Chapter Text
You’d think that after existing for two millennia, a God-Weapon academy would invest in a better coffee maker.
Really, it was absolutely pathetic.
For the fourth time that morning, Professor Graves stood next to the dinky little machine, arms crossed, tapping his fingers impatiently on his jacket. The way it groaned did not inspire confidence in the concoction dribbling from the spout. Excessive steam plumed from the spigot, enough to fog his glasses over. No matter how he fiddled with the dials, the bitter liquid always came out absolutely scalding.
The machine finally gave one last deplorable wheeze, finishing anticlimactically as a few stray drops plunked into his partially-filled mug.
He wouldn’t necessarily consider himself an espresso connoisseur, but he couldn’t help but curl his lip, swirling the inky brew as he pushed open the break room door. The sludge stared up at him menacingly. Nevertheless, he brought the mug to his lips and tried not to wince as he downed as much as he could in a single swig, ignoring the burn as it trailed down his throat. Lord knows he needed all the energy he could for today. After so many years of teaching, his tolerance for caffeine was far too high to ever truly be satisfied.
It’s just as bad as the last three cups. Exactly as he expected.
A shitty coffee for a shitty morning.
To be fair though, even the most delectable brew wouldn’t be enough to prepare him for what he had to slog through today. Gripping the ceramic handle, he trudged down the East Wing, gritting his teeth as the sounds of new university students grew with every step.
Durandal Academy vibrated with excited energy, packs of students crowding the corridor as they scurried to their first classes (far too eagerly for his tastes). He hoped to reach his classroom before the first bell sounded, but odds were not looking great. The halls resembled more like a swarming beehive.
“Did you see the new freshman, Jayce Talis? Gods, what a cutie!”
“I know! I swear, half the appliances in my house are Talis brand. His family must be loaded.”
“Oh, I’d kill to know what his ability is…”
“Maybe it's seduction!” The students dissolved into high-pitched squealing, scratching his eardrums most uncomfortably.
Adjusting the stack of books under his arm, Graves cleared his throat, causing the pack of giggling schoolgirls to pause their conversation. The chittering laughter died instantly as they looked up (his scowl had that effect on people).
“What on earth could be so interesting that it requires the entire hallway to discuss?” Graves barked, the echo reverberating off the walls.
Red grew in the student's faces, muttering incomprehensible excuses as he glowered down at them, one bushy eyebrow raised. After a few moments of sputtering, they shuffled to the side, allowing him to pass unobstructed.
“Classes are about to begin. Y’all better be out of my sight before the bell, or you can enjoy gossiping in detention. First day be damned.”
The group scattered, nervously whispering amongst themselves as they darted down the corridor and ducked into various classrooms.
“That’s what I thought,” he grunted under his breath. An academy full of students with God-Weapon abilities, yet not a single one seemed to carry the power of common sense.
Graves rearranged the books under his arm, a twinge of pain flaring in his knee joints from the awkward weight distribution. It’s possible he forgot to take his anti-inflammatory pills this morning, which would be icing-on-the-fucking-cake.
The rest of the students made sure to stay out of his way as he continued his trek. Irritability emanated off of his hunched back in waves, with a scowl that dared anyone to look in his direction.
Each step of his shoes clacked on the shining linoleum, barely audible above the gongs of the first bell as lingering students ran to their classes. He sighed, and rubbed his eyes under his glasses crossly.
Late to his own class. What a great omen for the start of term.
Graves’ room stood at the very end of the East Wing. He was lucky to get the secluded location; there was nothing he disliked more than to overhear other professors through the walls. It’s bad enough that he had to listen to his students.
Speaking of which, chatter was already growing as he approached the open door, the sound leaking into the hallway.
He stood up a hair straighter, hoping to mask the limp from his protesting joints. Groaning internally, he strutted into his classroom.
He kept the place simple enough. Clean rows of desks, a blackboard, and a myriad of posters with battle formations dotting the walls. A couple old charts showed the internal anatomy of various firearms. He might have put more effort into decorating when he first arrived at Durandal, but has long since lost energy to refresh the space every year. Why bother? They'll be spending most of their time in the gyms practicing combat, anyway. Lecturing for too long made him antsy, and the hours of standing certainly didn’t help his chronic leg pain.
