“Welcome to our newest addition, Ingrid Charles.” Professor Shane smiled warmly at her. “You can borrow notes from Miss Goodwin later. All that is required of you is to take note of anything you find important.”
Ingrid nodded obediently as Professor Shane carried on with his lecture.
“Now, the Orcons still harboured a grudge against us since the Great Revolt when we became our own country two hundred years ago, believe it or not.” The professor clicked a button while pointing the remote at the lightboard. A picture flickered on the screen with the professor smiling brightly, an unfamiliar location in the background. “Before this war, I travelled to the capital state and by golly, they recognised me as a Lorcanian when I first spoke.” He shook his head, seemingly amused. “Some of them even noticed the different style of clothing I wore, even though it wasn’t too far off from what they considered fashionable.
“Arguably, this grudge is what caused the war we are in the middle of today.” Shane skipped to a photo of the country’s royal monarch, King Solomon Argent. “And it is due to the war that exams have been cancelled.”
An excited whisper burst across the classrooms, startling Ingrid. Being schooled at home, Ingrid had never been in a classroom with other pupils before. All the school lessons were privately done with her governess and every session had been painfully silent so this was definitely new to her.
“The current curriculum is focused on providing as much aid to the war as possible. Every history lesson, you will be kept up to date with the current events of the war. In other classes, you will most likely be learning things that relate to the war as well.”
Now this got Ingrid excited. The war – this was what she was looking forward to the most out of coming to the academy.
“The rest of today’s lesson will be dedicated to a team research project on the Orcon history and how their actions have instigated the war between the Three Northern Powers,” Shane concluded. “I assume you all have your lightpads so I will have the rest of the task on the board for you to focus on.”
The class, a mixture of boys and girls, erupted into chaos, jolting Ingrid in her seat. She clutched her lightpad and notebook to her chest in fright as a surge of boys came scrambling from her left and right.
She turned to give Daphne a look of confusion but the redhead was occupied by a circle of young men, pleading at the top of their lungs. She was laughing, head tilted back as several pleads of partnership came her way. Well somebody was popular.
“Your teams are either all girls or boys, maximum one lady if mixed!” Professor Shane shouted over the noise. Obviously this instruction was meant specifically for Daphne and her group of admirers. Ingrid was surprised the unladylike girl attracted so many men. Of course, looking at her then, Daphne appeared as quite the charmer, flipping her hair over her shoulder ever so casually.
Ingrid shook her head. She had never seen such disorder in her life before. Why didn’t the boys rampage the girls – or rather, Daphne, during mealtimes? Why now, all of a sudden during class?
“Miss Charles?”
Her hands tightened on the items against her chest. “Y-Yes?”
Dark green eyes peered down at her as the owner, a young man, stuck out a hand with a weak smile. “Harrison Kennedy. Would you like to work together for this project?”
Glancing around, Ingrid noticed that the boy was approaching her rather formally, compared to everybody else who were already well-acquainted and chatting like old friends. Nevertheless, she grasped his hand and shook it stiffly. She was grateful for his offer. “It would be my pleasure,” she replied politely. Ingrid had never worked in a group project before so she was more than relieved that somebody wanted to work with her.
The only downside was that there wouldn’t be any more girls in the group, meaning she would be on her own this time.
“Do you remember me?” he asked, grabbing an extra seat beside her. “Er – or maybe you’ve heard of me? Most people call me Harry.”
“No, sorry,” she replied with a frown, repeating his name internally. Harrison Kennedy?
“Maybe my father?” he tried again. “Andrew Kennedy?”
“Kennedy,” she repeated under her breath, knowing she couldn’t be heard over the noise. It did ring a bell – “Oh!” A hand flew to her lips in surprise, heat flushing her cheeks. “The man my mother arranged for me to marry.”
Luckily her words had been drowned out by the ruckus but Harry had still seemed to have heard, a wry smile on his face. “Neither of us really wanted it and I never got the chance to thank you for cancelling it.”
