“S-sorry about the uh…absence yesterday, class. My name is Greidus…Mr Forecer. I will be your homeroom and…music. Yes. Music teacher. Nice to meet you all, I hope you have a uhm…wonderful time at…yes. Roll mark.”

Cowering behind a pair of round wireframe glasses, Mr Forecer didn’t inspire the same confidence as Caynes had the day before. Although his stance was towering in spite of his drooping posture, he came off as a meek, mousy figure. Even taking his place at the front of the class, it didn’t feel like he was in charge of anything, let alone a class of thirty or so children. Schools were amazingly docile at times. Iris had never felt as though arbitrary rules were physically suffocating her, but such was an apt way to put things.

The roll was called one by one, the word ‘present’ snaking around the room, past Iris until it got to Crestana. Then Mr Forecer hesitated. Only for a moment, but enough to disrupt the rhythm he had established prior.

“Crestana M-mallorine.”

“Present.”

That was all. That was the entire interaction. But it came across as off.

The class continued directly into music, something Iris had utterly no talent for. Evalyn had taught her a few chords on an unused guitar accruing dust in her cupboard, but it seemed she had no better luck in picking up the more complicated strings than her mother.

Despite being his area of expertise, Mr Forecer came off as near frantic in his mannerisms. Taking his class became a matter of deciphering his speech first, making things twice as hard for Iris. All while she wrestled with the fact that her attention did not seem to stray from her client. It was the correct thing to do as her bodyguard, but, at the same time, she felt she had lost somehow.

An endangered daughter of a rich and powerful family, mother took her own life recently, looks and moves distinctly human. So many things were wrong with the picture, so many questions Iris couldn’t ask outright without risk of alienating herself. Gaining trust was the goal, and now she was starting to overthink it, something she never did for anything. Ever.

First period dragged on, the cryptic ramblings of a distressed man eventually blending into the trivial mid-class soundscape. Whispers of chatter, scratching of pencils and groans of confusion and boredom until the school bell rang, freeing the denizens of 7L from their misery for another twenty-five minutes. The routine was already growing tiresome, and Iris had only been subject to it for a day.

She stood up and approached the contingent of girls that had once again surrounded Crestana with the bell's ringing. At least they were taking seats around her now; much less of a wall than the day before but no less impenetrable. She missed her chance, walking straight past Crestana and towards the exit, the words choking in her throat before they managed to escape.

She passed through the classroom door but caught herself on the frame, stopping herself in her tracks. She glanced at Crestana, a fleeting pass of the eye, and found Crestana glancing back. A spark of confidence came with the apparent validation, and Iris took it.

“Rematch?” Iris asked.

“…sorry?” Crestana answered. “Me?”

“Yes,” Iris said, scurrying through the door before she could stay and watch herself become the fool. She pursed her lips, resolving to continue penning her letter if things didn’t go as planned. It'd be a shameful writing session, but she’d have to make use of her time somehow.

Then again, she was supposed to be guarding Crestana. She couldn’t keep reserving lunch breaks for herself.

Halfway down the hall, she glanced over her shoulder, keeping her composure in case her client really was following her. And sure enough, the gamble had paid off. Iris turned away before her relief could blow her composure.

“You made a fool of yourself,” Crestana calmly informed her as she locked the gym doors behind her. “Asking me for a rematch? What a way to arouse suspicion.”

“It’s all true, though,” Iris said. “And it’s not like it’s against the rules to—”

“It is very much against the rules to fight on school grounds. At least without the supervision of a teacher.”

Iris was surprised, and just the smallest bit impressed. “You break rules?”

“When it suits me,” Crestana said, sounding as though sporting a sly grin. She gravitated towards the same rack as the day before. “What changed your mind? About the duel, I mean.”

“I don’t know,” Iris admitted. “But I figured….”

She took her time in perusing the weapons displayed around the room. “I figured it’d help me get to know you better. That’s what my dad told me.”

“Your dad’s a bodyguard too?” Crestana asked, drawing the sword from its slot and bearing it towards her opponent.

“A pilot,” Iris said as her gaze fell on a line of daggers. Guns had always taken precedence in her training, and her abilities before that. But, just as Evalyn had practised archery in the years before meeting Iris, Iris herself had dabbled with one or two more antiquated weapons of her own, her favourite of all being daggers. She selected two from the nearest rack; one more a short sword than a dagger, and the other being almost an idealistic representation of the latter.

Reach would never be to her advantage, but even Evalyn had noted Iris’s uncanny knack for closing the distance and working inside an opponent’s weapons engagement zone. That terminology was Elliot’s, unsurprisingly. The short sword would give her leeway to block, and the dagger would perform her offensive strikes. That was the general plan, but this was a sparring match; nothing of that complexity would be needed.

