Chapter 2: Chapter 2: Cold Guard Trouble

Syril wanted to fade away; nothing would please him more than to disappear into a lifeless void of inky blackness, never to be seen again. But simply vanishing into thin air was outside his current skill set; instead, he was trapped on the cold tiled floor of the Academy's hallway, just meters from the classroom, under the strictest instructions not to move. His once pristine white shirt was stained in a mix of blood and sweat; the source of the blood was a mystery to Syril; he wasn't injured and had never touched Seabright's body. He gently placed his hand into his pocket, subtly examining the gold watch stored there; it was warm to the touch, almost hot; he had an overwhelming urge to pull it out, study it, figure out what the hell it was and why Seabright was so desperate to keep it away from his brother. Still, a nagging voice in the back of his mind was telling him to keep it hidden.

Everything felt wrong, as if he was at the bottom of a dark ocean, the people around him just shapeless figures that moved with no purpose or reason. The sounds of the world around him, chatter, and grief blended into a smothering yet dreary hum. Tears filled his eyes, and he buried his head into a perch on his knees. He wanted to cry, but no tears came, his body was drained, and exhaustion tingled every cell of his body.

He gripped the watch so tight it began to hurt, a part of him hoped it would take away his grief, but it just served as a bleak reminder of the night's events.

Blinking away the heartache, he looked around the hallway; the guard that had escorted him out of the classroom stood still at the door; the detectives who'd instructed him to remain seated had vanished. Instead, faculty and students were gathered at the end of the hallway, held back from the classroom by an unseen wall the guard had erected an hour prior.

Syril made a point to avoid eye contact with the crowd; he couldn't stomach their hushed whispers and condemning looks; He knew they suspected he'd killed the professor; Syril had heard the quiet chatter after leaving the classroom. Little did anyone know how close they would be to the truth.

Not for the first time that evening, Syril tried to replay the meeting with his brother; he tried to remember every detail, every word; he knew there must have been a clue – some reason as to why.

Why Seabright now lay cold on the floor of the Worlds History classroom,

why Davion killed him,

and why this godsdamn watch was now in his pocket.

But it was no use; his brain was hijacked, and any memory was replaced by the last waves of panic that Seabright experienced. Or maybe it was his own panic? He wasn't sure; every time he tried to reason the night's events, to apply an inkling of logic to anything that had happened, he found the answer slipping further and further away; like a piece of paper on the wind, it always seemed to be out of reach.

Syril's fingers brushed his stomach; the dagger's sting and death's chill plagued the back of his mind. He felt the shadow of the blade pierce through his flesh again, his breath quickened, and his body shook; the room was spinning faster and faster; he opened his mouth, his body was drowning on dry land, and he was desperate to gulp in the air around him, but nothing was satiating his lungs. He was breathing faster now, the blood rushing to his head pounded like a drum of war, his vision now grey and uneasy, and above it all, the watch ticked its melody.

Tik

Tok

Tik…

A gentle hand gripped his shoulder, and just as suddenly as it had started, his panic ceased; the watch went quiet, and an overwhelming calmness enveloped him. Syril turned to find the spectacled brown eyes of his uncle, dressed in a neatly ironed brown tweed suit with a pink undershirt.

He met Syril's gaze with a thin smile before gently placing his briefcase against the wall and sliding down to sit beside him; silently putting his arm around Syril's shoulder and pulling him in for a hug.

"Are you ok?" his uncle muttered, still not releasing him from the awkward embrace.

He wasn't; his world had just crumbled before him; his brother had killed someone, and Syril had received the ultimate first-hand perspective of everything.

"I'm fine, just a little shaken, you know?" Syril lied, his mouth dry and throat hoarse, "I just want to get home."

His uncle stared at him, his eyes curious, a deep frown etched into his aged face, "When was the last time you had water? Why didn't you call me?"

Syril shook his head; truth be told, he wasn't sure how much time had passed from the murder until now, but he was confident that his flask had emptied long before sunset, "I don't know, and they told me they'd give you a call, my phone was confiscated."

His uncle raised his eyebrows, "Why did they take your phone?"

Syril blinked, confused, "I think…um."

He stammered over his words; he couldn't think of any way of saying, "I'm a suspect in the professor's murder…" without causing his uncle to burst a blood vessel.

"They think I did it."

His uncle blinked, "they…" his face contorted from confusion to anger and then back to confusion; he took a breath and closed his eyes, "they think you killed Seabright?" His voice was deliberately calm and measured, yet there were unmistakable nervous undertones.

