WHAT IS GOING ON HERE?!" the dean bellows furiously, for the second time today.
"They were trying to attack my roommate, and I defended him," I explain.
He narrows his eyes. "Is that so?" His gaze flicks between me and the bullies, his face a stormy mix of rage and suspicion. "All of you, in my office. Now."
I glance back at George; if this were a cartoon, he'd be making a loud GULP sound.
I sigh deeply. Great, this is what happens when I try to do the right thing.
The bullies walk in front of me, casting nervous glances over their shoulders. Whether out of fear or general self-preservation, I cannot tell.
George walks behind me trembling in fear. The silence between us speaks a thousand words.
We pass through the courtyard, a grandiose outdoor space dominated by a perpetually polished marble statue of Odin. The whole Norse theme gets tiresome after a while. The statue's gleaming surface reflects the sunlight, casting long shadows on the meticulously manicured lawns. I see some students studying and playing hnefatafl, a game somewhat like chess, but distinctly Norse. The clatter of game pieces and the murmur of conversation fill the air.
We ascend a flight of helix stairs, each step echoing against the stone walls. The walls are adorned with smaller replicas of ancient Norse artifacts like Jörmungandr's fang, Mjölnir, and Gungnir, their intricate details highlighted by strategically placed spotlights. Honestly, it's all quite tacky.
We walk down a hall lined with classrooms, finally reaching the dean's office at the end of the hallway. He waves his hand in front of the door, and with a soft click, it swings open, presumably unlocked by some form of Runic Magic.
His office is designed to be imposing. His desk is elevated above the rest of the room, resembling a judge's bench in a courthouse. Two simple wooden chairs in front of his desk stand out against the contrasting ornateness of the room. Life-sized replicas of ancient Norse artifacts are scattered throughout, their shadows looming large on the walls. In a display case behind and to the side of his desk is a supposedly genuine outfit worn by a Norseman. The fabric looks old and worn. Degrees cover the walls, framed in dark wood, but oddly, there isn't a single photograph to be seen.
The room itself is vast, the high ceiling adorned with intricately carved wooden beams depicting scenes from Norse mythology. The air smells faintly of old books and polished wood, mingled with a hint of something metallic, perhaps from the artifacts. A large window behind the dean's desk lets in a shaft of sunlight, illuminating particles of dust that dance in the air. The floor is covered in a rich, dark green carpet, its surface soft but slightly worn, showing the paths most frequently tread.
On either side of the desk, tall bookcases stretch from floor to ceiling, crammed with leather-bound volumes that look ancient and seldom touched. The titles are embossed in gold leaf, their spines cracked and faded with age. A massive chandelier hangs from the center of the ceiling, its crystal pendants catching the light and casting rainbows around the room.
The dean's gaze sweeps over us, his eyes dark and unforgiving. The air in the room feels heavy, charged with our collective anxiety. The silence is almost tangible, broken only by the faint ticking of an old grandfather clock in the corner. Its pendulum swings rhythmically. Tick.
We file in, and the dean slams the door behind us with a resounding bang. George and the goons jump at the noise. Tock.
"Sit," the Dean commands firmly, he waves his hand and three more chairs join the ones there. We oblige, taking our seats in a line. I sit in the middle, flanked by the two goons on my right, while George and the linebacker are to my left. Tick.
The dean clasps his hands behind his back and slowly ascends the stairs to his desk, not bothering to look at us. "Two fights in one day. What's gotten into you all?" He tuts. pausing to gaze out the window. "Do I need to micromanage you?" Another long pause. He turns sharply. "I asked a question." Tock.
"No," I state simply. The others shake their heads in unison. He slams his palms on his desk, causing it to rattle. His piercing blue eyes seem to peer into each of our souls simultaneously. Tick.
"What happened?" he asks, irritation evident in his deep voice.
"These people were attacking my..." I hesitate, searching for the right word. I wouldn't exactly call him my friend, but saying "roommate" might hurt his feelings. "...Him. Or trying to, at least. I stepped in and intervened, simple as that." Tock.
He stares at me for a moment, then shifts his gaze to the linebacker and his henchmen. "Is this true?" They all avoid his eyes. "You two leave," he says, not bothering to glance at us, keeping his eyes locked on Linebacker. "Don't think this is over yet Mr. Harding. The respectable way to handle that situation was to inform a teacher, unless somebody's life was in immediate peril, although, I do not think that was the case. Understood?" He says still staring at Linebacker. Tick.
George and I slip out, not daring to risk another encounter with the Dean. Instead of lingering, we hurry off.
George stumbles beside me, his face pale. "Thank you, Jace. I... I don't know what I'd do without you. Fighting isn't exactly my forte."
