Authority Of The Dead Man

"I..." El Ritch hesitated, his voice catching as he weighed his words. Finally, he spoke, "...I am not the witch's son. She is my teacher. I am... Aldric's son." 

The reaction was immediate. Their eyes widened as though ready to pop from their sockets. "The Aldric Parker?! 'The Hunter' of the Anvil group?!" the skinny boy exclaimed, his voice pitching high with disbelief. 

El Ritch could only nod, the weight of their excitement pressing down on him. 

The tall man—the instructor, El Ritch guessed—arrived at the scene, his towering frame casting a shadow over the group. He paused at the edge of the conversation, his brow furrowing as he corrected himself mid-sentence. "Then you are not one of us, are you?" 

El Ritch shook his head slowly, looking down at the broken sword in his hands. "I am sorry, sir—" 

But the instructor interrupted him sharply, his voice cutting through the tension like a blade. "What are you apologizing for? You think, we think it is a crime to mingle with us?" 

El Ritch's head snapped up, his heart pounding. "No, sir," he said quickly, shaking his head again. 

The instructor pressed on, his voice rising with intensity. "Then do you think we hold ourselves apart because we are better? That we mix with no other because we deem them inferior? Hmm?!" 

"No, sir, I—" El Ritch stammered, the words catching in his throat. He felt the pressure of the stares around him, his chest tightening as shame and confusion warred within him. He wanted to explain, to say something—anything—but the instructor's gaze pinned him down. 

Before he could crumble, the bulkier boy stepped in. "Sir," he interrupted, his tone light but firm enough to halt the instructor's advance, "do you know who we got our bullying attitude from?" 

The instructor froze, his gaze shifting to the bulkier boy, who stood with his arms crossed. A silence passed, heavy but brief, before the instructor barked, "Hands out. Now." 

The bulkier boy groaned, muttering under his breath, but complied, holding his hands out in front of him. 

The instructor ignored him, instead reaching out to pat El Ritch on the head, his large hand ruffling the boy's hair with a gentleness that caught him off guard. "You've inherited your parents' skills, but not their attitude," the instructor said, his voice softening into something almost warm. "Good." 

El Ritch blinked, unsure of what to make of the remark. The praise felt strange, unexpected, but he didn't dare question it. 

The instructor turned to the training ground, his voice booming again as he addressed the rest of the students. "Come down, all of you. Yes, you too, El Ritch!" 

The students exchanged curious glances, some shrugging as they began to move toward the center of the training grounds. El Ritch hesitated, clutching the broken sword tightly in his hand before following, his steps small.

El Ritch slid down from the raised platform to join the group, settling beside the chubby boy. The skinny and bulky boys sat behind him, their bickering carrying on unabated. The murmured insults and playful jabs they traded were low enough not to draw attention but persistent enough to spark the occasional chuckle. 

"Begin duels again," the instructor, Sir Gown, announced, clapping his hands together. His booming voice silenced the chatter. "El Ritch will enjoy it, I presume." 

But before the students could rise, a voice cut through the air, soft yet commanding. "Not so fast." 

All heads turned as the principal, Lady Triva, appeared from seemingly nowhere. Her small frame was swathed in a modest gray cloak, her presence quiet but impossible to ignore. 

"Lady Triva!" Sir Gown exclaimed, immediately lowering his head in respect. "Madam Principal." 

The students scrambled to their feet, bowing slightly, though their movements were less precise than those of their instructor. El Ritch quickly mimicked them, unsure if he was doing it correctly. 

Lady Triva's sharp gaze swept over the gathering before settling on Sir Gown. "I see you've been taking good care of them, Sir Gown," she croaked, her gruff voice betraying her age. 

"You've taught me well, Madam Principal," he replied, his voice reverent. 

Her brows arched faintly as she clasped her hands behind her back. "Have I? Funny—I don't remember teaching you bullying and harassment." 

Sir Gown flinched, his composure faltering under her pointed stare. The students exchanged nervous glances, their earlier bravado evaporating. 

Lady Triva gestured for them to sit, her movements unhurried but firm. "A little bullying is good," Sir Gown muttered defensively, though his voice lacked conviction.

"We do not eat too many grapes, do we now?" The principal tilted her head, her expression unreadable. "Do we?" she asked, her tone deceptively light. 

Sir Gown shook his head immediately, his towering frame stiff as a tree under her gaze. 

"Good, good," she said, patting him on his lower back—the highest point her small stature could reach. Then, turning to El Ritch, her expression softened ever so slightly. "Now, I think we have an important interview, Mr. El Ritch." 

"Yes!" El Ritch exclaimed, springing to his feet with almost too much enthusiasm. He climbed down from the platform and hurried toward her, his heart pounding with a mix of excitement and apprehension. 

Lady Triva nodded approvingly and turned to Sir Gown. "Continue with your class," she commanded, her voice no louder than before but brimming with authority. 

Sir Gown bowed slightly, his broad shoulders lowering in acknowledgment. "Yes, Madam Principal." 