Syril nodded; angry tears stung his eyes again; he should have expected this reaction; it makes sense; his uncle was a man of pride and impartiality, no small part because of his position within the government. So, of course, he'd find this situation suspicious; who wouldn't; Syril was the obvious suspect.

"Well, did you?"

"Did I kill him?" Syril asked, confused by the question.

His uncle looked bewildered, his eyes wide again, but his face flush with frustration, "No. Did you invite him to dinner?" The thick sarcasm was unmistakable. Syril was shocked; he hadn't expected such a direct question, albeit he wasn't sure what he had expected.

"No, of course, I didn't!"

His uncle sighed, relief washing over his face, "and you don't know who did?"

Crap.

He didn't know how to broach this subject; he wanted to tell his uncle everything – to remove the burden now dumped on his shoulders. He wanted help; no, he needed help; he needed someone on his side to understand what had happened. But a voice deep within him was shouting, screaming for him to hold this secret close to his chest.

"No, I don't," he mustered all the confidence he had left within him, hoping the slight tremor in his voice went unnoticed.

His uncle continued to stare; his eyes cut into Syril like a surgeon's scalpel. Syril stared back, determined to not back down, to prove beyond a shadow of a doubt that he was innocent. As he stared beyond the spectacles and into the eyes of the man who had raised him, he began to feel calmer; sore muscles relaxed, and his stress seemed to wash away like dirt in the rain. Warmness passed through his extremities, and the crowd's voices vanished into mere whispers on the wind; he felt weightless as if he was floating through all his problems. In the back of his mind, a compelling impulse, to tell the truth was nagging at him, pulling at his will like a loose thread.

"Are you absolutely sure?" the voice felt like an invitation. Syril's mouth opened, and the words sat on his tongue, itching to be told.

Tik

Tok…

There it was again, that stupid watch. The beating of its gears once again flooded Syril's senses. It pierced through his drowsiness and wrenched him from his daze. He blinked again and felt each of his senses sharpen, the weightless feeling evaporated, and the full extent of the evening bore down on him like a collapsed building.

"I'm positive," he spoke with a newfound determination; he needed his uncle to believe the lie, at least for now.

His uncle studied him for a moment, his face emotionless; Syril wondered what was running through his head. His uncle had worked in foreign affairs for half his life, to the point where he lived and breathed diplomacy. So try as he might, getting a sense of what he was thinking was like reading a book that wouldn't open.

His uncle pushed his spectacles up his large nose, "Right," he stood up, removing his coat and tossing it into Syrils lap, "hold this for me, would you."

Syril opened his mouth to ask politely what in the name of Vaanier he was doing, but his uncle had already stormed down the hallway toward the lone city guardsman positioned at the classroom door. The guard stared unblinkingly ahead, clad in a grey bodysuit that clung to his lean figure like a second skin; the emblem on the right breast pocket displayed a white rose encircling a sword; evidently, he was a member of the urban combat unit.

He was bald, his eyes bleached white, with no colour or pupil visible. His head was tattooed in ornate symbols; no skin was left exposed; each character was as intricate as the last; Syril would have thought they were beautiful if he had not known their power. They were covered head to toe in combat Runes, emblems of stored magic that granted the wearer battle advantages. Syril didn't know what each rune did; that knowledge was forbidden from being taught; only those who trained and specialised in Runic architecture had the authority to hone that expertise.

"Excuse me, but what kind of circus are you running here?", His uncle said, walking towards the stationed guard, his voice trembling with anger. The sense of rage and authority that rolled off his uncle was stifling; it was a feeling that Syril, unfortunately, had experienced many times when growing up.

The guard initially made no response as his uncle stormed up the hallway, but the unnaturally blank face creased in annoyance as he stopped mere inches from the guard.

"My nephew has been sitting on the floor for Gods knows how long. He's hurt, not to mention traumatised. Why hasn't an apothecary seen him?" he puffed his chest, jabbing a finger into the guard's chest, "you and I both know that you can't hold a student without represent-"

His words were cut short when the guard closed the little distance between the two. He drew a black stick from his belt, his voice deep and steady, "Sit Down and wait, or I'll make you myself."

His uncle laughed, "Son, you don't scare me. I've dealt with bigger and tougher men than you, so don't threaten me."

The guard held up his hands, widening his eyes and shaking his head, "oh sir, I wasn't threatening you. I was just making a suggestion."

His uncle's face was unreadable; to the untrained observer, it would have appeared calm – but Syril knew the fury hidden behind his eyes very well.

