiar, unyielding mask of discipline, as tense and formidable as Gustav, my old trainer. The resemblance was so striking, so chillingly precise, that the thought solidified in my mind: She absolutely has to be his sister. A shiver, not entirely from the cool air, ran down my spine.
Just as the absolute quiet settled, a sudden, explosive BOOM reverberated from the back of the class, followed by a shower of sparks and a distinct smell of ozone and burnt metal. A burst of chaotic blue fire erupted, shooting wildly towards Dorrick Tanner, who was, predictably, at the center of the disturbance. Dorrick, true to form, was already chattering to himself, completely oblivious, his goggles askew, engrossed in assembling some kind of wildly sparking, multi-limbed contraption on his desk. He looked up, blinked, and then went back to tinkering, a faint, blissful smile on his face, as if the near-catastrophe was merely a minor design flaw.
Professor Thorkelssoon, however, didn't even flinch. Her crimson eyes, sharp and unwavering, fixed on Dorrick. She let out a long, slow, almost theatrical sigh, the sound of a low rumble that somehow carried over the lingering crackle of Dorrick's device. "Dorrick," she commanded, her voice a deep, gravelly tone like grinding stone, "Quiet. Again." With an air of practiced, almost weary exasperation, she simply extended a hand. A silent, invisible force seemed to emanate from her, and Dorrick's wildly sparking contraption, mid-whir, vibrated violently, then vanished in a puff of smoke, leaving only a faint scorch mark on his desk. Dorrick looked down at the empty space, blinked again, and then, with another sigh, began rummaging in his oversized bag for more components, clearly ready to try again. It was a routine, I realized, a bizarre, slapstick comedy played out daily.
"Good morning, first-years," Professor Thorkelssoon announced, now addressing the entire room, her voice a deep, gravelly rumble that commanded attention. "I am your homeroom teacher." She then proceeded to hand out our class schedules. "Your first class," she stated, "is History of Binds, taught by Professor Dianna de la Bletilla."
Professor Dianna de la Bletilla, I thought, repeating the name, letting it roll around in my mind. De la Bletilla... Definitely Iskiran, judging by the name, just like Selyra and Gianna. A history professor. Please be old, please be old, I silently pleaded, a wave of internal exasperation washing over me. Or at least, not stunningly beautiful. My mind, despite my best intentions, immediately conjured images of Selyra, of Esutora, of Selica, and even the fleeting, intense image of Seira. I've already got enough on my plate, I mused, a wry, self-deprecating smile tugging at my lips. One more captivating woman, especially a professor, and my mother's warnings might actually come true. And then there's Selyra... The irony of my own words, given the morning's events, was not lost on me. I'm already screwed, aren't I?