The other joined in with a laugh, but Mel’s calm smile didn’t waver. “You talk as if most people don’t appreciate the shade,” he said coolly. The laughter stopped, the boy shrinking under the weight of Mel’s confident gaze.
Coach Ross tilted his head, then subtly nodded as if to say, Fair enough.
Elowen took a step forward, her expression resolute. “Sir, I’m Elowen Pendragon, daughter of Arthur Pendragon. I’d like to try out for your team.” She bowed respectfully, and the coach extended a hand.
"But I won’t join unless Mel is my water boy!" she declared, grabbing Mel’s hand and raising it in the air.
Mel blinked, tilting his head in confusion. "What’s a water boy?"
Two days later, the gym buzzed with energy as most of the student body packed in to watch the scrimmage match. The air was filled with cheers, laughter, and the occasional clash of swords as players zipped through the air on their hoverboards, showcasing daring maneuvers. The hoverboards hummed as they glided through the gym, and the metallic clang of swords echoed with each strike.
On the sidelines, Mel sat comfortably on a bench, lazily sipping from a water bottle. His demeanor was calm amidst the chaos. "This is fun," he muttered to himself, watching the action unfold.
Nearby, Clyde and Lance, who had eagerly volunteered to help, handed out water bottles to the players who floated back to the bench after a grueling round.
“Hey, you need to stay hydrated!” Lance called out as he handed a bottle to a sweaty player.
Clyde followed suit, offering bottles with a bit more hesitance. “I... uh... here you go. Great match so far,” he said, awkwardly handing a drink to one of the seniors.
Mel leaned back, watching as Elowen wobbled in the air but stayed determined, a glint of fire in her eyes. He smiled faintly. “Looks like she’s having a blast,” he murmured, then Lance held up a water bottle. “Anyone else? Hydration’s key!”
The bench crew was a small but lively team, making the scrimmage match even more engaging as the crowd roared with every dramatic move above the court.
“How come the waterboys are doing better than the players on both teams?” Anita remarked, leaning toward Rue as they sat in the bleachers.
Rue’s sharp gaze snapped to her, her lips curling in an uncharacteristically jealous sneer. “I don’t know, Anita. Why? You think I’d lose to these teams?” she hissed, scratching at a green, scaly patch on her arm. Her eyes flickered unnervingly between black and green, back and forth like a faulty light switch.
Anita froze, her fingers nervously fidgeting with a strand of her hair. “I didn’t mean it like that—”
“Oh, you didn’t?” Rue interrupted, her tone venomous. She leaned forward, her voice low and sharp. “What? You think I’m stupid? Think because of this wheelchair, I’m useless?”
Without waiting for a response, Rue gripped the wheels of her chair and rolled herself down the stairs of the bleachers. Her movement was deliberate, her gaze burning as she stopped right in front of the coach, her presence demanding attention.
Anita remained seated, wide-eyed and stunned, muttering under her breath, “I was just making a comment…” She pressed her finger to her lip thoughtfully. “Rue’s been acting so strange lately. Just the other day, she was mad at Mel for having a car, even though she’s the princess and could literally order a thousand cars if she wanted to.”
Her brows furrowed as she continued, speaking more to herself now. “And she’s been getting jealous over the most random things. Like, today at lunch, I had chocolate pudding and offered her some, and she snapped, ‘What, you think a queen like me can’t afford pudding?!’ It was so bizarre.”
Her eyes shifted to where Rue had gone, her tone dropping as her thoughts turned serious. “And that scaly green mark on her arm… something about it feels off.”
“And… that,” Anita muttered, her gaze fixed on Rue, who was now airborne. Her wheelchair had transformed into a hoverboard, and she moved with an agility and ferocity no one had ever associated with the so-called damsel-in-distress princess.
Rue wielded a wooden sword with precision, striking down opponents with speed and strength that left the crowd in stunned silence. Her movements were fluid yet forceful, a stark contrast to her usual demeanor.
“Out of the way, fucker!” Rue screamed, shoving Elowen—her own teammate—aside with no hesitation, barreling toward another player and taking them down with a decisive blow.
Mel’s eyes widened in surprise and reluctant admiration as he watched Rue’s dramatic shift in personality on the field. A few moments later, Rue was back in her wheelchair, the opposing team sprawled across the gym floor, utterly spent from her relentless assault. She rolled confidently toward Mel, radiating triumph.
“That was amazing—” Mel began, but before he could finish, Rue grabbed his tie and yanked him down to her level.