"Just don't forget to do my homework for me," I reply. "I'll leave it on your bed." I clap him on the shoulder. He winces. "Next time maybe we can work out another deal."
"Wait... Next time?" With that, I walk off.
Back in the office:
"What am I going to do with you, Miles? I've given you so many opportunities to change." The dean stares directly into Miles's eyes. Miles, defiant, meets his gaze head-on not willing to give him a single inch. "The only reason you haven't been expelled is because your parents donated oh so generously after what happened last year." The dean breaks eye contact, and Miles smirks knowingly. "And you know this." The dean sighs heavily. "Detention for all of you, for a month. Leave." Tock.
They scramble out the door. "But you," they freeze. He points to Miles, "Stay."
Jace
For whatever reason, Harry insists on sleeping with a lavender-scented candle burning every single night, claiming he can't sleep without it. So here I am, lying awake with the aroma of lavender wafting up to my top bunk, the soft glow of the candle casting flickering shadows on the walls.
The flame dances gracefully, its light weaving patterns that mesmerize me in the darkness. I glance over at the empty bunk meant for our other roommate, Liam. No one has seen or heard from him in the past two months. The teachers say he moved away. Some think he got expelled, while others whisper that he died. The conspiracists believe he's locked up in a secret room somewhere on the school grounds.
That's absurd, though. He just moved away. It's a little sad though because he was the only person who tried to be my friend. It was nice, even though I don't really have time for friends.
***
I walk into the grǫf, ready to face my final opponent. The air is thick with anticipation, the torches on the walls casting a fiery glow that mingles with the roar of the crowd. It's a mystery opponent; nobody would tell me who it is. Everyone knows I'm going to win. I know it too.
The large wooden doors creak open, revealing the grǫf in all its majestic splendor. The arena is a grand homage to the ancient Coliseum, its towering stone walls reaching up to the sky, creating an imposing and awe-inspiring sight. Each stone is meticulously carved, adorned with intricate runes and carvings that tell tales of epic battles and legendary warriors from ages past.
Rows of eager spectators fill the tiered seating that surrounds the arena, their faces alight with excitement and fervor. The crowd is a sea of shifting colors and motion, banners waving in the air, their vibrant hues catching the sunlight. The roars and cheers of the audience rise to a deafening crescendo as they catch sight of their "fan favorite." The sound is a pulsating wave of energy that reverberates through the stone structure, shaking the very ground beneath my feet.
I step out from the shadows of the entrance, the sudden brilliance of the sun blinding me momentarily. The light is almost blinding, a stark contrast to the dimness of the corridor I just emerged from. I shield my eyes with my hand, squinting against the glare. As my vision adjusts, the scene before me comes into sharp focus.
The arena floor is a vast expanse of sand, the grains glistening like tiny diamonds under the sunlight. The heat rising from the ground creates shimmering waves that distort the edges of the arena, giving the entire scene an otherworldly quality. In the center, a circular pattern of ancient symbols is etched into the sand, the runes glowing faintly with a mystical energy that seems to pulse in time with the heartbeat of the crowd.
Above, the sky is a perfect azure, with only a few wisps of clouds drifting lazily across it. Birds circle high overhead, their calls faintly audible over the din of the spectators. The sunlight bathes the entire arena in a golden glow, casting long shadows that stretch toward the center of the grǫf, where the final duel will take place.
The sheer scale of the arena is overwhelming, its grandeur is designed to make even the most seasoned warriors feel small and insignificant. Every detail, from the towering walls to the meticulously carved stonework, speaks of a long history of combat and honor. It is a place where legends are born and heroes are made.
The audience's roar intensifies as I move further into the arena, their collective gaze fixed upon me with a mix of admiration and expectation.
The energy in the air is almost palpable, a living thing that wraps around me, feeding into my own adrenaline-fueled anticipation. I take a deep breath, the scent of the arena-filling my lungs, and steel myself for the battle ahead.
As I step into the center of the grǫf, the sunlight no longer blinds me. Instead, it illuminates the path before me, casting a spotlight on the place where I will face my opponent. My vision is now clear, I scan the arena, taking in every detail, every nuance, every possible advantage or disadvantage. This is my stage, and the entire world is watching. "On one side of the grǫf, we have everybody's fan favorite, the undefeated soon-to-be champion, Jace Hardiiiing!" The audience erupts in uproarious applause, their cheers echoing off the stone walls.
The opposing doors swing open, and I'm shocked to see who stands on the other side.
It can't be! He steps out, and the crowd gasps. The same brown curly hair, caramel skin, and brown eyes—it's him.
"In the other corner! The undefeated champion of the grǫf, the one, the only, Leviiii Hardiiiing!"
My father.