The students didn’t notice his arrival, huddled together in cliques that miraculously already formed. Could young people ever go five seconds without babbling to each other?
For a moment, Graves watched the students converse, setting the disappointing coffee down on his desk. He vaguely recalled the recruits names from when he skimmed his class roster, but stopped trying to memorize those years ago. After seeing so many late-teens in his career, they all started to blend together.
He could tell a lot about a student depending on where they sat on the very first day. They all followed the same pattern.
There was always the kiss-ass, located right smack-dab front and center. Graves could pinpoint them easily. This year, it was some strong-jawed kid with slick black hair and a perfect windsor tie. A puffed out chest showed a neatly embroidered ‘JT’ on the front pocket. He sat proudly, spine straighter than a ruler, fiddling with a small contraption in his hands. Graves fought off the urge to roll his eyes.
The troublemakers were, of course, nestled in the back where they assumed they would be safe from scrutiny. The two boys looked like brothers, with matching broad shoulders and sneers. One was busy flicking pieces of balled paper at the back of a scrawny kid with spiky blond hair. The other whipped out a pocket comb and foldable mirror, admiring his own reflection. Jeez, were these really nineteen year olds? The two looked like they finished puberty in primary school. One of them already had a long, thin mustache that hung off his face like rat tails.
The only other student in the rear corner of the class was a brooding pink-haired girl, leaning back on her chair with her feet propped up on the desk. Even from across the room, Graves noted at least seven different violations of the Academy dress code. She twirled a dagger in her fingers, uninterested, as if she was bored with the very act of breathing. Students weren’t even technically allowed to have weapons in the lecture classrooms.
It was the middle rows that yielded the most varied results. These were the wildcards. This year, three students occupied the ‘mystery-personality zone.’
The first was a redhead girl, small and thin with a high, perky ponytail. From the exterior, she didn’t look like much; Graves doubted if she would even be able to lift a sword. Even still, she exuded an… odd energy. Something to do with the depth in her eyes, he thinks. They carried a certain aura that he couldn’t quite place, one that didn't belong to a teenager. Oblivious to this observation, she chatted with the students seated next to her with a beaming expression.
The boy to her left was trying to show off his reflexes, with about as much grace as a dying swan. He attempted to dodge every wad of paper flicked in his direction from the brute behind him, managing to make a few half-successful maneuvers.
The redhead giggled at the comical performance, distracting the boy long enough for him to earn a direct hit to the eye.
Finally, a lithe young man with dark skin and bright purple hair perched backwards in his chair. He found the whole ordeal absurdly amusing. Already, he was ripping up his notebook to create ammo to retaliate against the paper assault.
The first impressions of the new recruits didn’t exactly wow him. The group acted more like bumbling children than potential weapons of war.
It was far too early in the morning for this sort of nonsense.
With a firm shove, Graves slammed his stack of books down onto the podium. The thud halted various conversations in their tracks.
Students snapped to attention, looking up to the front of the classroom. They were met with the cold stare of a professor who mastered his intimidation tactics on the battlefield long ago.
Clenching a stick of fresh chalk in his gloved fingers, he wrote the words “PHYSICAL COMBAT: THEORY AND PRACTICE” onto the blackboard, underlining it once, the sharp squeal of chalk permeating the dead-silent atmosphere.
“My name is Malcolm Graves. You will address me as Professor Graves, or Professor, or Sir. Do I make myself clear?”
The students didn't respond verbally, just bobbed their heads in agreement. He stared them down for a moment, resting a free hand on his hip.
“When I call your name, say something so I know you’re not aimlessly wandering in the corridors still.” Graves grunted as he flipped through the attendance sheet on his podium. A brief description of their powers was listed below the names in fine print.
“Katarina du Couteau.” Dimensional Manipulation/Extreme Agility.
The pink-haired girl raised her arm sluggishly, head lolled back behind her chair, staring at the ceiling. Agility my ass.
“I said to call aloud.” Graves furled his eyebrows, marking an X next to the name all the same. “And get your damn feet off of my desks, this isn’t your living room.”
He heard a groan as the girl planted her feet firmly on the ground, followed by a lazy ‘here’ that hardly passed as a callout. He sighed, moving down the list.
