Donovan decides in a flash, jumping of his seat as the class gasps, awed and horrified at the thought of being 'saviours'.
He cranks the charm dial up from a dismal seven to a far more optimistic yet still not very helpful twenty-seven; it does not unfortunately go any higher.
"Respect elders," he begins, wandering to the middle of the room, "on behalf of my class, I must thank you for your patience with us thus far." He dips his head into a slight bow, "However, I fear me and my friends are too worn out by the day's events, exhausted with our trip through..." he thins his lips, "whatever the hell that was. Might we reconvene tomorrow aftre breakfast, and you grant us the rest of the day to recoup?"
He stops at the middle of the platform, hands behind his back, his lips curved into a gratifying smile, dark eyes glittering in ill-concealed gratitude. His words are met with stunned silence.
Seeing the gap, he barrels onwards.
"Now, if it isn't too troublesome, could you please lead us to our rooms? Give us something to snack on? Being kidnapped really tires outthe body and the mind." His smile sweetenss a notch, and he spins on his heels, throwing his classmates a subtle wink, urging them to play along.
Subtle enough, at least; he wanted it to be noticed by both parties.
His classmates stare at him, slack-jawed, eyes wide. He can't blame them; even he feels like gagging at himself, words all sweet and prim like a high-end escort.
"Donovan, did you hit your head? Get a damn grip and sit the hell down--"
"Dude, what the fuc--"
"God, he's been replaced, I don't think I've ever seen him sound so nice--"
"Boy," a cold voice echoes across the room, like cold water running down his back. Donovan can feel his gaze; it was that old man, with that mean look in his eyes. He'd been wondering when he'd speak up.
Donovan turns around, plastering an innocent expression on. "Yes, elder?"
"Let your friends speak for themselves," he grunts, his voice thick and heavy with the rigors of age, "We do not consider you to speak for them all just on your idle whims. If you wish to leave," the marble gates behind him bang open, "then you may."
He pretends to appear startled, biting on his lower lip, glancing back at his classmates.
"Honoured elder," he finally says, straightening his spine in a show of courage, "I have no interest in dictating my friends' choices. I only worry that given all the surprises we've faced today, we might make unwise decisions, our thoughts murky with shock. I believe it best we take some time to steady our minds, so we aren't speaking under the influences of fear and anger, and risk offending our respected, gracious hosts."
He awkwardly half-bows at them.
"I merely request the time needed to settle ourselves, so we can speak with the grace befitting a conversation of such importance. Surely you would also prefer a dignified conversation, instead of squabbling?"
He knew he was laying it on thick; he was buttering these people up like he was going to stick them in a fryer and serve them at a fair, but Donovan had years of experience in the embarrassing art of flattery. Too much was always better than too little. If they thought he was planning something, good.
He was, and he wanted them suspicious.
They couldn't touch him anyways; it was too early, and all twenty of them were clad in matching uniforms. They were a collective now, and even the weakest link in this chain was strong- they hurt him, and they lost everyone's trust. He'd a matryr strengthing their bonds, galvanizing all of them against a common enemy.
The old man's eyes narrow, no doubt running through the verbal pitfalls he'd laid out. Silence drapes the platform, his classmates watching with bated breaths, while the summoners eye him up. The man to the left, who hasn't deigned to speak yet, and Luciella look him and up down apprasingly, while the old man snorts, watching him with cool disregard.
"Very well," he says, "You are correct. This is indeed an inopportune time to hold this discussion. I apologize for not thinking of your mental states myself." He dips his head apologetically in their direction, "Rest. Eat. You will be grandly provided for. We shall talk more tomorrow."
Luciella smiles, standing up.
"If you all are in agreement, then this one shall lead you to your quarters."
Donovan sighs in relief when he hears his classmates' shuffles as they move, none of them protesting; or, at least from what he can tell from the whispering, being pressured by the more perceptive not to protest.
The author's narrative has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.
Next, the hardest part.
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As the Second Princess escorted them through the wide, glittering hallways of her clan's headquarters, it quickly became apparent to his classmates what being in 'another world' really meant.
Even if one could ignore and accept the fantastical suits of armour that stood guard - from glittering gold plates welded together, to thick, reflective silver armed in spikes like a man-shaped wrecking ball - or the paintings that moved like liquid in their frame, constantly shifting scenes, or the little fae that flitted in the air, the view from the window was like a hammer to whatever remained of their thin glass of reality.
The wide-set windows, stretching from floor to ceiling of the palace walls, offered them their first view of this foreign world.
A serptine silver river snaked around the green plains below them, tinged gold as it reflected the light of the sun. It ran through thin manmade channels to farmlands that shone the pale gold of wheat like strings of molten metal woven around gold ingots.
