Mihca was restless. Her knuckles went white as she gritted the irritation beside her. Malrow had not spoken to her since the addition of the royals to their classes. They should have celebrated for the one chance of contacting the nobles. But what disturbed the young apprentice the most was not her friend’s cold shoulder but his untold story of the secret meetup. She was contemplating her companion’s probable excuse when she’d heard the princess’ chipper of joy.

“Mistress Clanadrin and… Mage Monterpalagious, you are here!” the princess was basically fluttering like a chick.

She has met them apparently, Mihca considered. The Scholar must have been her teacher, but the mage, why would she know the mage? The princess did not attend any eth lessons.

“Yes, student, we are. After all, the Masters of Lore and Civics must meet their new apprentices,” the Scholar replied, her tone jocular. The Mistress was too informal with the noble.

Then Mihca observed her same reaction with the prince. Her brother must have not known the bond when he had straightened his back vividly. The prince however did not comment from the interaction.

“What is civics?” Mihca heard the princess asked. It was their sitting arrangement that her silent friend had made both of them agreed. Apart of the principal’s office was the apprentice corner of bookshelves, tables, and blackboards. And Malrow and Mihca had decided that they should sit at the farthest end of the two front tables, four armlengths away from the royals. They could not bare to confront the royal guards whom stood protecting the backs of the princess and prince.

“That is a good question to ask for our first introduction,” the Scholar replied. “I would have requested essays from all of you had I not decided to work with the Master of Lore. Mage?” she turned to her aide who positively replied, “And I had would ask the same manner if I have declined.”

It even shocked Mihca, herself, to have inquired, “Then does this mean you are to conduct class at the same time?” The design would have been absurd had the two teachers did not nod optimistically. Now, it looked like Mihca was the insane one.

“You are from Vesta, correct?” The Scholar asked, her expression a flat smile.

“Yes, Mistress.”

“Of what house?” and Mihca almost stammered had she not practiced her courtly manner since she was a child.

“Liege house Faraforn of Fermerin, Mistress. Eight and youngest sire of Lord Faraforn.” Mihca held her head high with pride.

“Ah. Forgive me if I did not reflect on your parentage. I am also surprised that Chustern follows an old belief of eight children still to bring them good fortune. Lore Master, what is your take on this?”

And the Mage smirked, which lit a small flame in Mihca. She did not like these teachers at all. “It would sound unbelievable, Civics Master had Hailaga stopped following such rule.”

“Oh. They do?”

“Funny but true…”

Like a candle fire being easily blown away, the Lore Master’s demeanor changed when he stared at them. Mihca even thought the Mage had heard her mind sinking into curses when she realized who’s his eyebrows were furrowing at. When she made a glance towards Marlow, he was gritting his teeth again.

He was making Mihca cower with his behavior. If he were to pounce, the guards would not hesitate to deliver both of them to the deeper dungeons of Tron. The Mage was fanning Malrow’s flames when he asked haughtily, “and who might you be?”

Mihca could not fantom how a teacher, a Mage even, to act so appalling towards a student, much more so to an ethless. It was thanks to the Scholar when she tried to save the Mage’s own face. She had put a hand to his arm when she pawed, “he is of an adopted son of the head of the Skiethalon Guild.”

Mihca was able to clutch herself from recoiling when the Mage responded, “Skiethalon? Do you mean Sky Talon?”

“Sky Talon?” the Scholar was confused.

“Skiethalon in accented Etharini and is articulated as sky talon. In Gahades, they are understood as—”

“-heaven warrior!” perked the princess abruptly.

All their faces now turned to the little girl in her gold gilded student uniform. Mihca heard Malrow whispered, “how…” when the Mage was caught of inquiring such information. “Correct,” he said, curiosity now masking his face.

“Will you share the information, student Chonerin Alvedaima?” added the Scholar.

“Well…” the princess had lost her glimmer when most of them were now captivated by the small child, barely a waist high, but encouraged by her elders still. The princess must have not gotten used to responding to a crowd when she stuttered, “I, I… I read in the Literatures of Scholars. The… the author, Scholar Erostoniel said that his life was saved from falling of one cliff… when a war maiden, riding a winged giant cat…?”

“A lion,” the Mage supported.

“A winged lion. Yes. Then after being saved, the Scholar had offered compensation only that the maiden, who saved him asked to be her lion’s husband.” The princess reddened before continuing, “but… the Scholar said he was already married. So… he then extended if she and her ride were to be written instead. So that he may remember them as saviors of his life, that he may see his wife again. She was named Skiethalon by Terras Sewi, Lord Tron’s sister. And… and the Scholar remembered her as heaven warrior because she wore armor and flew the skies.”

After the short story, the princess immediately bowed and had returned to her sit. The tenacity of the girl did only delay the sheer skepticism from the Mage however, when he returned to Mihca and Marlow’s probing. His perfect Thravbon was seething with malice.

“Since we now know of your guild’s origin. I would like to ask your Trade Masters’ acquaintance to the Sky Talons of the Dahiries Empire. Much like our Tron guards here, the heaven warriors were there’s.”