“Luxanna Crownguard.” Light, the paper listed.
Just ‘light’ as a power? Well, that's a little vague.
“Here!” a high-pitched voice chirped, waving over-enthusiastically from her seat by the window. The redhead exuded energy that already exhausted Graves. A perkiness that he wouldn’t be able to achieve even if he injected a barrel of caffeine directly into his veins.
“Alright, calm down, bubbles. There ain’t any flies around for you to swat. Relax before you sprain your wrist.”
The young girl grew pink in the face, lowering her hand and nodding sheepishly. One of the troublemakers snorted - the clean-shaven one with a stripe of white in his black hair - amused at her embarrassment.
Graves narrowed his eyes, skipping down the list and tapping his pen, clearly not amused.
“Oy. You in the back. What’s your name?”
The brute paused for a moment, not expecting the callout, grunting under his voice a second later.
“Darius.”
“Ah. Darius Nox. I assume the preening peacock next to you must be Draven Nox. Twins, right?” He glanced down at the sheet. Brute Force, for the first brother. Telekinesis for the second.
Darius jerked his chin in semi-agreement, picking at the desk. Draven flashed a bright white grin at the sound of his name, closing the handheld mirror with a snap.
“How’s about you two come sit at the front, next to Mr. Perfect-Fuckin-Tie here.”
“Hey! I didn’t even do anything!” Draven argued, a theatrical hand against his chest as if he were affronted.
“Did I stutter? I want asses in these chairs. Now.”
After an excessive amount of grumbling, the boys dragged their feet until they planted themselves at the head of the room. Darius threw down his bag with a growl, crossing his arms over his chest. The middle-seat gang grinned stupidly, fist-bumping each other under the tables. Kiss-ass kid looked most displeased, curling his upper lip as the twins stole his front row spotlight. It was almost worth it just to see a crack in that pompous facade. Graves caught Draven punching Darius’ shoulder out of the corner of his eye. The brute didn't take the impact lightly, rolling his shoulder as if prepping to retaliate. As much as fighting was encouraged, it's important to control when it occurs, lest things get out of hand. He opened his mouth to bark a reprimand, when a voice interrupted him.
“Article 8.12.49 of the Academy Code states that no forms of combat are permitted within lecture classrooms, nor are special abilities.” Perfect-Tie lectured, smoothing back a non-existent flyaway hair.
“I'll show you physical combat, dickweed,” Darius growled.
“Don’t break conduct. Save fighting for the gyms.”
Graves gestured towards the kiss-ass, rolling his eyes. “I suppose you want me to throw you a bone for that little snippet? Don’t fucking interrupt me. I didn’t ask for a spokesperson. You must be Jayce Talis, considering you have your initials embroidered on every single article of clothing you’re wearing.” Mechanical Clairvoyance, the sheet noted. Whatever the fuck that meant.
The boy nodded proudly, shaking off his displeasure at being seated next to the two disorderly twins. “Yes, professor, sir. Happy to be here, and ready to get started. You might know of my parents. Inventors, you see.”
Draven made a comedic retching sound that earned a cackle from his brother.
“Ah, trust fund kid. Faaaaabulous.” He ticked off the box accordingly. “Unless your mommy invented an everlasting cigar, family names won’t get you far here, bucko.”
Jayce had enough sense not to respond, fiddling with his gizmo silently. Graves continued.
“ Ezreal Lymere.” Electrical Energy Manipulation.
“Present, and ready to kick some ass!” Blondie remarked, winking at Luxanna and rolling his shoulders.
“How’re you going to kick ass when you can’t withstand the mighty force of paper, chosen one?” The purple-haired kid snickered, picking a stray wad out of Ezreal's hair.
Graves sighed, but didn’t necessarily disagree. “Grape-head here has a point, pipsqueak. Gonna be a lot more than paperballs launched on the battlefield.”
“Ooh! Maybe they'll have cardstock!”
“Yeah yeah, you’re fucking hilarious. Last and least, Akshan Marwai.” Invisibility/Revival. “I’d appreciate it if you kept comments to yourself in the future.”
The student flashed a mischievous grin, bowing comedically with a flourish of his hand. “I AksCAN do that! Don’t worry, Professor!”
“Great. A goddamn comedian.” It’s going to be a long year.