Where the cloudless azure sky faintly glittered with sparkling diamonds at its highest layers, visible even under the oppresive light of the sun, and where floating houses drifted across the sky like clouds.
"Woah," he heard Star exclaim from beside him, her eyes wide with awe, and Donovan has to suppress a smile.
For all its fault, for all its murderers and power-hungry tyrants and constant conflict and death, Aureole was a world unlike their own; not just in the sights, or the sounds, or the smells, it felt different. Here, the buzz of electricity was replaced by the tune of vener, and it sank into their skin just the same, burying into their souls.
He glances at Luciella, and sees a faint smile playing across her lips as the entire class stares, their necks seemingly stuck in place, outside the windows as they walk.
The Luceimeres were reputed to have built the largest floating palace in history; flying in the wind, the palace ruled the skies and the land for miles, and was the symbol of their rule over their territory. It was their display of dignity and pride, them impressing their marvelous power upon the rest. From here, they cast their sunlit gaze upon the world like angels above the mortal coil.
Even for people used to skyscrapers and airplanes, a sight from a place like this was breathtaking.
No doubt their whole route had been planned to impress.
Perhaps having predicted their guests' awe with their new surroundings, Lucielle had led them - after a needlessly long, circuitious route - up a tower. They'd been given rooms arranged in a circle around a central living area laden with bookshelves and tables and sofas. Donovan doesn't wait a beat before Lucielle leaves to open the nearest door and lock himself inside.
He just needs a second to- breathe.
He lets his feet take him forward, collapsing on top his new, overly large bed for his scrawny frame.
It hasn't been thirty minutes, and he's already exhausted.
All those old habits he'd buried claw back to the surface of his psyche. The constant need to be on edge, to watch, beating at the edge of his perception. His feet pressed flat against the floor, ready to leap and dodge and dash. His fingers curl around his silk sheets defensively, his ears perked against his will, listening to muted conversations.
He can feel the shackes of responsibility clink into place around his ankles, heavy and insistent, his mind whizzing, weaving a thousand different plans and routes even as he tries to relax his muscles and just shut his eyes for a /second/.
Just a second.
Without thinking and worrying and just- breathing.
Worry gripped his heart like the claws of a demon, nails of anxiety piercing in, and god-
He groans into his mattress, loud but muffled by his sheets. After a couple moments, he pushes himself upright.
"Alright," he murmurs to himself, taking in his room. Dresser, windows, private bath, wardrobe, rug, chest, cultivation circle- all the essentials, top-of-the-line, and likely all rigged with scrying scripts. Not important.
He doesn't have time to be miserable. Nineteen people are counting on him, or will be. He has to lead them out of this world, and it was best to start working soon. He didn't trust the Luceimeres; if they were desperate enough to summon, they were desperate enough to do far worse.
He sits crosslegged, and shuts his eyes - not to relax, but to examine himself. He tightens his hold on his perception, trying to shove it all down into his body; he can feel the hollow area of his core, but he also senses fragments of power buried into him.
Last time, with a body not adapted to vener or etra, he'd had to painstakingly work his way up. He'd started by controlling individual ranges of the colour spectrum, and only when his core was sturdy enough to accept more complex attributes, did he shatter his cultivation and begin again.
It had been a painstaking way of cultivation, but now, his body was different.
He could feel it; it was stronger, better adapted. It was the body of someone native to this world.
He still couldn't take in any aspect as he pleased; but that was because of the world's 'gift'. It had buried into him the aspects of vener it had felt suited him best. It didn't take a genius to figure it wasn't shadow - or even darkenss, to his dismay - lacking that familiar slipperiness native to that aspect.
It was disappointing, but he trusted that the world knew what it was doing; whatever aspect, it was bound to serve him well, and he had the knowledge and experience to craft a good Path for himself.
He sends his pitiful senses crawling across himself, trying to dig out the fragments. He doesn't really know what stage he's in; he wasn't Formless like a child but he wasn't Formed either. He was occupying some odd, in-between stage, body ripe with power he couldn't control or gather. Half-Formed, maybe? He'd worry about it later...
It takes him a moment, but he finds a piece, tiny and sharp, buried near his wrist. He instantly focuses all his attention to it.
It was... soft, malleable, kind of cool to the touch- water, with a hint of... warmth, that glittered, almost rejuvenating- light, but if he tried to focus on it, it curved and danced away, delicate and quick... wind, awfully subversive as it flitted about in the mist- oh, Jewel's arse, misty and illusive, a thousand shifting figures, shattering and forming and breaking again in a thousand different ways.
The whole thing was pervaded, absolutely buried, in dreams.