Like every other high school, the students of Ravenwood Academy know nothing more beyond the world of their own teenage lives -- a world of classes to pass, social reputations to live up to, and dirty little secrets to keep.
But when strange dangero...
Sanctuarium, The Other World The Fifteenth Day of the Month Dech-Dáu, 21 Years Ago
Ichabod looked up from his letter, words etched in ink, several sheets of parchment scattered about the ligneous desk. He transferred his glance to the window before him, looking out at the sky that had grown dim and purple in the twilight, then to the candle on the desk, then to the little flame that burned on.
Ichabod sighed. He dipped the quill nib into a pool of ink in a small ornate jar, and turned his sights back to the page he had been writing on. Yet nothing came after that—no scribble, no scratch against the parchment. It seemed there was nothing more to write.
He let out another sigh, and the nib touched the parchment once again, and Ichabod wrote,
In utmost sincerity and truth,
Someone knocked on the door—once, twice, thrice. Ichabod looked back in time to see the door swing open, and in sauntered the Druid, one of the Soleilian priests, two guards, and a boy—tall and filthy and perhaps a few years younger than he was.
"This will be your quarters," announced the Soleilian priest, in a manner that warranted no further question.
"Which you will be sharing with Ichabod here," added the Druid, an arm stretched out in Ichabod's direction.
Ichabod simply nodded, masking his discomfort, acknowledging their presence.
"But first," said the Soleilian priest, placing a hand on the boy's shoulder, "you must wash up, Your Highness. A meal would be ready for you after. The journey has been long. You must eat, and rest."
The boy nodded in understanding, as they turned back to face the door. "Thank you," he said, his voice a smooth tenor. (As boyish as he looked, Ichabod thought.) "I appreciate your hospitality, immensely."
And with that, the men and the boy walked back out of the room, leaving Ichabod alone in the fading daylight. Alone with his letter scattered about the desk. Alone with questions floating about his headspace.
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Ichabod closed the door behind them. They had just come back from supper, had just walked out of the dining hall and through the corridors without saying a word to one another. And for a moment, he and the boy stood still in the silence of their shared room. Then—
"Your name is Ichabod, if I am not mistaken?"
"Yes."
"I have not given you a proper introduction." The boy smiled a gentle smile, an attempt to ease the tense air that surrounded them. "I am Victor, sole heir to the Soleilian throne."
"Soleilian?"
"Yes, I am Soleilian," said Victor, still smiling, still trying to make things less uncomfortable.