Attendance sheet successfully filled with every student accounted for, Graves pushed it aside and stepped to the middle of the blackboard.
“Raise your hand if you have been told that Physical Combat isn’t as important as Magical Combat.”
One by one, hands rose into the air.
“Keep your hand up if you truly believe that.”
Not a single arm lowered.
Graves glowered at the recruits, adjusting his glasses.
“I understand some of you are here to satisfy your Physical Combat course requirements. If you're looking for an easy grade without much work, you are criminally mistaken as to the nature of what we do here. Hell, I almost feel bad for you. You will not be using your God-Weapon skill in this classroom. In fact, no magical abilities of any kind are permissible. This is a physical combat only course.”
Katarina snarkily interjected. “Isn’t, like, the whole point of Durandal to help us focus our abilities? Why bother teaching this class if it's useless?”
“I don’t give a damn what powers you have, or if you are a mage or not. Magic is worthless if that's all you rely on. Do you really expect to fight well if your reflexes are shit? Or if you don’t know how to assemble in a squad?”
He scrawled the phrase ‘PHYSICAL < MAGIC’ onto the board in his sloppy, all-caps handwriting, sharply tapping it with the end of his chalk.
“This, students, is the greatest lie you have ever been told. Physical weaponry, strategy, and theory is just as important, if not more so than the magical arts. Don’t you forget that. Underestimating the power of a well-trained knife or gun may be the last thing you ever do.”
A scoff echoed out from behind his shoulder, causing him to whip his head around. Ezreal is snickering, one hand over his mouth.
“Blondie, do you have something to share with the class?”
“It's just that… What could a knife possibly do against God-Weapon powers? They could turn the wielder to liquid fire, or bind their feet, or blast them to smithereens without raising a finger!”
Graves folded his arms across his chest, looking at Ezreal with one brow raised. Without breaking eye contact, he pulled a cigar from the inner pocket of his jacket, lit it with his favorite silver lighter, and drew a deep inhale.
"Have you ever blasted someone to smithereens without raising a finger?"
"Er... no."
“You ever been in combat at all?”
The boy scratched the back of his head. “Well… uh… no. But it’s just common sense!”
Scanning the room, others were nodding with the boy’s assumption. Fools.
“Well I have. Back before I was stuck teaching you lot.” A plume of smoke trickled from the corner of his mouth. Strutting down the aisle of desks, he addressed the students in a cold voice.
“I was a lieutenant, once, believe it or not. Yet, I wasn’t born with any God-Weapon powers, nor do I have magical blood. You wanna know how I climbed the ranks? How I earned my respect?” He paused, furling his brow. “I won it with bloodshed and damn hard work. Now, y'all may have been the toughest heroes in your town growing up, but you’re in my town now. I don’t give a fuck what God-Weapon ability you have. This isn’t high school anymore. You’re all adults, and there's a few harsh realities that you all need to accept when seated in this classroom.”
He ripped a phone out of Katarina’s hand mid-text as he passed her seat, one she (poorly) tried to hide under the edge of her desk.
“Firstly, the luxury of not paying attention isn’t afforded to you in combat. In my class, I expect you to be alert, on time, and listening. I don’t give a shit what excuses you have, and I don’t want to hear them. I don’t accept late work. An absence means a zero for the day. ”
The girl rolled her eyes, crossing her arms.
He placed the device on the edge of his desk. “Secondly, I don’t care what fancy tricks the Magic Professors might be teaching you this year. In this class, you will be learning about how to use and control proper weaponry. The Academy Tournament at the end of the year will test your skills in hand to hand combat and how to react on the fly. It’s my job to help you pass that test, and prepare you for what's out there. Maybe then you'll have a better chance of staying alive once you graduate and head off into the real world.”
Graves bit down on the edge of the cigar, hard enough for his jaw to ache. A familiar pain pulsed in his joints, a bitter reminder of his past. “I will not succeed. Not with all of you. Honestly, I don’t give a fuck if you walk out of here not caring about a single thing I say. But when you're laying on the battlefield. Choking upon your own blood. You best hope your final thoughts aren’t: man, I wish I paid more attention in Professor Graves’ class.”
The students exchanged sideways glances.