"Well, let me make a suggestion to you, boy." His voice now edged with anger, "put your little stick away, turn around and say nothing while my nephew and I walk through those doors there," he jutted his towards the doors at the end of the hallway, "and we will come straight to your offices tomorrow morning to discuss this matter further."

"Are you threatening me, half-breed?"

His uncle raised his hands to the sky, his face plastered with mock excitement. "Halleluiah, they do have brains!"

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The guard was shaking with anger; the sleek black stick was now glowing an electric blue. Its light was becoming brighter with the passing seconds, arcs of electricity danced in the air around the weapon, and a faint hissing echoed through the hallway. Syril felt his stomach drop. His uncle was about to die.

"I know your type," His uncle spoke, his face once again impassive, "better than you may ever know. You think you can bully those you deem beneath you because you have some power." His uncle stepped away, turning his back on the guard and continuing down the hallway, "you're rash, stupid, and short-sighted."

"But I also know you have no authority to hold a student on campus grounds without parental or legal representation. So, in saying that, I'm going to take my nephew, I will walk out that door, and you will not stop me."

The guard laughed; the arcing electricity was now blinding, "Half-breed sit down."

Syril was now sweating; he was sure they weren't making it out of this hallway, let alone the school; nonetheless, he stood and went to follow his uncle down the hallway, but he found his legs uneasy. After sitting for so long, his legs had numbed to a point where it was a struggle to keep them steady. After catching himself on the wall and shaking out the numbness, he ran to follow his uncle down the hallway.

The same cold voice echoed through the hallway, "I said sit down."

His uncle didn't break stride, "And I said I'm going home; we will see you all tomorrow."

It took everything Syril had to follow his uncle down the hallway; he trusted him beyond words but the hidden fury his uncle was holding terrified him. He'd experienced his uncle's rage a few too many times in his childhood, but never to this extent – this was something else. The quiet anger that rolled off his uncle tugged at the air around him; it was like walking through hot oil, his eyes stung, and he felt his chest tighten into a constrictive wheeze.

They were now mere meters from the door; maybe they'd be able to leave safe and unscathed; they could perhaps work out how to get out of this mess.

The guard roared down the hallway, "I'm warning you!"

His uncle turned so fast that Syril nearly ran into him, his face was red with rage, and his eyes burned with a fury so intense it almost burned the air around him, "you will be forced to what? Kill me? Hurt me? I don't care who you are; I don't care how tough you may think you are. You have no authority here; you're a glorified dog."

The guard moved so quickly that Syril didn't see the light beam until it collided in front of him; its brilliant light exploded into a series of blue sparks that lit the entire hallway. A crackle of electricity hung in the air, blue specks of light were falling around him like snow in the winter, and at the classroom door, the guard lowered the weapon, the end now smouldering, faint specs of electricity danced in the air around it.

Syril panicked, turning towards his uncle, mentally preparing to find his uncle charred beyond recognition.

But his uncle was unharmed; his tweed suit was as unwrinkled as it was when he arrived; he stared blankly at the guard, "You missed."

Syril went to push his uncle down the hallway and through the double door. He needed to get out of the school before that thing had enough time to charge up again; he was sure they wouldn't get lucky again. But a calm voice sang from the classroom; the guard snapped to attention, holstering his weapon.

"Jerard, you should know as well as anyone that guards don't miss."

Syril, who was still on a very intense rollercoaster of emotions, half-thought – half expected to have imagined the voice, another stop on the crazy train of Syril. But as he looked towards his uncle – whose gaze moments ago was intense enough to burn air – he was shocked to find him white with fear, his eyes wide and mouth open.

The voices origin stepped out from within the classroom; she was short but stocky, wearing a pair of blue jeans and a black singlet covered by a golden chest plate ordained with the carvings of a burning tree. What skin was visible was covered in layers of old and whitened scars. Her brown hair was neatly tied into a bun, and a long scar ran from her right eyebrow to her lower lip. Syril was sure that out of everyone here, she was the one in charge.

She smiled at the duo, "How long has it been, sweetie?"

He turned to his paralysed uncle, hoping for any explanation, but in a whisper, only Syril could hear, his uncle croaked, "Vanessa."

"Jerard." She walked towards them; with each step echoing, Syril felt his pulse quicken; that distant voice was screaming at him again, "and is this the boy I've heard lots about? Where's the second one?"

His uncle's mouth again opened and closed, "he's um… well, he's, you know-"

"He was sent to the Wigston mines; he's in the scouting regiment," Syril interjected, sure he now needed to rescue his uncle from whatever ailment now plagued him.