“This is where you should always be when speaking to me. Know your place!” she hissed, pressing her forehead against his.
Mel blinked, completely bewildered, but managed a hesitant nod. “Y-Yes, ma’am.”
“Rue, what’s going on?” Elowen asked cautiously, stepping closer.
Rue whipped her head around, her green eyes flashing with irritation. “What’s it to you?!” she snapped, her tone sharp enough to make Elowen instinctively take a step back.
Lance strolled over, casually holding his phone to his ear, speaking softly to his AI girlfriend. “Mel, my girlfriend says Rue is being rude,” he said, completely uninterested in the tension, his focus already back on his phone as he began making kissy faces at the screen.
“One problem at a time, Lance!” Mel shot back, exasperated.
Meanwhile, in the grand castle of the Auroria Dominion, Queen Ruecrix stood before an ornate mirror, her reflection glowing softly in the candlelight. Her eyes, filled with a wistful nostalgia, glimmered as she applied her makeup with practiced elegance. A faint smile graced her lips as distant memories resurfaced.
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“It’s been, what? Ten years? No, fifteen,” she murmured to herself, her voice carrying a mixture of longing and apprehension. “Fifteen years since I became the Scarlet Tempest. I fear our daughter might inherit my curse—a life ruled by a single, overwhelming emotion because of my race.”
Her gaze lingered on the mirror as a flicker of phantom fire danced across her reflection, igniting a vivid memory that sent a brief shiver through her.
Behind her, King Percival approached with a calm presence, his arms circling her waist gently. Though he was shorter, he leaned forward to rest his chin on her shoulder, offering silent reassurance.
“You have nothing to fear,” he said softly, his voice warm and steady. “You’re not that person anymore.”
He pressed a tender kiss to her collarbone, and Ruecrix closed her eyes, allowing herself to savor the comfort in his words. A genuine smile replaced her earlier apprehension, the flicker of doubt fading into the shadows of her past.
“Rue’s scales have already started forming. What should we do?” Percival asked, his voice tinged with his usual nervousness. He combed his beard absently, glancing at Ruecrix for guidance.
Ruecrix smirked faintly, her sharp nails grazing her lips as she considered the situation. “I already know what to do, but it’s all a waiting game now. I need to determine which emotion she’ll embody. Luckily, we’ve got someone reliable keeping an eye on her.”
Percival raised an eyebrow. “I thought you didn’t trust Melanthius?”
Ruecrix bit down on her nail before lowering her hand, her smirk widening into something sharper. “I said I don’t trust his planning—it’s what got Rue into that wheelchair in the first place. But when it comes to fighting and protecting her, I’d stake every one of my scales on him.”
Meanwhile, outside, Mel trudged along with Rue perched stubbornly on his shoulders. “Why am I carrying you again?” Mel asked, his voice laden with confusion. Rue crossed her arms tightly, her expression as stern as ever, though she scratched absently at the growing green scales on her arm. “Because the least you can do is carry me. I hate how you walk, and I’m stuck in that wheelchair all the time,” she snapped.
Mel narrowed his eyes, his concern outweighing his irritation. “Are you feeling okay? You’ve been scratching your arm for a while now, and that mark—it’s getting bigger.” Before either of them could say more, Rue’s leg twitched. Both of them froze. “Rue! Your leg!” Mel exclaimed, his voice a mixture of shock and hope.
Rue’s eyes widened as she bit her lip, her usual sharpness giving way to disbelief. “I don’t get it… I wanted to kick you, and my leg just… twitched! Is this progress?!”
Her voice trembled with a rare flicker of vulnerability as she gazed down at her leg, the possibilities dawning on her.
“Hold on!” Rue said sharply as cybernetic pincers extended from her back, lowering her to the ground with ease.
Mel stared in disbelief. “Wait a second! I carried you up two hills! Why didn’t you just use those?!” he exclaimed, throwing his hands up.
Rue rolled her eyes dramatically. “Shh, I’m testing something. I need to see if the nanos I implanted are what caused my leg to twitch.” Her cybernetic eye whirred faintly as it scanned her leg, but her expression soured as she sighed in frustration. “Nope. Guess it was just the wind.”
Mel frowned, crossing his arms. “Don’t be so down about it. Here, you can hop back on my shoulders if you want,” he offered, voice tinged with genuine kindness.
Rue’s eye twitched at his words, and she slapped his outstretched hand away with a glare. “You think I need your charity?!” she snapped, stomping off with her pincers gracefully supporting her.
