Poisons and Potions was truly a bore. It's the first day of the new school year, but we spent a whole hour and a half going over the student safety handbook that we had read last year. Serelune walked to her next class, history, with her satchel filled with paper and ink pens ready to take notes and whatever else the teacher has prepared for us.
She saw many groups of students, a mix of girls and boys, mingling and laughing as they all headed to the next class. Serelune had learned she pushed most people away with her sharp tongue and sarcasm creeping into every sentence. Its her shield, one of the little things Serelune found comfort in. She had one friend so far, and Serelune had yet to see her. Aurelae is part pixie and part human. She has pale white skin with long blonde locks that travel down to her knees. Serelune never understood how her friend was able to deal with her hair, but her hair was always styled. Her eyes are a light honey brown, and she's a bit shorter than Serelune but more of a social butterfly than Serelune had wished to be. Serelune's hair is in a simple braid today, and it rests at her waistline, swinging gently as it followed her movements. It decided to behave today, surprisingly, the silky strands of Serelune's hair were neatly combed out of her face. Serelune walked into class, and the teacher was the only other soul that filled the class. "Am I in the wrong room?" Serelune asks the teacher, walking over to her desk. "If you aren't here for my history class, then yes, this would be the wrong class. What's your name, student?" She replies, her monochromatic green and blue eyes stare Serelune's down. "Serelune Elarion," she replied. The teacher looks down at what Serelune assumed to be a list of her students for this period and says, "You are in my class, take a seat wherever you want," dismissing Serelune. Serelune sat down in the far back left corner of the room, right next to the floor-length windows, allowing her full sight of the classroom. The classroom is large, but not too big, enough to hold about 35 students. It's made of wood with high ceilings, and 4 pillars hold the ceiling in the 4 corners of the room. The wooden desks are long and connected with benches to sit in. Serelune stared out the window, watching students scurry to class while she waited for class to start.
"Alright, listen up, class," the teacher announces, and she turns her head to face the class. She seems to be part fairy and part siren. She is beautiful, in a haunting way, and Serelune couldn't help but study her features. She has light blue wings that seem iridescent in the light. 3 slashes adorned her neck—what Serelune assumed to be gills, and patches of iridescent green and blue scales can be seen along her whole body. Her hair is white, a stark comparison to her dark skin, chocolatey smooth like water. Serelune noted that her teeth are shark-like, sharp, and dangerous. She wears a fusion of fighting leathers and business attire, and her hair is adorned with sea glass and broken shells with beautiful blue and white curls. "My name is Ms. Undra and I will be you're teacher for this year's history class. You will go more in-depth in this kingdom's history than you ever have before. You have all been in history for 2 years now, and I assume that you remember what you've been taught these past two years, so today we will test you." An eruption of groans comes from throughout the class, and some students even begin to slouch in their seats. Serelune sat up straighter, curious as to what the question might be. "Today's Question: Are the fae's past actions justifiable towards the human race?" Ms. Undra asks, and she sits back down behind her desk. She turns her ice-cold eyes on each one of us, "I will not be helping you today with this debate; you must figure it out amongst yourselves, which should be fairly simple for you to do. Today, you must make your mark in this class."
A boy shifts in his seat. Serelune recognized him as Prince Syren. Ever the charmer, he rises first, his posture poised, his graceful demeanor commanding the room. He speaks with the authority of someone who has known power all his life.
His voice is smooth, confident. "The fae, by nature, rule. We are timeless and immortal, while humans are fleeting. Their pollution against us was disrespectful, an affront to the balance. The fae only sought to maintain order and stability. If humans suffered, it was necessary for their survival." His words are measured, calculated, filled with the type of princely diplomacy that makes him look compassionate, even as he defends a history of cruelty. His smile doesn't quite reach his eyes, but there's a playful edge to his tone as he looks and faces the rest of the class. "History is rarely as simple as black and white. Sometimes, to bring peace, sacrifices must be made." Many students, already fooled by his princely elegance and command, nod their heads in agreement. There's something about Syren that feels like the calm before a storm — the kind that flattens villages and leaves nothing but silence in its wake. He walks into a room, and the air shifts, like it knows better than to breathe too loudly. And stars help me, he knows it, and he uses it well. Every movement is precise, almost annoyingly so — the tilt of his head, the way his eyes linger just a second too long, as if he's peeling back your layers with nothing but a glance. Serelune knows he holds the power of words and wields it well. She's watched him set people off with a single sentence, or a smirk that says he knows how the game ends before it even begins. But he can also be mocking and playful around his friends, further pushing his popularity and his ego as well. She's never seen him lose control of a situation, so she takes this as an opportunity to do just that. Serelune shifts in her seat.
