My fingers held an ink-dipped pen that danced across a coffee stained letter on my desk. My dormitory was bathed in the sweltering heat of evening sun, and I take off my sweater for a small relief.

I begin to write,

Dear Mom and Dad,

The first month at The Court of Eden has been very fruitful,

I have fallen off a horse only three times so far, and with no

Injuries. The sword you gave me I keep in my closet, for the

Ones given to students are much safer to use. My favorite

Class is demonology, though..

The mechanical bird sitting on my desk begins to sing, reminding me of my class starting in fifteen. Checking the calendar pinned on my wall, it is Demonology. I drop my pen into the ink pot and brush my short hair back, the dark locks curling around my ears. I leave as is, since the class is more lecture based than any real practice. Those ‘field trips’ are for the upper divisions. The Squires. Not the Pages.

I trudge down the stairs from the dormitory to the main campus, sprawling with students reading in circles, sparring with safety swords, or lying in the grass. I take the West Wing Building, the heavy doors pushed open to let the light stream in the decorated halls. This wasn’t the Castle, but since the Queen and King have founded this place themselves, the extravagance matches it’s own.

Unfortunately, this means some of the students believe themselves to be as important as royalty. Some of them are, or claim to be by small percentages of blood. Or complicated list of a brother’s uncle’s cousin, in which you should smile and nod uncomfortably, pretending to care, pretending I can’t see past their lie.

I take to the second floor of the hall, looking out the stained glass windows of past knights that received various titles of glory. I recognize the patron Knightess of my own hometown, Dame Aerosa who slayed the dragon and the evil governor. The dappled light of blood red, ocean blue, and sunset gold make the dreary grey halls sing with a dreamy quality of color.

Turning a right corner, I open a wooden door to a sizable lecture hall, taking the lower row of seats closest to the whiteboard. A few early students sit around me, always at least two seats apart and eyes focused on the whiteboard:

Mikha Larsa.

Demonology 101

Today’s Agenda

Squires: Sensing with Spirit world

Pages: Defensive and Offensive Warfare

A large group of students start streaming in, the post-lunch break chatter coming in waves that settle when Professor Larsa walks in.

He sharply fixes the back room. I don’t hear even a whisper, but he has the eyes and ears of a hawk. Even the slope and golden color of his eyes reminds me of a bird of prey, his feathery brown and grey hair falling just past his ears. He had a shapeless black robe with an academic cape draped over his shoulders, that seemed weightless when it trailed behind him.

Time ticks by, and even the latest student has taken their seat, yet he has not said a single word. Instead, he writes on the board the pages of the textbook we are to read. Often, we read the Codice on Demonology for thirty and have an hour and fifteen to sit in silence. The only time when he talks, is when a student asks a question, and even then the professor’s answers answers are brief and sometimes written.

I imagine the student’s in the back must not care to ask many questions. Though legible, his writing isn’t big enough to view from far away.

Setting that thought aside, I procure a small pen and notepad from my pockets, and begin to copy the textbook notes as Larsa writes them on the board. The student to my right has finished reading the Codice and passed it to me, the vellum cover worn from use with some pages sticking out.

I flip through the pages and find the section on recognizing spirit patterns- the key to recognizing portals or barriers to the spirit world. Some of the angled inscriptions I recongnize inlaid on the stone pillars of the school. A simple barrier. I write the connection in my notepad, furiously blotting the pen for more ink when it runs out. Nothing gives. I rub my temple in defeat and glaze over the rest of the text before passing it to the person on my left, the strain in my arm a painful reminder of last morning’s training.

After class, I walk up to the professor and ask him something that has been gnawing at me since day one:

“Why do you not speak often?”

“Words are wasted on those who do not listen,”

Mr Larsa looks up from his mohagoany desk and reaches out to touch the air, concentrating on something I cannot see.

After a moment, the air ripples and inscriptions made of warm light cover the walls and windows. I gasp softly, reaching out to touch one, but my hand passes through with no resistance. He raises a brow at me, seemingly surprised I can see what he just did.

“You can see it too. That is because you expected something to happen when I lifted my hand, so your mind opened up to it. It was cleared of distraction. This is why I used to teach privately, taking in apprentices. Much more efficient in focus.”

“Why did you stop then?”

“The last one died,” He says flatly. It was too quick an answer, and clearly rehearsed. A lie.

I can tell he sensed my suspicion, because he shifts the topic to something about eyes that don’t see and ears that don’t hear.

Later that night I finish my letter.

My favorite class is demonology, though..

My Professor has secrets of his own.

Secrets I can’t wait to uncover.

I will tell you all about it next winter,

Please remember to feed Archie.

Your son who misses you very much,

Shai