“I’m so sorry,” she blurted out, chest twinging with guilt. “It wasn’t that I didn’t find you decent.” Her eyes widened, realising the extent of her words. “I-I mean – well you are very decent and handsome –” Ingrid snapped her lips shut to prevent herself from rambling. An embarrassed heat flooded every inch of her face, right to her ears. Judging by the grin on his face, he’d heard her. “Please accept my apologies. In no way did I mean to offend or hurt your feelings.”
“Quite the contrary,” Harry replied, chuckling. “You do at least find me handsome.”
Ingrid wanted to sink into her seat and hide behind her lightpad, a sinking feeling in her stomach. How had she become such a babbling fool so easily? She wanted to smack herself.
“Why don’t we ask for a library pass, away from all this?” he suggested, gesturing to the young men that still hadn’t sorted their partners out yet. Her rambling must have broken the nervous ice between them because Harry appeared much more relaxed and easy-going.
“That would be a good idea,” she agreed, rising to her feet.
Blood seeped between his grimy fingers. Leaning against the nearest ruins of a building, he let out a grunt of pain and pulled his hand away. The thick liquid squelched as he rubbed his fingers together slowly. The open gash on his arm was merely collateral damage.
Still, he couldn’t help the wince as he staggered upright.
Multiple guttural snarls tickled his ears, pulling his attention towards the source. Four large disfigured wolves crouched down before him with their teeth bared and dripping with acidic saliva. The soft hissing of the cement reached the man’s ears as he flicked a loose strand of black from his burning hazel eyes.
“Give it your best shot,” he growled, flexing his injured arm and fought off the sharp sting as the ruptured skin twitched.
In a split second, they’d pounced. Their claws reached out and glinted wickedly beneath the red sun. He stood up straighter and smirked in anticipation. Before he was sliced to ribbons and ravaged upon, the man vanished. He closed his eyes and pictured his destination very clearly in his mind as a distant tug plucked him from the ground.
Madam Matilda checked her watch and leaned back impatiently. She tapped her ringed fingers against the desk with a rhythmic clunk. He was late, again.
Her shoulders slumped in a frustrated sigh. For a single, rare moment, Matilda forgot all her etiquette and slouched like a commoner. Then she was straightening herself up, shaking her head.
He would show up in due time. He knew when he was late and he would have a reason. He always did.
She couldn’t help but feel a twinge of sympathy for the poor boy. Only twenty-one winters and yet, he suffered the burden of a fully grown man. He didn’t deserve to see the horrors of this dreaded war, the violence and the death, not to mention the blood. No. One could never forget the bloodshed in war.
The hairs along her arm prickled, the familiarity of the sensation bracing her aged body for the impact.
A gust of wind from evidently nowhere burst across the room. Matilda clutched her armrests, prying her eyes open to gaze at the boy that would materialise in the seat across from her.
Only, he didn’t. Instead, he was up against the wall to her left, scrabbling at it while he sank to the floor in a heap. Blood splattered across the glossy floors, staining the white surface.
“Quite dramatic, don’t you agree?” she asked sarcastically, rising to her feet. “Up you get, Kent.” Matilda gestured dismissively at his crumpled form, the air around him offering support as he struggled to find his footing.
He stumbled once, shoe sliding across a pool of his own blood. A violent cough racked his body until finally, he collapsed in the chair, beginning to stain that too.
“Be mindful of what you touch,” Matilda warned, her edgy nerves relaxing at the sight of him, despite his bloodied appearance. “Intel?”
The boy groaned, leaning back. “Madam, can I ever get a break?”
Matilda pursed her lips, wanting to decline but realised how his dramatics weren’t ceasing. He showed no signs of healing, much to her dismay. “Mr Kent?”
Silence.
“Grayson.”
A moan of discontent left his battered lips. “Madam, I’m so tired. I can’t feel my arm and I feel as if a drakkan has trampled and ripped me apart.”
Alarm shot through the old woman. Scuttling from around her circular desk, she waved a hand at her floors but needn’t watch as the blood vanished as if it was never there in the first place.
“What do you mean you can’t feel your arm?” she muttered more to herself.
“Their war animals . . . they’re different,” Grayson mumbled, tilting his head to stare back at his superior sideways. The room started spinning so he shut his eyes, clenching them tightly. “I feel as if my imagination has worn out.”
