"Open to textbook four, which we completed last week, and write a reflection on the last thirty pages. You will have one hour to complete this."
Vicktor's head rested heavily against the back of his chair, exactly as it had since the moment he sat down. His eyes fixed in a vacant, ventral gaze, locked onto the single analog clock mounted at the center of the classroom wall.
He didn't even notice—or rather, completely failed to acknowledge—when the crisp, blank parchment was slid onto his desk.
Big hand, little hand. Which is it?
His brow furrowed. Big one is on the two. Little one is on the eight. He crossed his arms, his biceps pulling tight against his uniform.
So it's two? No. Pitch black outside means nothing in here. Eight-something.
If there are twenty-four points... no, that doesn't matter. Math is useless. Twelve hours until the practice arena. That is all that matters.Sitting here is a waste of blood.
"You need to work hard if you want a chance." The memory flashed in his mind, sharp and uninvited.
Work hard? I work harder than anyone. I have to. I have to be strong enough so the Patriarch stops looking so disappointed in me.
His eyes drifted from the clock, settling on the boy in the front row. Cedric. He had already filled an entire page with elegant, flowing script, the same excellence he had displayed for the last six months.
Vicktor stared at the boy working so diligently. He is so smart. I wish I could understand it the way he does. The gap between them felt like an insurmountable canyon.
After a long, agonizing pause, Vicktor uncrossed his arms and picked up his pen.