The room goes still. One of those thick silences that feels like the air itself is holding its breath. All eyes shift to Serelune, and she refuses to flinch. She leans forward, slow and steady, letting them see the spark in her eyes catch fire. The sulking? Gone. What's left is sharper, meaner. She stands, smooth as smoke, but there's nothing soft about her now. "Sacrifices?" She echoes, Serelune's voice curling with venom-laced irony. "Oh, I thought we were talking about enslaving and torturing humans for amusement. My mistake." Serelune lifts her chin slightly, heat rising in her chest. "Let me be more clear. The fae didn't rule for balance — they ruled for their amusement." Her voice cuts through the silence, louder now, each word burning. "Your kind took what you wanted. You used humans like toys, broke them, drained them, and then tossed them aside when they stopped being fun. Don't stand there and pretend it was noble. It wasn't about order. It was about power. Control. Playing god because you could." She let the words hang there, weighted and raw. The tension coils in the air, tight as a drawn bow. She scans the room, then Serelune's gaze locks onto Syren — and lingers. Her look is a blade and a dare, disarming and defiant all at once."Your history isn't just written in books," Serelune says, low and sharp. "It's written in blood. Human blood. And if you can't see that, maybe it's time you crawl out of that royal bubble you float around in." Serelune watches the words hit him—not like daggers, no, more like a sudden drop into ice-cold water.
Syren blinks, just once, and for a heartbeat, Serelune sees it. That slip. That tiny crack in his perfect, unreadable mask. He doesn't speak right away, and that silence? That pause? That's victory. He's processing. For once, someone's knocked the wind out of his carefully curated detachment, and Serelune knew it. His smirk falters — only slightly, but enough for me to see the wheels turning behind those shadow-slick eyes. He wasn't expecting a fight. Not from Serelune. Not from the girl who sits in the back and rolls her eyes at courtly nonsense. But this time, she didn't roll her eyes. Serelune called him out, and for a second, Serelune got under his skin. But of course, Syren doesn't stay off-balance for long. He's too trained, too practiced. That eerie calm settles back over him like a second skin, and he flashes a smile, soft and slow, but not quite as smug as usual. "Ah," he murmurs, voice dipped in mockery and something more dangerous, "so the princess has claws after all. How… quaint." His tone drips sugar and poison, but she sees the flicker in his gaze. Something darker. Something calculating. He leans in, smooth as always, pretending to be amused, but there's weight behind his words now — a tension coiled beneath the charm.
"You paint the fae as nothing but monsters," he continues, too softly, "but history is more complex than that… isn't it?" And gods, the way he says it — like he's daring Serelune to bite again. Like he wants to see how far she'll go. Well, joke's on him. Serelune hasn't even started.
The tension in the room grows palpable. The students, who have been watching the pair, feel the weight of the exchange. It's not just about history anymore — it's about something much more personal than either is willing to admit. Serelune meets his gaze with a fierce, defiant stare. Her words are sharp, cutting through the air like a blade. "It's easy to defend the past when you're sitting on your throne. Try standing on the ground where people's blood was spilled--mothers, children, fathers, siblings, lovers, and you'll see it for what it is. The fae aren't innocent, no matter how pretty your little words are."
The words hang in the air, the class waiting for Syren's retort. But for once, he's caught off guard. His expression flickers between amusement and intrigue. The students take notice, and so does Serelune. There's something about the fire in her eyes, the strength behind her words, that makes him wonder if he's been missing something all along. In a rare moment, his smile softens, and his voice takes on an almost genuine tone, though still laced with an edge. "Perhaps you're right, then. But, just remember… the world isn't always as it seems." There's a flicker in his expression — subtle, but Serelune catches it. Something shifts behind his shadowed eyes, like he's thinking, not just calculating. And for a breath of a moment, she wonders if she cracked something open. His smile isn't as sharp this time. It softens, just a little, and Serelune sees something new in him — not vulnerability exactly, but maybe… curiosity. Like he's wondering if Serelune had been more than a thorn in his side all along. His words land like a warning and a compliment all at once, and Serelune hates how much she wants to know what he meant by it.
The bell rings only minutes after the intense debate, and Serelune begins to pack up her things. "This class might be my worst nightmare." Serelune feels a scowl form across her face, annoyed, and mostly peeved at this self-righteous prince. What a prick. As she walked down the steps to head out of class, a pair of eyes was watching her. Serelune walked past Ms. Undra's desk, her blue and green orbs staring into my soul.
"Ms. Elarion, you've made your mark."
A ghost of a pleased smile crosses her face, and Serelune's chest warms with pride as she walked out the door.
"Maybe this class might not be too bad," Serelune thought to herself, as she walked over to her next class: Combat and War. Serelune may not be able to enjoy history, but she can at least enjoy combat class.