Alarm turned into cold dread. Matilda recoiled her hand from his arm, grey eyes darting sharply to his face. A spot of blood had started pooling at the corner of his lips. “What is this about their war animals? Whose?”
“Not the Orcons,” he grunted, flexing his arm. This caused a flow of hot sticky liquid to ooze from the gash. It looked as if a beast had ran its tooth along his arm only to have its jaw rudely ripped out from the limb, judging by some other sharp cuts around the main wound. “Lorcanians. They’re ours.”
“What creature could possibly poison you to the point of your imagination?” she whispered in horror, stumbling back. Black veins sprawled across his arm and with every passing second, she could see it stretch across his skin, drawing closer to his neck. Like a spreading poison. “Impossible. I have never seen something work so fast.”
Twisting around, Matilda fumbled with her lightboard, snapping commands into it. “I want Professor Cahill in my office right now, regardless of his classes. Send in a substitute and tell him to bring his medical kit. This is urgent, Quentin!”
The board crackled as she slammed it back down on her desk, turning to her apprentice who let out an agonised cry, his arm trembling. “Madam –”
“Hush!” she hissed, waving a hand at the door. A sheen of silver coated the entire wall, producing a soundproof barrier. “The apprenticeship is a secret, remember?”
Grayson’s straight teeth dug deep into his lower lip, his cries forcibly muffled as he thrashed about. The pain had caused a vein to throb across his temple and if it were possible, the blood seemed to pour out even faster.
The door suddenly burst open, revealing a flustered old man with wild frizzy grey hair and glasses askew. He was puffing heavily, the air rushing in and out of his mouth in a huff. “Y-You called, Madam?”
“Professor, close the door,” she barked to which he complied obediently. The white wall she’d conjured trembled slightly, solidifying again. “Grayson is poisoned and I need you to figure out how to cure it.”
The flustered man fumbled with his satchel, setting it down beside the injured young man who muffled his screams with his undamaged arm. Grayson’s hazel eyes bulged with agony and his skin had turned deathly pale. The rims of his eyes were beginning to turn pink.
“What poisoned him?” Professor Cahill stammered, shaking his head as he adjusted his glasses and heightened the magnification with several taps to the arm of his spectacles. “Plant, insect, animal –”
“An unidentified animal from Lorcania,” Matilda interrupted desperately, seeing the black veins spread across his shoulders, inching ever so close his neck. Grayson clawed at his already torn shirt and Matilda briefly noticed the black lines growing closer to his heart too. Any further and his heart could fail. “And it’s affecting his imagination too.”
“I can’t – I can’t feel m-my head!” Grayson gasped, throwing his head back with a silent cry of terror.
“Kent, stay in there,” she ordered, as if it would help but she knew it wouldn’t. “Grayson Kent, I am giving you orders as your superior and fight the poison!”
“Madam, this is extremely curious!” Professor Cahill exclaimed, a look of wonder across his leathery features. “The saliva in his blood stream is a mixture of a paralysis poison and hallucinogen. The only two animals in our country alive that produce this defence mechanism are –”
“Can you fix it?” Matilda roared, lacking the patience to hear his scientific theories and ramblings. “My best pupil could die if –”
“Rosile resin and Nepa Acid,” Cahill announced the poisons, pressing a cloth to the wound. He flipped a knife out from his pocket and muttered an apology to the poor boy before pressing the blade to his skin.
“What do you think you’re doing?” Matilda shrieked, losing her composure for the slightest of seconds.
“He needs to bleed the poison out – he won’t feel anything since the paralysis seems to have spread already.” The blade pierced Grayson’s scarred skin, drawing blood across the black veins that had crawled across his sallow flesh. “The worst part is the hallucinogen.” Professor Shane started speaking in a flurry of mumbles and gestures, his eyes darting about crazily.
Though Matilda doubted the man’s sanity, she never questioned his methods. The man was a genius, no matter how mad in the head he was. She only hoped he could work fast.
“The acid must be applied to the initial wound area,” he explained, rummaging through his medical kit. “Madam, I don’t suppose you can conjure the anti –”
“Done.” It was a matter of luck that she’d come across these antidotes before, realising they were key remedies to many poisons.