Pulling out a key from the keyring in his pocket, Graves unlocked the lowermost drawer of his desk. With a huff, he lifted an ominous black box, setting it down and placing a hand on its vibrating surface. Unease curled in his gut at the proximity.
Graves had to write a series of very convincing letters to his former Military Commander to get this shipped into the academy over the summer. It's a bit of a legal 'gray-area,' but it's exactly what he needed to drive his point home. He isn’t even sure if Principal Yuumi knew he was in possession of the artifact.
“Thirdly. You may all have God-Weapon abilities buried deep-down somewhere, but that doesn’t mean shit to me, and it won’t mean shit to the enemy. If you rely on abilities too heavily, you won’t last five minutes in a real battle.”
He placed his fingers on the latches of the box, the magical containment charm recognizing his touch and flipping open with a hum. Taking a deep breath to steady himself, he lifted the lid, engulfing the room in a foreboding aura. The air rested heavy and cold in his lungs. Malicious energy emitted from the small item, swaddled in a wrap of glistening satin-like fabric at the bottom of the case.
Gasps filled the classroom as he reached towards the object, grasping the fabric around the material, ice-cold even through the cotton of his gloves. He held it up in his fingertips, waves of vibrations penetrating his skin. Its white light glowed through the covering. Graves swallowed back the ball of nerves in his throat.
“Anyone know what this is?”
The students didn’t dare respond, pale and frozen with horror in their eyes.
“You feel it right? The raw power? I discovered this little crystal shard deep behind enemy lines during my time in the military. I’m sure some of you here are already well aware of its effects, experiencing its pull right now.”
He strolled around the room, turning the crystal in his hand as students squirmed in their seats. Some of them were affected more than others. Ezreal was turning slightly green in the face, woozy as if his breakfast was about to make a reappearance. Lux was shivering, shoved as close to the window as possible.
“This is a piece of Amrita, chipped straight from the God-Weapon themself. As you all know, that particular Patron was destroyed by the dark forces of the Void centuries ago. Imagine how much uncontrolled power resides within a mere fragment of a God, and how much it yearns to be reunited once more.”
Luxanna clenched her eyes shut, curling her arms around herself as trembles wracked her body.
“Only a few of these shards have been uncovered throughout time. This little beauty blocks all magical abilities, leaving even the most impressive mage gasping on their knees with prolonged contact. I watched the enemy level entire armies with its force, bringing great soldiers to ruin. That nausea you are feeling now? The emptiness? That's what it's like with it covered. Imagine how you would feel if the protective wrap wasn’t surrounding it. I doubt any of you would make it through with your sanity in one piece.”
Horrid memories clawed their way to the forefront of his mind, ones he constantly fought to repress. Distant screams of his magical comrades, the tortured looks on their faces… He pushed the images back down with a swallow. This is an important lesson, and it must be stomached.
“You know how I managed to take this shard back from the enemy? How I managed to survive? I was the only one in my battalion without magical blood. I was the only one immune to its effects. I fought when other good soldiers failed.”
He rested the shard back into its box, closing the padded container with a sharp clack. The entire room breathed a sigh of relief, the unstable energy no longer hovering in the air, trapped within the confines of its magic-lined enclosure. He reset the binds on the case, dropping it back into his desk and locking it inside.
“It is up to you all to protect the remaining four God-Weapons from the dark forces who seek to destroy them. Don’t let Durandal fall the way Amrita has. But never forget, the mythic blood that runs through your veins can always betray you.”
No one spoke. The red-haired girl shivered slightly, eyes lowered to the hands clasped in her lap.
“So, what happens when you are in battle, and suddenly no longer have the power that you foolishly assumed was second nature?” He tapped on the side of his cigar, ash scattering to the ground. “ What was once a blessing will become your downfall. A weight, locked around your neck that will drag you kicking and screaming to your death. Physical combat is all you have left. Being nothing without your powers, means being nothing in battle and a worthless soldier. If you don’t want that, I suggest you open your books to chapter one. Let’s get to work.”
It wasn’t until long after Graves’ cigar filled the room with a grayish haze that the academy bell tower finally rang, marking the end of the period.
“Alright, get outta here. Y’all better finish the assigned readings by next class, expect a quiz on chapters one and two. We’ll be meeting in the eastern training gym for our first combat lab this Thursday, so be there. Or not.” Graves waved his hand, disturbing the cloud of smoke that had amassed. “Dismissed.”
