The Beginnings of Revenge

Our first move was simple yet effective: sleep deprivation. It was a subtle form of retaliation that slowly chipped away at performance and undermined Class A's standing - without standing out.

It was a multi-pronged approach.

Eliza, being the most agile and discreet among us, took charge of this operation. Under the cover of darkness, she crept around to rooms with boys of Class A. Armed with a handful of pebbles, she skillfully tapped their windows, awakening them from their slumber.

The majority of Class C began to contribute to our cause as well; many of us lived with people from Class A.

Me and Caspian led by example; one evening, were having a great discussion.

Caspian leaned in, a mischievous glint in his eye. "You ever wonder about the weirdest spells ever cast, Alex?"

I shot him a grin. "You mean like that time someone turned their broom into a snake while trying to fly?"

Caspian chuckled, his voice rising. "Exactly! And speaking of weird magic, did you know there's a spell that can turn water into jelly? Imagine the possibilities!"

Our voices began to rise with excitement, and we couldn't help but laugh in a crescendo at the absurdity of magical experimentation.

From the bunk bed beneath us, we could hear Rowan tossing and turning. He muttered something incomprehensible, a clear sign of his growing annoyance.

Caspian shot me an amused glance, silently challenging me to continue. I raised my voice. "You know what's even more incredible, Caspian? The history of enchanted swords. There's this legend about a mythical blade used by a hero that could cut through solid stone like butter."

Our words flowed seamlessly, painting a vivid picture of magical exploits and arcane wonders. Rowan's irritation was becoming more evident with each passing moment.

Finally, unable to contain himself any longer, Rowan stormed out of his room, eyes bleary and patience worn thin. "Are you two trying to keep me up on purpose?"

Caspian and I exchanged sly smiles, victory in our grasp. "Just some late-night magical discussions, Rowan. We need to keep up with your excellence somehow," I replied with feigned innocence.

With a muttered expletive, Rowan covered his head with a pillow, defeated and determined to sleep some. Our mission to disrupt Class A's sleep was beginning to be successful, bringing us one step closer to our goal.

Indeed, the nights were growing longer, and the dark circles under the eyes of the Class A students were becoming more pronounced. Fatigue wore on them, sapping their energy and focus during the day.

We had more to our plan, however; in the hallways and dining areas, we fought guerrilla warfare. We positioned ourselves strategically, interrupting the bullies when they sought to eat.

Innocuous obstacles like dropped books or spilled drinks created a constant annoyance - especially for the sleep-deprived, a subtle reminder that they were no longer untouchable.

Tension simmered; our actions were carefully calculated to goad them without revealing our intentions to the instructors. We knew it was only a matter of time before our efforts would bear fruit.

....

The opportunity to strike a more decisive blow finally came during a Practical Class.

We had been subjected to endless sparring sessions, honing our skills under Thorne's watchful eye, and it was during one of these classes that the pivotal moment arrived.

The arena was electrified with anticipation as students from Class A and Class C faced off. The atmosphere crackled with the desire to prove ourselves, to show that we could compete on an equal footing.

I watched from the sidelines, my eyes fixed on Caspian as he stepped into the arena to face his opponent from Class A. The boy from Class A looked like a mere shadow of himself. A week of relentless sleep deprivation had taken its toll, leaving him with dark circles under his eyes, stumbling with exhaustion.

Caspian, on the other hand, was a picture of determination. Countless sessions with Thorne had forged him into a formidable warrior. His skills had reached a level not to be underestimated, and the arena crackled with anticipation.

The fight unfolded in a whirlwind of strikes and parries, a grueling test of strength and strategy. Blades clashed with a resounding din, and the crowd held its collective breath as the two combatants engaged in a fierce duel.

It was a battle of attrition, a test of sheer endurance. Despite his exhaustion, the boy from Class A fought valiantly, but Caspian's determination proved unshakable. With a calculated feint and a lightning-fast strike, he disarmed his opponent, sending the weary Class A student crashing to the ground.

The arena fell into stunned silence for a heartbeat before erupting into wild cheers and applause from our fellow Class C students. Caspian stood victorious, his chest heaving with exertion.

The victory was electrifying, a symbol of our unwavering resolve to challenge the oppressive hierarchy that had held us down for so long. The frustration on the faces of Class A was palpable, their dominance shaken. It might have been a small victory, but it sent shockwaves through the academy.

....

"Hey, don't touch me!"

The words, filled with anger, reverberated through the dormitory like a gunshot. The source of the turmoil was unmistakable: a Class A student, his face contorted in rage, had cornered a Class C boy, his fingers curling into fists.

"No, you, don't touch me!"

The retort was equally venomous, the tension in the air thickening as the atmosphere vibrated with hostility.

In a rush of urgency, we sprinted into the heart of the chaos. Our footsteps echoed like war drums, signaling our arrival on the battlefield of words and fists.

There he was, the boy from Class A who had lost a recent fight against Caspian, shoving a Class C student. The conflict had escalated swiftly, and the spark of anger had ignited a powder keg of resentment that had been building for weeks.

Before we could react and prevent the situation, another Class C student, his face a mask of determination, leapt into the fray. His fist connected, as the boy from Class A's jaw made a crunch that reverberated through the dormitory.

"You're gonna get it now!"

The declaration hung in the air, a challenge and a promise of retribution. Amidst the clamor and chaos, boys grappled fiercely, locked in a battle fueled by anger and frustration.

Punches landed with sickening thuds, and the unmistakable sounds of bodies colliding filled the room, drowning out all reason. It was a tumultuous, unyielding battlefield, a culmination of weeks of mounting animosity that had finally erupted.

As more students from both classes joined the fray, the brawl intensified. The dormitory had transformed into a chaotic battleground, and our hearts pounded in our chests as we watched the relentless clash of bodies and egos.

In the dim light, the confrontation unfolded before our eyes like a twisted dance of aggression and defiance. The discord between Class A and Class C had reached a critical breaking point, and it seemed as if nothing could quell the extreme storm that had been unleashed.

But chaos, as they say, often comes at a price.

In the midst of the tumultuous fray, the proctor, drawn by the commotion, emerged like an avenging spirit.

With a sweeping gesture, an eerie, pale glow was cast over the dormitory. The light froze everyone in place, leaving them statues carved from the raw essence of anger and defiance.

Our collective forms stood in suspended animation, a tableau of fury and turmoil captured within the proctor's enchantment. The dormitory, once filled with cacophonous shouts and the clash of bodies, had fallen into an uncanny silence, disrupted only by our frozen breaths.

"What is the meaning of this?" the proctor demanded, his voice sharp and commanding, slicing through the tension like a blade. His gaze, unyielding and stern, swept across the room, leaving no one untouched.

Uh oh.