By Arforenthia

2 - Niels

"Cyra Aztern..." I mutter, yawning because this is the last thing I want to be doing at seven a.m. on a Friday morning. But, I don't really have a choice. "Does anyone know Cyra Aztern?"

No one in the hallway pays me any heed beyond a confused glance. No help there. I keep my amiable smile fixed on my face and move to the door of Homeroom 209. "Yo, anyone in here named Cyra Aztern?"

No reaction. Most of the class is studying for the World History quiz, while a few are scrolling through Instagram, or smiling softly at other things on their phones. Two boys at the back of the class toss a metal (metal?) water bottle back and forth; more incentive not to drop it, maybe. Mr. Sent has written a long, complicated equation on the board that one or two students are solving while he reads a thick horror novel. The Geometry homeroom is so much quieter than the others that I've visited, and my voice suddenly seems incredibly, embarrassingly loud.

Mr. Sent glances up. "Good morning, Niels."

"Uh, good morning, Mr. Sent."

"You're looking for Cyra? Let's see..." He pushes his glasses up on his nose and scans the room. "It doesn't look like she's here right now. She might be in the library, however."

"Thank you," I say, but my eye catches on the small girl, sitting with her back flush against a bookshelf, who just barely slumps forward in relief. Upon closer look, she's completely blocked from Mr. Sent's view by a desk. I'm somewhat suspicious.

"Hey," I call, striding over to her. "Do you know Cyra Aztern?"

She makes a threatening noise, low in her throat. "It's. Astern. Honestly, it's not even that hard to pronounce!"

My pulse spikes. "You are Cyra Astern?"

She - Cyra - stands up. "So?" she asks archly.

As she rises from her protective position, I feel my face reflexively contort and I gulp. Stop, I beg my mind as it begins to spiral into a darker place. Not right now, please. I breathe a little harder than usual, but not enough to be noticeable. My features smooth themselves. The only way anyone would know something was wrong is if they could hear my racing, skipping heartbeat.

Cyra is a faun. Sort of a pretty one, despite the gnarly cut on the bridge of her nose, but a faun nonetheless.

Instead of letting my head take a stroll through the past year, I refocus on the girl, memorizing her features in case she bolts, which she looks like she wants to do. Her build is small, maybe five feet tall, and she's very lean. A dark coat speckled with a few dark spots. Angular, almost catlike features and a somehow soft, curved face. Almost-black hair is braided back and her glimmering eyes are so dark they're like holes in space. The way they draw me in, enchanted, is uncanny and I don't like it.

"You're Cyra Astern," I say, barely even asking.

"She looks at me like I've just asked if purple tentacled aliens had invaded the earth. "Uh, yep? Didn't we already clarify this?"

My hands come up to cover my face, too shocked to stop the flow of anxiety. This is bad. "You've got to be kidding me," I moan. "There has to be some kind of mistake... there's no way I was paired with a faun."

I almost forgot Cyra could hear my words, which she would most certainly take the wrong way. Her expression grows increasingly sour as my stress levels skyrocket.

"What's the problem?" she hisses. If she had looked guarded before, now she looks downright murderous. "Allergic to fur?"

"No, it's just... never mind." I've never talked about my aversion to fauns before, and I don't plan to open up now, especially to an ice-cold faun who would never understand. Her eye bags may be as dark as mine, her ghostly skin giving off Edward-Cullen-agony vibes, but she's always been on the opposite end of the spectrum, whether she knows it or not.