She felt the leather bounds between her palms and her fingers. Worn, but not battle-worn, feeling more like second-hand equipment than something weathered and raggedy from war. She hopped on both her feet, loosening up her joints as Crestana, in contrast, took a rock-solid stance.

“Strikes are legal as long as they aren’t…you know, breaking things or killing each other.”

“First to three wins, right?”

“Right.”

“Anything else?”

“Do you have a gun on your person?”

“…no.”

“Excellent. Then go!”

Iris moved with the duel’s commencement and rushed forward, confronting Crestana’s long point guard with a head-on collision. Short sword in an icepick grip, she aimed the blade at her opponent’s as though going for an uppercut to push the blade out of the way and clear a path for her dagger. But the moment her blade connected with Crestana’s, her opponent twisted her wrists into an ox guard, catching Iris’s blade in her cross guard, while the point, now positioned under Iris’s short sword, bit at her neck. Iris’s dagger was moments away from plunging into Crestana’s side, but it was clear which blow would land first.

If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.

Crestana had won with the flick of her wrist.

“Never fought someone using two short swords before,” Crestana remarked, easing her stance, and prompting Iris to do the same. “Do you spar often?”

“Sometimes,” Iris replied, looking at her blades and rethinking her strategy. “How about you?”

“My family donates to the school often. In return, they’ve let me train here for many years. I apologise that I’ve deceived you into fighting on my turf. But then again, you’re the bodyguard, not me.”

Crestana resumed her stand as Iris backed away, readying herself for another bout. She hopped up and down again, bringing her hands to her face as though in a boxing match, both weapons in icepick grips. Wordlessly, round two began. Iris circled her opponent, scanning the guard for a weak point but finding none she could so easily capitalise on. She fainted forward with a right hook, catching Crestana off guard and forcing a reaction from her.

A parry, using the greater leverage at the blade’s base. Another ox guard.

Iris made another jab, using her other hand to test Crestana again. A similar movement. Iris smirked a little, realising just how stiff Crestana was. Either way, committing to a strike that circled around Crestana’s blade was futile; she’d have to move in first.

Which was when Crestana struck. She lunged with one foot, driving the point towards Iris's centre mass. Iris dodged the blade’s edge just in time, using the opportunity to take Crestana’s inside edge with her shortsword, destabilising her guard and controlling her stance. Iris pressed forward, aiming her other dagger at Crestana’s head, but the blade she thought she had knocked away returned in the blink of an eye, catching her dagger by the crossguard and locking it into place. Both blades had been defeated, and Crestana’s feet were looking to disengage.

Iris dropped her dagger, making up for the lost pressure on Crestana’s longsword by grabbing her opponent’s wrist. She moved along Crestana’s outside, past her sword and almost past her shoulders. Iris stuck one leg behind Crestana’s and swung her body forward. Her opponent swung around her foot, falling to the ground and dropping her sword in the process. Iris stepped on the hilt before Crestana’s hand could reach for it.

They watched each other, one on the floor and the other standing, holding a weapon while the other didn’t. Crestana’s eye shutters slackened, and she exhaled.

“Dirty,” she said. “Very dirty. But I don’t mind it.”

“What about that was dirty?” Iris complained as she offered a hand. Crestana took it, and she heaved herself to her feet.

“Fight with pride,” Crestana said, as though repeating a gospel. “That’s how Spirits fight. Can’t do it any other way, apparently. Or at least that’s what my father told me.”

“Spirits can do that because they have magic. Humans have to be a bit more backhanded.”

“I know,” Crestana sighed. “I know too well.”

She picked up her sword from the ground, deflated as though the last sentence had knocked something of a spark out of her.

“The principal,” Iris started, not sure what prompted the query other than it feeling right. “He said something like ‘who would want anything to do with Crestana Mallorine.’”

The statement seemed to physically irk her client, but she kept on going.

“But I don’t understand. It feels like everyone loves you.”

Crestana brought the blade to her own chest and turned to Iris. Shutters neutral, and perfectly horizontal. “Did you realise the ‘everyone’ you’re referring to are all human?”

“Well—no…. No, actually.”

It was true. Not a single Beak made up the group of girls that gathered around Crestana’s desk every break.

“Well, you’ve certainly realised the hair…maybe the nails. But…I’m not a Beak, strictly speaking.” She planted the tip of her sword on the floor weakly, the hilt hanging from her fingers. “Beaks are the Spirit of shadows. They used to be formless, mimicking objects and occupying lightless spaces. But then we met humans. Right here, when this city was still only a village, we took the shape of humans.”

