forces of Erden, they crushed the Lasteane forces of the Lir. And here! The Erden Commander Olo fell under the blade.”
Pard leans forward, his goal within his grasp, but his foot catches on something. His giant stack of books shift in his arms as he tips forward at his waist. His eyes meet the obstruction as his neck cranes over his body. A foot and long leg stick out from underneath a desk. Pard’s eyes shift to the right and meet the boy’s. He grimaces. No , Blaine .
The black curly haired boy Blaine, stout and strong but still lean, with a gleam in his dark eyes, his mouth curls up into a devious grin. He shrugs and thrusts his leg up, locking it into Pard’s ankle, and causing Pard to loose control of his body.
Pard’s books fly out of his hands and crash onto the floor.
The writing in the classroom ceases, and the tip of Professor Ames’s stick slides along the canvas with a zip as he whirls around to face the class. His purple robe flutters with a wisp of chalk dust flying off the adjacent blackboard. The teacher goes silent and faces the class and scans from student to student.
All eyes shift toward Pard’s direction.
On his knees, Pard palms the ground with both hands and clinches his teeth. “Shit.” He rises, straightening his back he glances around the room.
Half the class watches Pard’s every move. Some of them giggle and point.
Professor Ames, annoyed at the interruption, raises his pointy chin in contempt and sweeps a clump of long errant blond hairs back behind his ears. He eyes Pard and his brow furrows, but not a furrow produced out of anger, but one produced out of disappointment.
Both of the classroom double doors click open, and with grace, Miles strolls into the room, cocky grin plastered on his face and head held high.
Professor Ames, face frozen in shock from the back to back interruptions during is recanting of the Fifty Years War, shifts his gaze away from Pard, and onto Miles strutting down the center of the aisle.
Miles nods. “Hey, professor, how’s it going?” He takes a big chomp out of his apple.
The class roars with laughter.
One boy raises his hand, and Miles gives him a high-five.
Blaine, Nox, and Sully scowl.
Professor Ames smacks his stick with a crack against a boy’s wooden desktop. “Silence!”
In a fright, the skinny boy behind the desk jumps out of his chair.
The class shutters and the room goes quiet.
Miles, unfazed, munching away on his apple, continues to stroll toward his desk and chair, the only empty one in the classroom on the left side of the aisle.
Professor Ames, expressionless, nods. “Both of you, detention.”
NERO
The sun already set, Pard’s mind wanders as he gazes out the frosty history class window during detention. This sucks, I should be eating dinner right now . His stomach growls. Stew and fresh warm bread. He sighs and shakes his head trying to get his mind off of food as it will only make the pain manifesting in his belly worsen . Probably cold stew and stale bread at this hour. He looks to the other side of the classroom at Miles, who has his head down and forehead propped on his knuckles, and he appears to be reading, but the long stream of drool dangling out the corner of his mouth forming a puddle in the center of his book says otherwise.
Professor Ames pushes up his oval glasses on the bridge of his thin nose and presses them tight between his eye sockets as he scans essays with his finger. His lips pulsate and his teeth clinched, every few seconds he either grunts or sighs then madly scribbles on the paper.
Pard scratches his pencil over a crude sketch of a boy shooting arrows out of a castle window at an elongated man with exaggerated features, bushy sideburns, and wings for arms. He slides the sketch away and slumps forward in his chair, his back and neck sore, he rests his wobbly knuckles under his chin to prop up his heavy head. Pard looks forward at dates and battles written on a
Pard leans forward, his goal within his grasp, but his foot catches on something. His giant stack of books shift in his arms as he tips forward at his waist. His eyes meet the obstruction as his neck cranes over his body. A foot and long leg stick out from underneath a desk. Pard’s eyes shift to the right and meet the boy’s. He grimaces. No , Blaine .
The black curly haired boy Blaine, stout and strong but still lean, with a gleam in his dark eyes, his mouth curls up into a devious grin. He shrugs and thrusts his leg up, locking it into Pard’s ankle, and causing Pard to loose control of his body.
Pard’s books fly out of his hands and crash onto the floor.
The writing in the classroom ceases, and the tip of Professor Ames’s stick slides along the canvas with a zip as he whirls around to face the class. His purple robe flutters with a wisp of chalk dust flying off the adjacent blackboard. The teacher goes silent and faces the class and scans from student to student.
All eyes shift toward Pard’s direction.
On his knees, Pard palms the ground with both hands and clinches his teeth. “Shit.” He rises, straightening his back he glances around the room.
Half the class watches Pard’s every move. Some of them giggle and point.
Professor Ames, annoyed at the interruption, raises his pointy chin in contempt and sweeps a clump of long errant blond hairs back behind his ears. He eyes Pard and his brow furrows, but not a furrow produced out of anger, but one produced out of disappointment.
Both of the classroom double doors click open, and with grace, Miles strolls into the room, cocky grin plastered on his face and head held high.
Professor Ames, face frozen in shock from the back to back interruptions during is recanting of the Fifty Years War, shifts his gaze away from Pard, and onto Miles strutting down the center of the aisle.
Miles nods. “Hey, professor, how’s it going?” He takes a big chomp out of his apple.
The class roars with laughter.
One boy raises his hand, and Miles gives him a high-five.
Blaine, Nox, and Sully scowl.
Professor Ames smacks his stick with a crack against a boy’s wooden desktop. “Silence!”
In a fright, the skinny boy behind the desk jumps out of his chair.
The class shutters and the room goes quiet.
Miles, unfazed, munching away on his apple, continues to stroll toward his desk and chair, the only empty one in the classroom on the left side of the aisle.
Professor Ames, expressionless, nods. “Both of you, detention.”
NERO
The sun already set, Pard’s mind wanders as he gazes out the frosty history class window during detention. This sucks, I should be eating dinner right now . His stomach growls. Stew and fresh warm bread. He sighs and shakes his head trying to get his mind off of food as it will only make the pain manifesting in his belly worsen . Probably cold stew and stale bread at this hour. He looks to the other side of the classroom at Miles, who has his head down and forehead propped on his knuckles, and he appears to be reading, but the long stream of drool dangling out the corner of his mouth forming a puddle in the center of his book says otherwise.
Professor Ames pushes up his oval glasses on the bridge of his thin nose and presses them tight between his eye sockets as he scans essays with his finger. His lips pulsate and his teeth clinched, every few seconds he either grunts or sighs then madly scribbles on the paper.
Pard scratches his pencil over a crude sketch of a boy shooting arrows out of a castle window at an elongated man with exaggerated features, bushy sideburns, and wings for arms. He slides the sketch away and slumps forward in his chair, his back and neck sore, he rests his wobbly knuckles under his chin to prop up his heavy head. Pard looks forward at dates and battles written on a
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