Chapter 23: 23: Luck of the Draw

Ember pushed back her chair, gathering her papers into a neat stack and throwing her backpack over one shoulder. She walked down the long aisle of the biology lecture hall, passing students with their heads still bowed on the first page of the midterm exam. She was already calculating her score in her head, and even if she’d missed every problem that she was uncertain about, it would be high enough to place her in the top ranks. The thought put a bounce in her step.

Reaching the front, she plopped her test in the center of Professor Tinsley’s desk, who gave her a small smile as she looked up from her work. Ember turned, dusting off her hands, and ran straight into another student.

“Oof,” he said indignantly, giving her a light push on the shoulder. Her eyes narrowed. Roland.

Her body reacted immediately. She recoiled from his touch, and her heartbeat sped up, jumping into her throat like a dropped rubber ball. Her thermal vision flared, painting his head and chest a bright yellow. This time, she gritted her teeth, determined not to be overwhelmed. After all, compared to the margay, he was nothing but an inconvenience. 

The avian placed his test on top of hers, scanning her page as he did so, his expression unreadable. They walked toward the exit together, keeping an awkward amount of distance between them. Ember noted that although his gaze was still overly interested, he seemed warier than during their first meetings. Whether the change had come from her role in the rogue’s death or from some physical development, she did not know.

“I’ve seen you at the training grounds,” he said as the door shut behind them. “For someone praised so highly, your skills are underwhelming.”

“Strange,” she replied. “I’m there nearly every day, and I’ve yet to see you.”

He chuckled. “I must have given you the wrong impression—I wasn’t training at those grounds. I was passing by on my way to the ranked complex.”

His words had the desired effect, and Ember fell silent. Not many freshmen were among the ranked. He grinned cockily, knowing that he had bested her. “Come see my match,” he said, “I’m making my debut into the division three circuit on Sunday, in the arena.”

“Good luck,” she said, sarcasm bubbling beneath the surface. He shrugged dismissively, turning on his heel and leaving her seething. 

She shook her head as if ridding herself of the remnants of his presence. Even he could not take away the pride of having finished half of her exams with the certainty of high marks. Still, with Carn, Naz, and Morgan all testing, the rest of the afternoon stretched out like a lonely gulf. She looked forward to the day when solitude—once a comfort—would not bring forth memories of a rotting, gutted body, or the thunk of the karambit as it met flesh. 

She found herself jogging, her backpack bouncing on her shoulders uncomfortably, ridding herself of the pent-up anxiety from her exams, the encounter with Roland, and her ineptitude on the training field. It took her a moment to realize that her path was leading to the center of campus, to Mendel’s library, where she could find a different type of companionship between the pages of a book. 

She was damp with sweat when she came to a stop on a wide, well-traveled pathway. Her breaths were heavy, and she pulled a canteen from her bag, drinking deeply. On either side of the path lay a bed of sweet-smelling clovers, and above was a canopy of vines that flowered pink and yellow. A handful of butterflies fluttered between the buds under the watchful eyes of green anoles and sparrows. 

Though there were some classrooms nearby, most of the area had been left devoid of construction, drawing attention to the area’s centerpiece: the library. Like many of the buildings in Mendel, it blended into the forest itself—a winding, towering-like structure supported by a trio of redwoods. 

A little tremor of excitement made its way through Ember’s chest. The sight was straight out of the fairy tales of her childhood, unmatched on the mainland, where the trees would have been razed, the ground flattened, and the animals poisoned to make way for streets and factories. 

After cleaning her face with the rest of the water from the canteen, she hefted her backpack higher on her shoulders and climbed up the sloped path to the entrance. A torrent of students brushed past her as she held open the door, in search of a last-minute answer before the start of an exam.

The inside was marvelously intricate. Narrow staircases zigzagged from story to story, leading to hardwood walkways that bordered the walls. There was a gap in the middle of each floor so that standing at the bottom, Ember could see all the way to the roosts on the ceiling. Most spectacular were the books, which lay on richly-colored wooden shelves, in glass cases, and at tiny research stations tucked into the walls. 

Through her history course, Ember had learned that books were one of Mendel’s secret treasures. What hadn’t been snuck in from the mainland was printed on the city’s presses. The result was tens of thousands of hand-written tomes, papyrus scrolls, and textbooks with covers inscribed with gold leaf.

As diverse as the books were the Linnaeans, some winged, others with horns, fur, or fins. They walked, glided, slid, and hopped across walkways and up ladders, books held close to their chests or sticking out of their bags. Some lay draped over railings with a pencil in hand, scribbling notes or engaging in whispered conversation. 