Without another word, Lady Triva gestured for El Ritch to follow her. He obeyed, trailing her small steps as she led him back toward the quiet corridors of her office. Behind him, the students resumed their duels, the clatter of wooden swords echoing faintly as he disappeared from view. 

They returned to the principal's office, the familiar scent of old parchment and lantern oil greeting them as El Ritch stood before the desk. Lady Triva settled into her chair with a faint sigh, her small frame seeming to sink into the large seat. She shuffled a stack of parchments absently before finally speaking.

"Now, dear, I must admit something," she began, her voice tinged with weariness. "I'm getting old, my apologies. The interview was already over, and I had forgotten to call you in."

El Ritch blinked in surprise, caught off guard. "It's alright, Madam Principal," he replied quickly. "I was enjoying the duels."

"Were you now?" Triva asked absentmindedly, her focus shifting to the parchments she was sifting through. Her tone suggested the question was rhetorical, yet her eyes flicked to him briefly as if gauging his sincerity.

"I have come to know that you were under the teaching of the witch," she continued, pausing to look up at him.

El Ritch nodded hesitantly, and she resumed her search through the documents.

"Then I assume she prepared you for the questions that would have been asked here?"

"No," El Ritch admitted, clearing his throat. "They just sent me here and told me to figure it out myself. Although, she did teach me the basics of herbs and plants, crafting, and some fruits. I was also supposed to learn some witchcraft, but… she didn't get the chance, I guess."

Triva paused, her eyes lingering on him as a faint snicker escaped her. She raised a hand to her mouth, an attempt to stifle the laugh. "Apologies," she said, her voice soft. "I was just reminded of her... personality. She hasn't changed one bit."

"You… know Master?" El Ritch asked, his curiosity evident.

"Yes, I'm afraid so," Triva replied, her tone warm with a touch of nostalgia. "Quite closely, too. I'd be very much interested in telling you tales of her, but right now, let's keep things professional."

El Ritch nodded.

The principal began asking him questions about the subjects he'd mentioned learning. El Ritch answered to the best of his ability, passing with fair results. However, when it came to combat or battle knowledge, he had none to offer—no pre-training, no experience.

"Well," Triva finally said, her tone shifting as she dipped her quill into an ink pot, writing steadily on a parchment. "Since your results leave you with a fifty-fifty chance of passing, we'll give you a trial. You have a week."

She paused, then corrected herself. "Not a week—exactly ten days, actually." Her quill scratched across the parchment as she spoke. "I can only do so much for you, El Ritch. There will be a tournament for joining the junior ranks of the academy. You can participate in it with my recommendation."

She lifted the parchment she had been writing on, its edges curling faintly. "This letter is your way in."

"But—but how will I learn?!" El Ritch exclaimed, panic creeping into his voice. "I don't have a teacher—"

Triva interjected swiftly, her tone carrying a sly undertone. "You do have a teacher. Think, child. Who brought you here?"

El Ritch's mind spun. Julian?! The name screamed in his head, his face twisting in confusion as he tried to make sense of it.

"Don't worry," Triva said, a knowing grin curling her lips. "I'll summon him. That much authority I do have, being the principal here—and the second oldest." She chuckled softly, the sound like a whisper of leaves brushing stone.

Julian arrived nearly an hour later, his usual air of casual confidence undiminished. He entered the principal's room with his hands rubbing together, trying to ward off the chill, and slumped into the chair across from El Ritch.

"On your first day, and you're already called into the principal's office?" Julian teased, shaking his head theatrically. "The witch won't be very happy to hear about this, you know."

El Ritch squirmed in his seat, unsure of how to respond, but before he could, the principal interjected sharply.

"Enough joking with the boy," Triva said, her voice stern as her piercing gaze landed on Julian.

"Alright, alright," Julian said, raising his hands in mock surrender, though his smirk didn't fade.

She wasn't having it. "The witch is, well… a witch," she said, her tone dry but biting. "But you? You didn't bother to explain anything to the poor child? Really?"

Julian shrugged, leaning back in his chair. "I mean, what's so complicated about learning to be a Hunter—"

"Do not get clever with me, Chief!" Triva snapped, her voice cutting through his excuse like a whip. Her expression turned serious as she thrust a parchment toward him. "Ten days. You have ten days to teach the boy everything he needs to know."

Julian sighed heavily, taking the parchment with exaggerated reluctance. "Yes, Triva, yes," he muttered, his tone playfully begrudging.

El Ritch's eyes widened slightly at the exchange. The principal commanded so much respect—and fear—from everyone, yet Julian addressed her with such casual familiarity. It left El Ritch with one pressing question he didn't dare voice aloud: Just how old is Julian, really?

Julian stood and glanced at El Ritch, giving him a shrug and a lopsided grin. "Well, kid. Let's get moving, shall we? Your ten days start today, after all."

El Ritch nodded eagerly and stood up. Turning back toward the principal, he bowed deeply. "Thank you, Madam Principal," he said earnestly before following Julian out of the room.