Shane blinked in surprise, the two items materialising in his hands catching him off guard. Of course: he was a man of science, not imagination despite that he had earned a degree in the study of imagination.
“Now fix him.”
With a full stomach, Ingrid felt unwilling to go to her tutoring session, despite her itching desire to master her imagination.
It didn’t help that their session tonight was to be held in the practical classrooms rather than theory over the past five days.
“Can you remember what the third factor was?” Amelia said it more as a command rather than a suggestion once Ingrid came trudging into the room.
“Emotions,” Ingrid replied, standing tall in the middle of the spacious room.
Her tutor circled her slowly, nodding in approval. “Excellent. Care to elaborate how emotions affect one’s imagination?”
“Emotions,” Ingrid repeated, racking her brains for her theory notes. “Imagination is controlled by the mind alone. The biggest factor that hinders the mind from successful conjuring and imagination is emotions.”
“An example?”
“If somebody was extremely angry,” she recalled with ease, having had first-hand experience with it herself. “Their imagination feeds on that raw power and anger. Without clear directions, the imagination becomes uncontrollable and anything that comes to mind, such as violent or vengeful thoughts, can come true.”
“Where do emotions derive from?”
“The heart?”
“What is the motto we follow?”
Ingrid paused, thinking over her words carefully. “Follow your mind.”
“And we never follow?”
“Our hearts,” Ingrid recited like a little schoolgirl.
“And why is that?”
“The heart is deceitful. It clouds the mind from making good choices.”
Amelia smiled at Ingrid, pleased with what she was hearing. “Excellent. I had no clue home-schooling was so effective!”
“When you are an only child, you find yourself with a lot of free time for extra studying,” Ingrid remarked dryly.
“Well it has certainly paid off. I have never tutored somebody so easily.” Ingrid beamed. “Over the week, we will try a few more practical lessons than theory as a reward. Usually theory takes a while for others to wrap their head around but you seem to have no trouble at all.” Amelia backed up until the lightboard was right behind her. “Now, have a go at conjuring the catapult I assigned.” She gestured to the empty space in the middle of the room. In fact, the practical room was entirely bare, save for the lightboard situated on the wall behind Amelia.
Ingrid nodded eagerly. It had taken a while for her to analyse and conjure the materials and then assemble them together until finally, she had gotten it perfect. At least she hoped so.
“Alright, the floor is yours.”
The room’s vast space suddenly appeared rather daunting to Ingrid. Nerves caused her stomach to flutter as she took several steps back and pointed her gaze to the ground.
Having tried this specific conjure many times, Ingrid found her nerves relaxing. Even though her imagination wasn’t trained, she always found it rather easy to conjure things. Merely thinking of the object usually did the trick.
For a moment, the room fell into absolutely silence. Even Amelia seemed to be holding her breath.
Before Ingrid blinked, she felt a slight tug at the back of her mind as a shape flickered in and out of existence until it gradually solidified out of thin air.
“Well done!” Amelia praised with a grin. “Most Imaginists take longer than five days to conjure these simple contraptions. Now,” she clapped her hands once, “let’s test it.”
Ingrid’s jaw dropped in surprise. “T-Test it?”
“Yes. Judging by its stability, I’m sure you have nothing to worry about,” she told her in a reassuring tone. “A sponge ball.” Amelia held a hand up and made a throwing motion at the scoop at the end of the catapult. A round red sphere bounced inside, shaking the contraption slightly.
With a flick of her wrist, the cable pulled back and flung the basket forward, hauling the ball across the room. It bounced off the wall before rolling to a stop at Ingrid’s feet. The grin on her tutor’s lips broadened. “That is absolutely –”
The contraption fell apart all of a sudden with multiple clacks. Ingrid winced. She had forgotten to test it herself.
Much to her surprise, Amelia let out a peal of laughter. “Good job, Ingrid!”
No doubt Ingrid couldn’t see what was ‘good’ about the pile of wooden parts. “But it failed.”
“No, it didn’t,” she corrected, brushing her dark locks out of her twinkling eyes. “The objective was to throw the ball and you passed. It may have come apart after one use but it fulfilled its task. Many conjurings tend to do this.”