He was satisfied to note that throughout the rest of the class, the students worked in silence, listening to Graves lecture about the history of warfare (averting their eyes if he ever looked in their direction). None of them caused too much trouble. Even Akshan kept the snarky comments on the down-low, shoving his sticker-covered notebook into his satchel and filing out the door.
Jayce set an apple on his desk before leaving, nodding snootily. Graves nearly scoffed at how cliche the gesture was. He ignored the fruit, plopping down in his office chair and reaching for his coffee, only to come to the horrible realization that it had already gone cold. Goddamnit.
The last person to exit was the moody girl, Katarina, who snatched her phone off of the edge of his desk and shot him a vicious scowl.
“Phones away in the future missy, or it’s gonna be gone for good. You’re lucky I'm feeling generous today.”
“Whatever, old man.” Hiking her book bag over her shoulder, she strutted out of the classroom, head down, already composing a brand new text.
Teenagers and their phones. He hardly understood it. Maybe it's due to the fact that no one elected to talk to Graves casually, because he couldn’t imagine needing the device in his hand 24/7.
Speak of the devil, the phone in his back pocket pinged, an alert for his calendar app. He hardly used the damn scheduling system himself anymore. He arrives whenever he wants to arrive - no sooner or later (usually it’s later) - but it’s synced with the staff calender. Yuumi is sure to mark the exact date and time for every staff meeting for the next five fucking years.
One of which was being held in ten minutes.
Fantastic. Exactly how he wanted to spend his lunch break. He grumbled, extinguishing the butt of his spent cigar on the heel of his boot. For a moment, he contemplated skipping the ordeal entirely, but then remembered that he was chosen to oversee the Battle Club this term. Fucking hell. Maybe he can pawn it off onto someone else before the first meeting.
At least he had enough time to make another shitty coffee. He could handle the bitterness, but drinking lukewarm expresso was downright nihilistic. Even he didn’t hate himself enough to endure that.
With a deep sigh, he pushed out of his chair, ignoring the swell of pain in his knees, (they never really felt the same since the… incident), and trudged out of his office towards the coffee maker in the break room.
At this point, hallways were pretty much deserted. All the students scattered across campus to enjoy their lunches outside in the nice weather. Graves was more than happy to stay indoors; bright sunlight gave him headaches. Blinds were always drawn in his classroom.
Graves was almost looking forward to winter term. Snow blanketed the university, and the sky was consistently a tolerable gray. Of course, that meant all the students stayed indoors, and he would have to deal with things like the winter gala and another holiday season alone. Ugh. He can’t win, can he?
He’s thought about retiring, but shuts the idea down instantly. Seriously considering the notion sent a wave of shivers down his spine. Living the rest of his miserable life as a professor wasn't nearly as terrifying as being left alone with his memories. If only he could return to the military, but they’d never have him back after he-
Abruptly turning a corner, he slammed chest-first into someone, knocking the figure to the floor and scattering their papers everywhere. Luckily, Graves managed to keep standing, but the impact spilled his entire cup of coffee down the front of his white collared shirt. Fucking hell. That’s definitely going to stain.
“Ack, Gods. I’m sorry. You see I was busy preparing my notes for- oh! You’re a professor here too, am I correct?”
He examined the younger man sprawled on the floor. All Graves registered at first was the flash of a bright, goofy-ass yellow bowtie.
“What's it to you?”
The figure crawled around and gathered papers into a neat stack before rising to his feet.
When the man finally stood at full height, Graves’ breath caught in his throat.
He was fucking tall - taller than Graves even, with a long cloak that hung nicely on a lithe, thinner frame. Shoulderpads extended from his arms, framing a glistening head of blue-black hair tied in a low ponytail (jeez, how much conditioner did this guy use?). A pointed beard wrapped around an angular face with sharp cheekbones, slightly pink at the exertion of the impact. What really caught his attention, however, was the piercing blue eyes that seemed to stare right through Graves’ skull.
The man rubbed the back of his neck, watching cold coffee drip down Graves’ front with a sheepish expression. He planted a brimmed hat onto his head, one that must have gotten dislodged in the skirmish.