Ember climbed up the nearest staircase, letting herself be engulfed by the dull murmur of chatter and the warm light streaming through the windows. She bypassed the first floor and walked straight to the nonfiction section, where she pulled a familiar, heavy book from the first shelf. It was well-worn, with yellowed pages and a leather cover marked with grease from many inquisitive fingers. 

She set the book down on the banister, propping up her notebook next to it. On the first page was a running list of possible mutations, some with annotations:

You are reading story Class Reptilia (Progression Fantasy) at novel35.com

• Sensitive to vibrations
• Feeling cold easily - coldblooded? 
• Rejecting vegetables and fruits - carnivorous?
• Comfortable above ground - arboreal? 
• Thermal vision

She frowned, reread the list, and then added a sixth observation.

• Fight or flight response triggered by a black hawk-eagle.

Something about the statement seemed incomplete. She tapped the page, mentally picking apart each of her encounters with Roland. At first, she might have believed that their relationship was simply one of predator and prey—her as the prey, of course—but he had seemed to share her discomfort during their most recent meeting.

When no answer was forthcoming, she tucked her pencil behind one ear, searching the book’s glossary for the term ‘thermal vision.’ It led her to the 400th page, in a chapter titled “Beyond the five senses: biological abilities and their uses.”

Halfway down the page was a short paragraph on thermal vision next to an illustration of a person glowing orange and yellow. Ember skimmed it, running her finger along the words to keep pace.

Objects that are warm to the touch emit considerable amounts of infrared radiation, it read. Infrared sensing, commonly known as thermal vision, is the ability to see these wavelengths. It is typically associated with hunting, though it may also assist with thermoregulation, predator avoidance, navigation, and reproduction. It has been observed in some beetle, snake, bat, frog, and fish species.

Ember considered the possibility of each of the spotlighted animals, turning it over in her mind like a morsel of food on the tongue. Her aversion to water ruled out the pisces and amphibia classes, and both aves and mammalia housed only warm-blooded animals. Vermes was a broad category, but very few preferred the treetops, and she found worms markedly distasteful anyway. 

That left reptilia, the reptiles; and insecta, the insects.

She put the end of the pencil between her teeth, thinking deeply. Insecta was extensive and therefore nearly impossible to rule out. However, she doubted that any insect could threaten a bird of prey. 

She placed her palms flat on the table, looking up with a combination of surprise and relief. By her own reasoning, she had reached the same conclusion as the rogue. 

“Reptilia,” she said aloud, testing the word on her tongue. Strangely, the idea didn’t disgust her. 

Her eyes fell back to the paper, tracing a diagram beneath the paragraph. It was a crudely drawn, rough-hewn side view of a snake’s face. Between its nostril and eye was a membrane-covered pit, next to which was an arrow pointing to a fine-print explanation. 

Snakes detect thermal radiation using specialized pit organs.

Carefully, Ember brushed a finger over the valleys on either side of her nose. If she pressed hard enough, she could feel the bone beneath, but a gentler touch met a shallow, hollow-feeling chamber. It was the spot where she’d first felt the gnawing ache as the flesh rearranged itself. 

For a moment, she allowed herself to consider the possibility that her body had begun to produce the DNA of a slithering, sinuous reptile. 

She took the hand from her face. She felt calm, peaceful, even. Somehow, stating that she was a snake seemed as natural as claiming to have two arms or two legs. 

She let out a long breath, shaking her head. How ironic. Just as wings had been the symbol of the church’s god in Ciradyl, the snake had been the symbol of its devil. According to the priests’ lore, it had swallowed up entire families before people had gathered together to build a wall around the city. Ember had seen the creatures rarely—never alive, nailed to the thick wooden planks of a doorway during days of worship. 

Anxiety folded her in its unwelcome arms. What would my father think of me? She dug the canteen from her backpack and took a gulp, hoping to ease her nerves. What species am I? Will I be venomous? Will I have fangs, scales, a rattle? 

Then, suddenly, she remembered Corax’s words. “Ember,” he had said, “part of a Linnaean’s development is discovering and accepting these things for themselves.” 

She gripped the leather of the canteen. As hard as it may be, she would have to embrace her source species if she was to move forward. Any moments spent worrying about others’ reactions would be time wasted. Besides, in a way, she had won the luck of the draw. She wasn’t a krill, an earthworm, a cricket, or a gazelle. 

She was a predator, and a damn good one at that. 

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