Relief flooded through Ingrid. Although it hadn’t held together, her tutor had approved and it was all she really needed to feel safe about it.
“Now the reason I give you praise is because it triggers emotion. What is the problem with this?”
“Emotion clouds our judgement,” Ingrid replied automatically, her head spinning with her successful accomplishment.
“Precisely.” Amelia gave a curt nod of approval. “What I am trying to accomplish is discipline. That feeling of relief is pleasant; you feel accomplished and good with yourself. Am I right?”
Ingrid’s cheeks burned. She couldn’t muster a reply and resorted to a slow nod.
“Performing the task well is the objective. Receiving praise or feedback is a test; you must learn to block these emotions. Tell me honestly; when you were conjuring, were you completely focused on the catapult or to make sure it turns out well for my approval?”
Opening her mouth to reply, Ingrid then thought better of it. What had she been thinking? “To be honest, I’m not quite sure. If I were to do it again, I think my main goal would have been for your approval. It is only natural, isn’t it?”
Amelia nodded, seemingly satisfied with the answer though she couldn’t quite tell. “Every practical task I give you, you will be told if you passed or not. But learn not to rely on my opinion but on your own. I still want you to try hard but what you need to understand is that the opinion of others is a huge influence on your emotions. Learn to rely on yourself and reign in your emotions. It becomes much more controllable that way.”
“I can try,” Ingrid told her uncertainly. But how can I make true friends if I don’t care what they think of me? Ingrid thought, unsure if this was an order she could follow.
“By this, I do not mean to be a heartless machine,” Amelia quickly spoke, catching the look on Ingrid’s face. “I mean for you to learn to discipline yourself to block out anything that can influence your emotions when your imagination could come to life. When another person thinks badly of you, do not let it spark anger. When you feel love, do not let it cloud your decisions.”
“Love is quite a longshot for me,” Ingrid muttered under her breath, nodding understandingly. “Yes. I understand.”
“That will be enough for today,” Amelia concluded, clasping her hands together. “If you turn to page sixteen in the booklet I gave you, that will be your next task. Good luck and try to block out outside influences. It really helps.”
Before Ingrid could ask a question, the dark-haired woman left the room in a hurry. Ingrid called after her but it seemed her tutor either did not hear her or chose not to. She was left dumfounded with a pile of wooden blocks and a random sponge ball lolling at her feet. Ingrid turned to leave.
A soft muted thud started from behind her. She turned around slowly to discover the source and found herself blinking, rubbing her eyes as if to make sure what she was seeing was real.
The red sponge ball Amelia had conjured bounced up and down against the floor. It bounded higher and higher, almost to the point where it brushed the ceiling.
Ingrid stepped back in surprise. This was most certainly not her imagination’s doing – and she couldn’t recall any possible emotion that could be responsible.
“How curious,” she murmured, cocking her head to the side.
“Knock, knock.”
Ingrid leapt almost a foot into the air, yelping at the top of her lungs. She twisted to the side, hand over her heart as a figure strolled in casually, a hand in his pockets.
“You,” she whispered, her hand clenching over her chest. “May I ask what you are doing here, Mr Kent?”
“Grayson, if you please.” He held up a hand with a smile. Ingrid was naturally taken aback but reminded herself quickly of Amelia’s words. How she could block out her emotions or fluttering heart was a mystery but the least she could do was try: Ingrid ignored Grayson’s charm in the curve of his lips, the twinkle in his eyes.
She smacked herself internally. He has plain brown eyes and a smile is what everybody has, Ingrid. Get a hold of yourself.
“Is this your doing?” she asked calmly, gesturing to the ball that still remained bounding between the floor and ceiling. My emotions are in control. He is not charming. He is just a very handsome – er, plain young man.
Grayson’s eyes flickered between the ball and Ingrid, as if he’d only just noticed its presence. “Quite possible. We are the only Imaginists in the room.”
“It is not my doing if that’s what you’re implying,” she scoffed, turning to face the ball. A crease formed between her brow, lips pursed in concentration.
Stop, she commanded silently. The image of the ball in her mind fell to the floor with one final bounce but when she focused her eyes back to the real object, it was still bouncing. The frown turned into a scowl.
