P.S. Yes, the man did slap the elf with his glove. I think it was something that posh people used to do. Kind of like the upper-class version of a punch that happened when lords got annoyed with other lords blah blah.
1
A Vision
'Hurry, Opayla! With the number of detentions you’ve gained this month, you don’t want to be late!' Metsa cried after Opayla, 'I really don’t know how you achieve the grades to stay in that school! They really should’ve expelled you by now.' Opayla was princess of a rebel group known as the Lisbane that constantly fought against Advisor Trimminfa and his followers: the Regnum. The Advisor had been using the fourteen-year-old King Hamet as his puppet for years. Despite the Lisbane’s losing predicament, education wasn’t neglected.
Opayla caught a glimpse of herself in a mirror. She hardly looked like a princess. She didn’t have flowing blonde curls but a head of black hair, and her eyes were dark and her perception of the world she lived in was not nearly an opinion of warmth and comfort but a thought of discontent. Besides, she didn’t even look like she belonged in Seeby –where everyone was fair skinned unlike her, Opayla being slightly tanned- her cheekbones were higher than the modest-looking girls in the Lisbane hideout in Seeby.
Opayla shook away her pessimism and scooped her dark, unruly hair into a rough bun and hurried out of the rebels’ hiding place. She looked back upon her home for one last time; she had a bad feeling about this day. She stood there and that split second seemed like an age. Her home certainly wasn’t much compared to the other buildings of Seeby but it was still grand being embellished with gold leaf and made of white marble and it was large as it had to be to hold so many people. She hadn’t realised until then what a significant mark it had made upon her. She tried to ignore the twist in her heart and tore herself away from her home.
Opayla’s brown leather boots crunched the fresh snow as she rushed towards her dragon, Isamira, who waited just round the corner of the building. She hesitated a moment, Isamira was in a bad mood and her viciousness was not quite appreciated in school.
'Opayla, you’ve forgotten your scarf!' Metsa scurried after the princess and fastened the purple woollen scarf around her neck, 'you’re so forgetful these days!' Opayla’s nanny scolded, but not unkindly. Opayla thanked Metsa quickly and mounted Isamira. Her snow-white dragon had hatched when Opayla turned thirteen and the great beast was now two years old. Isamira narrowed her eyes at Opayla. The princess counted herself lucky that Isamira had not flicked her tail at her, even such a minor movement would’ve sent her flying and she was tardy enough as it was.
-Late again. Isamira’s message was clear through their mental link and she did not say it without a hint of being fed up. The dragon bent her hind legs and spread her wings in preparation for take off. She drove her claws into the snow and kicked off.
The wind rushed through Opayla’s hair, unravelling her bun and parching her tongue as she desperately tried to scrape her dark hair from her eyes. The great white marble buildings spread out below seemed as if they were part of the blanket of snow that covered the land, except for the gold leaf that glinted from the windows and doors. She never tired of the magnificent views she saw whilst she was flying. Her school loomed below them. The largest and grandest building in all of Seeby was a school. Opayla thought it was a waste.
-Land, silly dragon! Opayla screamed silently.
-Be quiet, irritating human! Isamira retorted.
They landed just outside Seeby Grammar School. Isamira’s pounding wings cleared the snow beneath them effortlessly. Isamira hurried up the steps five at a time, her sharp claws leaving deep indents in the previously flawless marble and shaking the heavy pillars with her thumping footsteps. They sped through the entrance hall, not pausing to admire the chandelier upon the high ceiling or the ancient paintings of past headmasters and headmistresses. They dashed into their classroom, panting. The familiar faces of her class looked up at her, some smirking mockingly at her fate and others looking at her sympathetically. Opayla had the luck of being late for the lesson of the cruellest teacher in her school. Opayla bit back a sharp, crude curse. She always seemed to choose the best of days to oversleep.
'Ninth hour of the Morning. I think you’ve set a new record,' drawled Madame Sorace, her magic teacher. Madame Sorace loathed Opayla almost as much as Opayla hated her. The teacher looked disapprovingly at her appearance, 'I do hope you’re not trying to set a trend, Opayla. You look as if you’ve just got out of bed.'
'No, ma’am, sorry, ma’am,' Opayla apologised, averting her gaze to her toes to hide the look of anger in her eyes. She hated favouritism. She hated it even more when it was against her.
'Detention, after school, as always,' she said, smiling maliciously, 'take your seat.' Opayla strolled to her desk in the third row, dropped her bag on the floor beside her desk, removed her scarf and scraped her chair across the floor as she drew it back, trying to be as disruptive as possible. She was certain that an after-school detention required a slip signed by parents the night before.
You’re in it deep enough already, don’t question her authority. Isamira warned. Opayla kept her mouth shut. She knew she was right.
'Now, where was I…' continued Madame Sorace, casting angered glances at Opayla that Isamira returned from the back of the classroom through her penetrating amethyst eyes, 'oh, yes, controlling water.' Madame Sorace went on to describe the various uses of the spell and its value. Opayla slouched lazily, leaning her head on her arms. She paid no attention. Madame Sorace deserved none. It was her way of rebelling without gaining yet another detention.
* * *
Fire. Smoke. Explosion. Death.
Ash litters the ground, tinting the snow grey; most of it lies in puddles, melted. Pillars lie crushed, the gold leaf once embellishing the doors and windows has blown away, windows shattered into mere shards of glass, doors flattened into tiny splinters and small chunks. Locals stand about, speculating what could have befallen the building and its inhabitants, whilst beggars crawl around in the snow, scavenging for remnants of riches that could be sold. But the search is fruitless: nothing remains. Sorrow, anger, shock and confusion emanate from the scene.
How could so grand a building and much respected people some to such an end? Who could be twisted enough to Fate like this was the clearest definition of unfairness.
The hideout is completely obliterated.
* * *
Opayla awoke from her vision with a start. Her heart beat wildly and she was covered in cold sweat. Her whole class were around her and Isamira was by her side, but Madame Sorace seemed not to be interested and stood at the back of the classroom, arranging a display of Tips on the Use of Magic by R. Sorace on a table far away from them. Somehow, Opayla knew that the destroyed building in her vision was her beloved home. Something had gone wrong back there.
She had a sickening feeling for a moment that she could have prevented it, that she could have stayed and listened to her instinct. But what if nothing had happened? A glimmer of hope sparked within her and she tried to put on a brave face. Still, she knew she had to return. Without warning, Opayla jumped up from her seat and mounted Isamira, saying to her dragon:
-We must go home. A tragedy has occurred.
And she was gone.
