Throne of Blood and Ash

"Did you hear? Talen was strung up and skewed through by the academy's gates. They say he was skinned alive. I'd bet his booty was frothing hotter than an ebola victim. Lol."

Picking my head up from my paper, marked with an A, I looked through the rows of pitch-black tables stretched from one end of the room to the other, to Mica and Dorlna, situated near the window, covered by a grey linen curtain blocking sunlight, and frowned.

The recent murder had been all anyone had ever spoken of this morning, well into the afternoon. Talen Grove, age sixteen, had been murdered and left to rot over the gates of our academy doors. He was still alive when I saw him, alongside others who wished to be early for class, hanging with a shaft of thick black steel—

I clenched my eyes shut, recalling that accursed scene, burrowing its way into my mind, searing my vision in that scene of burning red. It was sickening. Talen had not died then. He was choking over the metal bars that had entered from the rectum and exited from the mouth. The Gods had placed no mercy on him, as even now, I could hear his agonizing gargles over the iron pipe. The pleading look he held as he tried to beg.

Vlad the Impaler, they called the murderer hours later. But no one seemed to care, not much anyway. School had started as it usually had, while the professors tried to cover it up. Although it's a little too late if you ask me.

Talen Grove had gone viral.

Uncle Zariel had prepared me for many things, but I dare say not this. A sword I could use, a dagger, a spear, even a gun, but killing another. I don't know. That scene made my stomach twist into a knot, almost causing me to lose my breakfast.

A sin if there ever was one. A pox on those anorexic bitches that dare to throw up their meals.

"Girl, you know I heard of it," Mica responded. "He was small though, don't you think? Only two inches." She gestured, measuring his worth with her index finger and thumb. "I thought he would have been bigger. I sorta had a crush on him, you know."

Cheeks burning, I turned away, wishing to hear no more. Mother was right. With all the school shootings being the norm and the endless riots through the years, my generation truly is decentralized. To care more about a man's crotch size than his life was…was ridiculous. Jesus Christ, what the hell is wrong with everyone?

Taking a rise from my seat, drawing a few gazes from a few classmates, I hooked my backpack to my back and approached Professor Ian West, reading through emails during our free period on his laptop. Attracting his attention, he lowered the rim of his notebook.

"Izalith? What can I do for you?" Professor West asked, lifting his sandy brown brow just over the rim of his squared glasses. He took to his feet, standing a bit taller than me, as I was only 5'7(170.18 cm), a bit tall for my sex.

"Does that offer to leave still stand?"

"You made it so far. Are you sure? You know this is an Advanced Placement course." He warned, not that I needed to be reminded, as I knew missing a single day in AP could put me behind for days, sometimes weeks.

My fist tightened into a ball at the raw indifference, at the value of human life. I met with my Professor's stern eyes and broad shoulders. "I understand, but someone just died, Professor. I saw it. I saw his blood pooling, rippling like it were a lake. Surely that has to mean something."

Professor West reached for his glasses, pulled them from his face, and hooked them between his grey vest, resting over his white tunic, tightly bound to his muscular figure. He frowned, "It does. Sure it does. But for how long? Take the day, but I will not slow my lessen." He sternly said, leaning closer as I quickly took a step back—a little intimidated by his presence and gaze that stripped me bare, leaving me cold and exposed as if everyone around me could see me the way he did.

God, I hate talking to people! Why is it so stressful?

Professor West was a military man. One who had seen combat and was awarded many trophies during his time. I had even seen him in a YouTube video of him taking down three-arm gunmen in less than ten seconds. While I'd no doubt, I could do the same, seeing another so fluent in martial arts was amazing, especially on video, where actions seem slower and easily interpreted.

"Then I shall be on my way," I replied, taking my leave under his brooding hazel eye that seemed to follow me as I opened and shut the door leading to the empty hallway. Releasing a strained breath that felt like utter heaven, I glanced back, meeting the Professor's intense eye still watching, studying my every step.

Ducking to the left, away from his watchful eye, I giggled, covering my mouth with one hand to not give away my location. It was strange. Out of everyone I knew, Professor West was the only one who was ever hard on me. Father had been the first to notice during a parent-teacher conference and was, oddly enough, quite pleased his little princess was getting the best treatment. After all, he donated millions to this academy. Albeit unnecessarily, I had been ready for college since I was four.