“Well, I’ve seen you around campus before, but I just moved into the West Wing, so we never had a chance to properly meet. I really am terribly sorry for your shirt. I’m new to Durandal, but I reckon we are probably both heading to the staff meeting. Would you like to-”
“No.” He didn’t even need to hear what this mystery man would suggest. Graves fought to keep his composure, anger bubbling in his gut at the unforeseen turn of events. “Why don’t you watch where you’re fucking going next time, moron.”
If the man reacted to the comment, Graves didn't bother sticking around to see. With a huff, Graves turned and stomped down the hallway, adjusting his destination away from the break room. He wouldn’t even have time to battle the coffee machine now.
Ducking into the closest bathroom, he slipped off his magenta coat and examined the extent of the damage to his undershirt in the mirror. The stain was glaringly obvious, a brown smear of cold liquid that clung to the curves of his chest uncomfortably.
Wadding up an absurd amount of disposable paper towels, he tried to blot as much of the liquid away that he could. A poor attempt to look presentable before the meeting. Mostly, he was just smearing it around. It's a good thing he stopped caring about what the other professors thought about him years ago.
Who the fuck was that guy anyways? Barreling through the hallways like that? It certainly wasn’t Graves’ fault.
He sighed, tossing the spent wad of paper in the closest bin and running fingers through his red hair, attempting to flatten the strand that always seemed to have a mind of its own.
He did have nice eyes though…
Fucking hell, get a grip Graves. The guy is probably not even a combat teacher. Maybe a brainless substitute. Some useless bright-eyed greenie who the Academy took pity on and offered a part-time job. He’ll likely never see the twerp any time other than those monthly staff meetings.
Squaring his shoulders, Graves pulled his jacket on and straightened his glasses. Let's get this over with.
Fortunately (or rather, unfortunately), he managed to duck into the conference room before Principal Yuumi began her opening remarks. A few stragglers trickled in, but the long table was mostly full.
For a moment, he paused in the doorway, examining his limited options.
He could sit next to Professor Teemo, the Combat Botany instructor. But then, he wouldn’t be able to get the bittersweet stench of shrooms out of his nostrils for the rest of the afternoon. The last time he wandered into the greenhouse unattended, he earned a headache that lasted for hours. Not to mention he’d have to endure the too-cheerful, high-pitched voice that made his ears bleed. Loved to chatter, that yordle.
There was a chair next to Professor Singed, who was the director of the Chemical Sciences department. They once collaborated to produce a new form of synthetic weaponry. Singed did a damn good job, an expert on science-y shit, but Graves didn’t want to hang around him any more than he had to. The creep had an off-putting sense of humor, with an unhinged energy that made the hair on the back of Graves' neck raise.
Camille, the Vice Principal, analytically picked her nails, scowling when one did not meet her standard for perfection. It's possible she would be even more miserable to be around than all the others combined. Not only did she seem to hate everyone’s guts, Camille carried a massive chip on her pristine shoulder. It was the Vice Principal’s task to levy punishment when students fell out of line, but her disciplinary habits often bled into faculty interactions. That crazy woman would criticize the stain on his shirt before he even sat down, along with twenty other errors in his attire. Graves secretly suspected she’s been gunning after Yuumi’s job for years. It may explain her overzealous, harsh demeanor. Always the vice and never the principal.
Graves scanned the rest of the room, but didn't see anyone even remotely interesting or tolerable. Not wanting to engage in the torture that was small talk, he instead sat himself smack-dab in the middle of an open expanse of chairs. A position conveniently close to the exit so he could make a swift departure as soon as possible.
His back tensed with each new voice, the friendly chit chat in the room growing louder. Why couldn’t they do this over email? It hardly seemed necessary to drag them all in one location. It certainly wasn’t comfortable. Absent-mindedly, he rubbed his knee, a poor attempt to quell the constant ache. Already he was feeling stuffy, the air a smidge too hot for his preferences.
He was sliding his finger down his collar, adjusting the tightness of his tie, when a figure caught his eye. A man sat down the far side of the table, flicking a single glowing card between his fingers.
Not just any man. The man.