Mel sighed heavily, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Why do I even try…”
“Oh, hey, Mel!” Anita’s cheerful voice cut through the tension as she approached.
Before Mel could respond, Rue pivoted on her pincers with startling speed. She grabbed his tie and yanked him close, her green mark pulsing and spreading slightly. “Don’t you dare talk to him!” she growled, her voice low and possessive.
Mel jolted at her sudden aggression, raising his hands in a placating gesture. “Rue, we really need to get that checked out,” he said, his concern outweighing his irritation.
Meanwhile, unbeknownst to anyone except Mel, Arid sat in a small office, facing a woman with a clipboard resting on her lap. Her professional demeanor softened slightly as she took a sip of her water, breaking the silence. “We can sit here all day if you’d like. I don’t mind; I know exactly how much I make an hour,” she quipped with a light chuckle.
Arid sighed, his hands rubbing nervously over his knees. “My friends… they think I’m not really their friend,” he admitted, his voice low as he clasped his fingers tightly together.
The woman leaned forward slightly, her pen poised. “And why do they think that?”
“Because I’m… usually mean to them,” he confessed hesitantly. “Mostly to one of them—someone I used to bully.”
“Former bully, huh?” she asked, adjusting her pencil skirt as she settled more comfortably in her chair. “Why are you mean to them now?”
Arid let out a long, weary sigh, his gaze dropping to the floor. “Because I can’t be seen as weak. I’ve always had to be the strongest. Where I’m from, if you’re not the strongest, you don’t eat. You don’t survive.” He paused, his shoulders tightening as he clenched his fists. “And now I’m here, in this place where people might be stronger than me—where strength isn’t everything—and I don’t know where I fit. It feels like my whole world is… out of order.”
The woman nodded thoughtfully, jotting something on her clipboard. “That’s a lot to carry. Feeling like your strength defines you… it makes sense you’d struggle when the rules around you change.” Her tone was steady, nonjudgmental. “But maybe it’s not about being the strongest anymore. Maybe it’s about finding out who you are without that.”
Arid’s fists slowly unclenched, though the conflict in his eyes lingered. “I just… don’t want them to think I don’t care,” he murmured.
“What is it you like to do?” she asked, her voice calm and inviting.
Arid leaned back in his chair, scoffing. “Fighting. It’s fun for me,” he replied bluntly, folding his arms across his chest.
The woman jotted it down, her pen moving swiftly over the clipboard. “I see. Fighting helps you feel in control,” she remarked, her tone steady but knowing.
Arid shot up from his chair, his body tense. “What?! I don’t need control! I already have it,” he snapped, grabbing his staff from beside him. “I can control the way my staff goes!” He spun the weapon with precision before hurling it at the wall, where it stuck with a loud thunk.
“And I can control which way my punch goes!” He followed up with a swift, practiced jab into the air, his movements sharp and deliberate.
The woman didn’t flinch, her calm gaze meeting his fiery one. “But you can’t control yourself when you throw the staff or the punch. You can’t control the emotions that rise when you fight,” she said evenly, her words cutting through his defensiveness like a scalpel.
Arid froze for a moment, her observation hitting closer to home than he’d like to admit. He clicked his tongue in frustration, smacking his teeth as he turned his head away. “You don’t know what you’re talking about,” he muttered, though the weight of her words lingered in the air.
The woman glanced down at her clipboard, her expression thoughtful. “In your file, it says you want to be king. Tell me, is that because of your lineage to Mother Nature? Do you feel it entitles you to something greater than life in the Horace Groves? Or,” she paused, her gaze sharp but compassionate, “is becoming king just a means to pull your siblings out of the boondocks?”
Arid’s jaw tightened, and he bit his lip, his eyes drifting to the floor. “Yes,” he admitted quietly.
She leaned forward slightly, setting the clipboard aside. “It’s noble to want more for those you care about, Arid. But tell me this—if the crown doesn’t come with the power to change their lives, would it still mean anything to you? Or are you chasing a throne that’s more about what it symbolizes than what it delivers?”
Arid blinked, caught off guard. “I…I don’t know,” he muttered.
She smiled faintly, a mixture of wisdom and kindness in her gaze. “Dreams are complicated things. A title, a throne, or even a crown—they don’t make you who you are. They’re just tools. A king without purpose is just a man in a chair, but a man who knows his purpose? He’s already a king, no matter where he stands.”
Arid sat in silence, her words settling heavily in the air. He clenched his fists but didn’t look up, his mind racing as he wrestled with the weight of what she’d just said.