"Skipping out on class?" A teasing voice said as I made my way around the several corners of this small academy corridor that circled in a box shape with various classrooms lingering near each side of the hallway. I caught sight of Crowe, whose long silver hair mirrored my own, tied in a neat ponytail that trailed to his neck, stopping perfectly at the shoulders.

Crowe's silver eyes hummed amusement over his milky white skin, which carried a hint of a tan he gained from bathing in the sun during the school day. He was tall, standing near his father's height, with broad shoulders but a lean figure. Not muscular like most of the guys tried to be, but lean. Fitting his uniform quite well, not too tight but not too loose. It was perfect.

Although, it was a bit infuriating being near him sometimes.

"Now this is a first," He stated, poking fun, "I wonder what father would think once he finds out his niece is skipping."

"Defeating Uncle is quite easy," I mused, narrowing my eyes towards my cousin, whose arms wrapped around my shoulders. "I'll just tell Aunty Aurelia what happened, and all the hugs and kisses will come my way."

Crowe chuckled, leaning in. He patted my head as his tone got lower, "You OK? I heard about what happened."

"I am."

One brow rose. "Oh really."

"Really," I insisted, not willing to lift my head. Crowe was a monster when it came to understanding people, something he definitely didn't get from his father. He could pick up on sensations better than a dog. A trait I admired. Truly, all I was good at was, well, that isn't important.

"I'm just—"

"Izalith Snow," Crowe calmly cut in, pinching my cheeks with a bright smile, "You know if your father sees you like this, he will blow up. Come hang with your big bro."

I glared at this dummy, bullying me for the nth time. And my knee shot up, but Crowe was quick, pivoting off the heel of his feet. He twirled, dodging the strike to his jewels as I gripped my cheeks, stinging with pain.

My lips pursed, "I'm going home."

"Nonsense," Crowe uttered, easing onto my shoulder again, his grin revealing a dimple on the left side of his cheek that deepened the longer he leaned onto me. "Come on, spend a day with me. We haven't sparred in weeks, and it appears something is about to happen?"

"Are you a believer now?" I teased, forgetting Crowe's innate ability for a minute that allows him to understand people and, in ways, perceive the weather or if something terrible was going to happen. Mother and father, even Uncle Zariel and Aunty Aurelia had formed this, well, cult. This sick fantasy of this endless tale held within what they called the Exalted Wheel Or Myriad Heavens.

Maybe as a child, I believed them, but now? What Monarch of Darkness, what Order of Chaos? They were merely childish tales that grew stale with time. I was no longer a child but fifteen years of age, same for Crowe. Whose academics rivaled my own.

There was no such thing as magic.

Our combined IQ was so high that creating a mechanical suit of armor capable of flight and space travel was as simple as sending it to the military or some random tech company. We had already completed the blueprints at age ten.

Crowe's grip around my shoulder tightened, "Little Sis, I'm not joking. When was the last time you checked your phone? We have been summoned."

"Summoned? Tsk, always with the theatrics. This is undoubtedly Father's doing." I remarked, making our way down the stairs into the main hallway.

We, or should I say I, received a few odd stares from the police guards, whose hands remained cuffed over their hoisters. Ready to draw at a moment's notice.

I hated when they did that. I had never committed a crime, not once.... ok, fine, maybe a few times under the direction of my father, but in all truth, I was an innocent citizen. Then again, someone did just die. I guess it makes sense.

"Keep your hands to yourself," one of them said, noticing Crowes' overly affectionate arm wrapped around my shoulder.

Crowe and I both ignored these officers. The school day had ended, at least for us, it did.

And honestly, it was foolish of them to try to stop us due to our unique silver hair that ran in the family. Everyone knew of us. We were small-time celebrities. Well, at least Crowe was. I liked to keep to myself, while Crowe sought crowds and women.

I swore if we swapped fathers, no one would know. My Father, Arsene Snow, would be a perfect match for Crowe Morningstar and vice via as I held so many qualities of my Uncle Zariel.

"Let's take the back way," He said, more serious than before, which had me curious. I pulled out my phone to see seven missed calls and two texts. My gaze lifted to Crowe's handsome one. The worry over his expression was utterly unmissable.

Skimming through text, a strenuous sigh over this tiring day pressed on my shoulders more so than Crowe's heavy arms.

"This day cannot get worse, can it?"