"Oh, he does speak! Well, how wonderful for me," Vanessa's eyes were wide with excitement; she smiled maliciously, her lined face contorting with the effort, "so why don't you tell me what happened? Please spare no detail; we need to know what or who you saw."

The smile was unwavering; she reminded Syril of a predator moments before catching its prey, focused yet gleefully excited for the meal to come. He shuddered; he was sure she knew more than she was letting on, but again, he knew the truth should remain buried for now, especially from her.

"Why can't you just check the cameras?" his uncle asked, seemingly awakening from his shock-induced stupor.

"We aren't morons, Jerard, we checked that…" she paused, looking at the guard, "You did check that, right?"

Syril held his breath; he forgot about cameras.

"Yes, we did, ma'am, someone turned them off" the guard stared at Syril, his anger barely contained within the farce of civility.

"So, someone turned them off."

Despite being a very pointed statement, he didn't want to take the bait; she was goading him, trying to make him angry – but it was working. He was angry; they thought he did it. He knew they wouldn't understand; they couldn't; what had happened reached from beyond impossible to crazy. Righteous fury rose like a kettle on the verge of boiling; they needed to apply any amount of common sense to this situation. He was a five-foot-eleven kid who hadn't even reached selection age yet; Seabright was a godsdamn half-orc who'd fought in wars older than the city itself; how the hell could he even hurt him, let alone kill him?

He gripped the watch in his pocket; anger rushed through him like an uncontrollable river; the dam containing the white-hot fury was close to crumbling. 

Tik

Tok

Again, the watch exploded through his mind like a starving animal, its mechanical choir deafening the world around him. It became a lightning rod for his anger; he squeezed it tighter and tighter, feeling the fear and anguish that had plagued him over the last few hours grow more potent.

His uncle stared; concern flooded his eyes, "Syril…."

But Syril wasn't listening, his head was foggy again, and he felt the dam inside him bend with the force of his anger; the questions were swirling around him like a vortex of confusion. Why him, why did it happen to him? Why would his brother do this? All for a stupid watch?

"I didn't kill him!" Syril's eyes were stinging now, the sound of the watch pounded its thunderous metronome, "and it's crazy you think I did! What because I passed out in front of the door? Wow, what a great murderer I must be; I kill a professor but can't make it fifty feet from the door to make my escape?" His voice was venomous as he held up his hands, "you should cuff me now before I kill again."

Vanessa stared at him; the missing eye only exacerbated her ability to glower. Syril stared back, his chest burned with anger, his eyes wide and furious. He took several deep breaths, trying to calm the pounding within his chest. He soon realised Vanessa was not looking at his face but his hands that still lay suspended in front of him, the right of which was grasped tightly to the watch.

"I think it's time we get you to bed, Syril. You've had a long day-" his uncle placed a hand on the small of his back, harshly guiding him back towards the exit, "it was a pleasure as always, Vanessa. We will be down to the station tomorrow to..."

Another guard stepped out from behind the door, blocking their exit.

"I think it's better he comes with us, Jerard." she was slowly walking towards the pair, her eyes fixated on the watch in Syril's hand.

His uncle grasped tightly to the back of Syril's jacket, pulling him closer to the wall and away from the more oversized guard in front of the door. Vanessa and the two guards were inching closer, cornering them; both guards drew their shock sticks.

"Don't do this, Vanessa", his uncle pleaded.

"I don't have a choice." Vanessa was now staring at Syril; her face was. Still, she tapped her collar bone, and he watched as a series of runes on her body glowed a vibrant white one after the other, "we'll take good care of him."

"Like you took care of Seabright?"

Vanessa ignored the question. Instead, she drew a pair of black handcuffs from her belt; Syril noticed the faint glow of several more runes carved into the chain.

"This isn't how we deal with these things, Vanessa; please listen to reason." The line of guards pushed them into the very corner of the hallway, and all hope of escape was gone. Syril looked frantically around and felt his heart sink; at the end of the hallway, more guards were pushing through the wall that held back the crowd; shock sticks were drawn and pointed at the pair. They were cornered in every sense of the word; it was his fault; if he'd just remained calm and not flown off the handle, they could have been walking out of here.

"Jerard, I'm sorry, but if we have to take him by force, we won't be able to hold back."

Syril felt bile rise in his throat. No, this couldn't be happening.

"You always did suck, Vanessa."

She smiled.

Syril closed his eyes as the hallway exploded into blindingly blue light.

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