The seminar hall echoed with claps as Professor Dawad finished his speech on the matriarchal structure of the pre-Rebellion Aeriel monarchy. Ruban sat near the back, clapping softly as the other guests began to move out of the hall. The professor’s speech had been the last one in the seminar line-up and the guests were now headed to the dining hall for tea and snacks.

It wasn’t often that Ruban got the chance to visit Bracken Academy these days. But with Simani temporarily out of commission and the report on the Ghorib case yet to be fully processed by the higher-ups, he had found himself with some free time on his hands.

He always tried to keep up with Dawad’s work whenever possible. Ruban had never considered himself particularly inclined towards academics, but Dawad’s classes had always fascinated him while he was still a student at Bracken. The man certainly knew his subject. And unlike his classmates, Ruban had not subscribed to the view that the Aeriel History and Culture classes were a waste of time with no practical application. His father had always said that you cannot fight what you do not understand. And while Ruban doubted that Abhas had meant the advice quite in this context, he believed it to be true nonetheless. You couldn’t fight an enemy you didn’t understand. And so, while at college, Ruban had scrupulously attended all of Professor Dawad’s classes, trying to glean any information he could about possible weaknesses and vulnerabilities in the Aeriel psyche or social structure, that he could exploit in a fight.

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And while Dawad had not always approved of his student’s single-minded focus on the military aspects of his subject, even he could not have denied Ruban’s obvious natural skill, or his eagerness to learn. Ruban smiled as he remembered the many evenings he and his small group of friends had spent at the library with the little Kanbarian academic, steaming coffee in hand as they talked into the wee hours about the First Advent, the Rebellion, and the last Aeriel Queen, Dawad tutting occasionally to bring the conversation back on track when his students got too carried away with imaginary battle strategies and creative plans to dissect non-existent Aeriels in increasingly unrealistic ways.

Once the hall was almost empty, Ruban walked up to his old professor, inclining his head respectfully when he caught the old man’s eye. Dawad’s bright green eyes lit up the moment they saw Ruban, and his dark, wrinkled face split open in a toothy smile – ebony skin rippling to accommodate his pleasure. His curly white hair seemed to fluff up around his lean face, enthused by his joy at seeing his old student. The man was the world’s foremost expert in his field, but singularly eccentric in almost every other aspect of life. Ruban felt a sudden surge of affection for the strange old man who had helped him through so much during those first few months after his arrival at Ragah to join Bracken. He had lost the only home he had ever known. Nobody could have made Ruban forget, but Dawad had helped him to manage and channelize his anger and hatred towards something less corrosive and more productive. He would be eternally grateful to the man for that.

“Hello professor,” he said with a grin, hopping up onto the dais to take the old Kanbarian’s outstretched hand into both of his own. “How are you?”