The murals in the stairwells.

“And we took their shape for centuries, retaining it almost from birth to death. It’s no wonder at some point it’d happen.”

She looked at her fingernails, fidgeting with her fingers the way one did when they decided they were too long. “My doctor called it a deformity at first, but I think we knew what it was. I’m not a Spirit of shadows, but a Spirit of human shadows. Tainted, apparently. Not all Spirit anymore.” She sighed as though the topic was old to her already. “Wealthy, powerful Spirits. I don’t think you’d find any other being on the planet more prideful and conceited than that. And lo and behold, this school is full of them.”

A pregnant silence followed as neither could bring themselves to speak. Iris wanted to, hoping that Crestana could at least find solace in the fact that, as far as Spirits becoming human went, she was far from the worst. But aside from the fact that it’d blow her cover, even Iris herself would be hard-pressed to feel any reassurance from the sentiment.

“They don’t wear their prejudices on their shoulders or anything, but I can call it for what it is. Some…cult of paranoia that sees me as everything wrong with the world. Whatever it is, the Principal is far from the only one that worships it. He’d probably get all those stained-glass murals torn down if this wasn’t a damn heritage site.”

Everything wrong with the world. A sentiment burnt into Iris’s psyche.

“Anyway!” Crestana said, asserting herself and ending the conversation with a single swift strike. “You put me in a bad mood. Take responsibility.”

She readied her sword, and Iris did the same, picking up the other dagger and repeating their pre-battle routine. Then, Iris’s stomach grumbled, the brazen disruption stopping the ritual. Crestana dropped her stance. “Are you hungry?”

“Yes,” Iris admitted. “But it’s okay. I can manage.”

“What? No,” she sighed. “Get something to eat, then come back.”

“I don’t know where to go.”

Crestana’s shoulders drooped, and she rested the tip of her sword on the floor again. “Out of the court’s front entrance, turn left and follow the path until you get to the food precinct. It’s a two-minute walk.”

“Will you be okay?” Iris asked.

“Yes, I will be okay. Ten minutes maximum is all it’ll take you. I’ll still be here when you get back.”

“Okay. Bye.”

… “Iris!”

“What?”

“Knives. Leave them here.”

“Oh.”

After an awkward exchange of pointing and nodding with the cashier, Iris secured herself a warm and impressively dressed hotdog for a flat two hundred Ixa. Not exactly a steal, but she still had half her allowance remaining. Wolfing it down to warm up from the cold, she returned through the entrance of Tyrren court with nothing but the sausage’s end left. As she swallowed her previous bite, something out of the corner of her eye stopped her from immediately going for the final morsel.

Her music teacher, Mr Forecer, closing the door to the sparring gym and running away. He looked frazzled, more frantic than he had been that morning. Iris began to run.

The snow crunched under her shoes as she took the shortcut through the courtyard, racing past clueless students until she skidded to a halt outside the gym door, practically bashing it open with her shoulder.

Crestana was on the ground, convulsing.

“Be fine my ass,” Iris hissed, locking the door behind her before rushing over. She got on her knees and assessed what the damage was. Nothing physical, no gashes or tears in her tissue. But Iris did not even have to look that far to discern the culprit. A pulsing mark was branded into the side of her neck, some kind of circle with many lines going from one end to the other. She didn’t care for what it looked like; the Aether coming from it was potent, putrid almost and felt like dust inside Iris’s throat.

Never mind the convulsing; the tainted magic itself was enough to tell Iris all she needed to know. Time was running out, and her client was about to die.

First aid wouldn’t work; it wasn’t that sort of problem. Even magic items that disassembled other patterns wouldn’t work without maiming Crestana along with the intrusion. Iris had to destroy the mark and only the mark.

Precision. One of her weaknesses.

The head of the beast etched into her right wrist began to glow as she called forth her serpentine protector. It protruded from her palm, much smaller than usual.

“Kill the magic on her neck, not her.”

Wordlessly, it understood, rearing itself closer to Crestana’s neck and stopping just shy of it as though sizing up the malignant mark. Iris concentrated on the circle and its lines, refusing to slip her attention away from it and to Crestana for even a moment. She held the girl’s body down, pinning her spasming chest and flailing her arms to the floor as she kept her eyes on the small circle. Her serpent drew nearer and opened its maw, taking an excruciatingly slow second to confirm its target once and for all.

The serpent bit down on the mark and tore it off Crestana’s skin, destroying its red lines and dispelling the foul Aether from her body. The convulsing stopped, and Crestana’s Aether returned, albeit slowly, but Iris could not breathe a sigh of relief. Far from it.

She had her work cut out for her.