“Fighting another’s imagination is quite difficult, Miss Charles,” Grayson spoke, breaking all her concentration.
Ingrid blew heavily through her lips, turning to him with narrowed eyes. “You distracted me.”
“I did nothing but stand here.” He raised an eyebrow. “Is that distracting?”
“No!” she snapped, shaking her head. “I just have a tendency of being alone and undisturbed when I use my imagination.” Ingrid’s gaze darted to the ball, its continuous spring becoming irksome. “Will you please?” She gestured in irritation.
He held his hands up but as he did, Ingrid couldn’t help but notice him wince. His right arm drooped slightly.
“All you need to do is free your mind,” he coaxed, lowering his hands. He winced again, subtler. “Ignore all your emotions and focus.”
“I did and you disrupted me,” she growled, turning to the pile of wood and waved a hand towards it. An image flashed through her mind once before her catapult pieces disappeared within a blink of an eye.
A laugh escaped his curved lips. “I’m sure if you can get rid of that, the ball would be an easy feat.” He shifted his weight. “So try.”
Ingrid wasn’t quite sure what it was about the man that irritated her. The confident tone? The mischievous smile that seemed to know everything? Or maybe she just didn’t want to admit her shame in falling prey to a Tainted so easily and him being the smug little rescuer. Maybe Ingrid didn’t like the reminder of being a damsel in distress.
Whatever the reason, she was certain that she did not like him. There was just something unbelievably odd about him . . . something dark and disturbed too. The fact that he was the reason the Tainted had found her in the first place made her suspicious.
“Just leave,” Ingrid sighed. “Please.”
The smile faltered for once. “E-Excuse me?”
“You are not my tutor. Your sister is. So I ask of you to respect that.”
“Tell me, Ingrid, do you really find me so unappealing?” he spoke out of the blue, stepping closer to bore his gaze down at her, amusement wiped from his face.
Ingrid’s breath caught in her throat at the sudden proximity. She took a step back and cleared her throat, feeling her face heat up. “Not unappealing. Your presence is irritating.” It was as simple as that: she did not feel comfortable with him about and his very presence seemed to spark some sort of anger or negative emotion in her.
Amelia had said that emotion was dangerous when it came to conjuring. Having Grayson around was definitely not good for her learning.
“Alright, if you feel that way.” The smile was back and his eyes were glittering. “I shall leave. Until next time, Miss Charles.”
I hope not, she thought darkly, watching him move towards the door.
As soon as the door closed shut behind him, Ingrid whirled around to face the bouncing ball that continued to try her patience.
“Stop it,” she hissed, clenching her fists. “Grayson is gone. Stop.”
It bounded up and down merrily, the repetitive sound ringing in her ears. The anger built up in her chest and Ingrid wanted nothing more than to yell at it in frustration. How could she conjure a catapult but not stop a stupid ball from bouncing?
“Emotions cloud the mind,” Amelia reminded her through her thoughts.
Despite the frustration, Ingrid closed her eyes and managed to contain her screams. She wasn’t quite sure what it was that seemed to irritate her to the point of madness. It could have been Grayson, his attitude, the darned ball but whatever it was, she willed it to vanish. She let these little grudges go and convinced herself that it wasn’t worth the space in her mind.
And suddenly, she felt lighter. Her head felt emptier, freer. It felt as if her thoughts were being protected by an invisible shield from her emotions, clearing her mind.
“Enough.” Her voice rang clearly through the room, gaze fixated on the moving red ball.
It stopped. She could see it almost in an instant as it brushed the ceiling then fell flat, losing its bounce in mid-air. There was some resistance from somewhere, a force pushing at the edge of her mind. She pushed back harder, using her clear thoughts to keep the ball grounded and still. And it did.
The emotions suddenly came flooding back in a rush, overwhelming her with a burst of joy. She’d done it. She’d fought Grayson’s imagination and won.
She couldn’t help the squeal of glee as she clapped her hands eagerly. Turning back to the ball with her chest blooming with pride, the ball vanished with a single blink of her eyes. Even that had been easy.
I can do this, Ingrid thought proudly and spun towards the door. I can do this. My imagination will improve.