"That one doesn't talk much," a teacher said, tapping the desk with her cane
"Good," another replied. "Quiet ones cause less trouble."
Ravina kept her eyes on the board, feet barely reaching the floor from the narrow bench. Petite even for her age, she sat straight, her copper skin was lighter than that of most Argathes, brushed with a faint rosy warmth inherited from her Othmir father, a tone that caught the light softly rather than boldly.
The sentence chalked on the board read: Patience is the virtue of those who know their place.
"Read," the teacher said.
She was Othmir, tall and fair-skinned, her hair drawn back tightly, already paling to ash at the temples.
Sharp brown eyes watched from behind narrow spectacles, missing nothing. Her dress was plain and perfectly pressed, cut with strict lines and no ornament, as immaculate and unforgiving as her expression, as though even the smallest disorder offended her.
Ravina read aloud.
Her voice was small but steady, each word clear, measured, flawless.
The room went still.
"Mm," the teacher said at last. "That will do."
At the back, a little Othmir girl whispered, "Why is her skin like that?"
"Hush," her friend murmured. "She's allowed to be here."
"Allowed?" The girl responded.
During sums, Ravina raised her hand.
The teacher paused, then looked past her. "Anyone else?"
"Yes. You." She said, pointing to a little boy.
A boy answered wrong.
"Incorrect."
The teacher smiled, correcting gently.
Later, in the corridor, children clustered near the windows.
"She's a halfy," one said.
"Which half?" another laughed.
"The wrong one."
Ravina walked on.
At supper, a matron set her bowl down last. "No leftovers," she said quietly. "Some of us had to earn our place."
Her bulging body chugged as she walked away.
"Yes, ma'am," Ravina replied.
That night, the headmistress stopped her near the stairs.
"You should be grateful," the woman said, voice smooth as varnish. "Not everyone would keep you."
Ravina folded her hands.
"I am," she said.
She learned then that silence wasn't absence.
It was permission.
__________________________
The gates rose red with dust.
Ravina stepped through the gate, shoulders bare to the air, her lighter copper skin catching the late sun. Heads lifted immediately, red eyes snapping toward her as if pulled by instinct.
"Who's there?" a guard asked.
"You are not from around here. Where are you from?" Another said.
"Good evening," she said, voice low, giving a curt nod. "I'm here to see my mother's kin."
A man laughed, short and sharp. "Hear that?"
"She sounds trained," someone muttered. "Too careful."
An elder leaned closer, eyes narrowing. "Your bloodline?"
Silence stretched taut.
Ravina showed him her pendant, the sigil of a falcon on it.
"That pause tells me enough," he cut in.
Murmurs grew.
"She's not one of us."
"Half-castes don't know what life's really like."
"They grow up soft. Empire-fed."
Ravina's fingers curled inside her sleeves. "I came as an International Aid Worker."
A woman scoffed. "Convenient."
Ravina's eyes snapped to the elder. "What do you mean?"
Another voice rose. "Where were you when the cannons came?"
"Ironic… you don't seem to know your own history." Ravina snapped, voice low but heavy.
She walked away.
"Tainted blood." The elderly woman said clearly.
Ravina's chest tightened.