What was he called? Graves tried to recall their very brief conversation in the hallway, but he couldn’t remember if the new staff member mentioned his name. How did he look so fucking perfect? You wouldn't even know he was crawling on the ground a few minutes ago. Not a single glistening hair was out of place as he leaned in close to Sona, making rapid hand gestures between card tricks.
Professor Buvelle was the music instructor and composer for the school band. Although she didn’t teach in a field of direct combat, Graves had lingering respect for her. Mainly because she never talked his ear off. Advantages of knowing a mute, he supposed.
Graves wasn’t versed in sign language (all he knew was rudimentary signals from the military). Sona could communicate telepathically with her enchanted Etwahl most of the time, but it still took months before he managed to hold an entire conversation with the muse. How someone could be so shy, while still teaching dozens of kids, he’ll never understand. At least she does her job properly.
It’s easy to be ranked adequate in Graves’ eyes: just don’t be annoying.
What he found increasingly curious, however, was how Sona seemed to be smiling with the long-haired man, engaged in lively conversation. The movements of her hands increased tempo, excited that she finally had someone who understood the wordless language as fluently as she did.
Of course he’d know sign language. That figured.
The new guy grinned, making a circular motion with his wrist, pointing vaguely in Graves’ direction. She threw her head back, covering her mouth as silent laughs wracked her frame.
Sharp blue eyes darted in his direction, catching Graves’ gaze before he had a chance to turn his head away. The man had the audacity to smile at him, a sly little grin that Graves didn’t even want to begin deciphering. Heat rose in his cheeks, a strange pattering in his chest that was most likely festering anger. The smug bastard is probably telling the muse about their little impact in the hallway, sure to paint Graves a poor light.
Sona pointed towards the card fluttering in the man’s fingers, making a questioning motion with her free arm. The man nodded, and with a flick of his wrist, passed the card from hand to hand, dancing between his palms like a leaf in the breeze. The music teacher's eyes widened, entranced by the performance.
Other professors caught on to the glowing display in the man’s hands, leaning in and adding their own interested remarks. Even Singed was slightly smiling! The mystery professor was absolutely magnetic, charisma pouring from each smooth gesture.
This fucker just got here, and already had half the staff wrapped around his fingers.
Great. A brown-noser. Bet that’s how he got the job too. Threw around some sweet words and flashy card tricks and everyone wanted to be his friend.
Ugh.
Graves tried to shove down the bubbling annoyance, eventually rolling his eyes and turning towards the head of the room. Principal Yuumi raised her paw from where she rested, magically closing the doors and finally silencing the chatter.
At this point, all the teaching staff of Durandal Academy watched attentively as the principal leaped atop her registry book. She sat proudly, floating to the head of the table and clearing her throat with a few small coughs. He idly wondered if she ever struggled with hairballs.
No one bothered to sit next to Graves, the rolling chairs empty on each side. The only two vacant seats at the meeting .
Not that he wanted the company or anything. He appreciated the extra elbow room.
“Welcome, professors and instructors! Today marks the of-fish-ial kickoff to another wonderful year at Durandal Academy. I trust that you all had restful summers, and are eager to start the new term. I certainly am!”
Principal Yuumi had a cheery-yet-professional tone, gesturing elegantly with her paw as she spoke. Graves could hardly remember a time in Durandal without the feline acting as headmistress. She was appointed to the position not long before Graves was. Her leadership style wasn't bad per se, but a man can only take so many fish puns before going insane (and Graves was getting very close to going insane).
“I have a few start-of-term notices I wish to address before we introduce the wonderful new faces this year.” Yuumi stretched her neck, tapping the agenda in her book with a claw. “Firstly, I am pleased to announce that Durandal has been selected to host the Academy Tournament this season. We will be generously accommodating the fighters of Labrys Academy as they compete against our own students.”
Graves’ gut tensed. Of all the academies to be assigned, why did it have to be that one? Principal Swain of Labrys was well-known, with an ego big enough to match his absurdly giant collar. His students were nothing but trouble, always strutting around with haughty superiority. It didn’t help that they whooped Durandal’s ass every time they competed…
“For those of you who don’t know, the Academy Tournament is a competition between two God-Weapon schools. Throughout the term, Durandal will host social events, such as the Winter Gala, to represent our camaraderie. At the end of the academic year, freshman compete to showcase their skills in combat, teamwork, and - of course - the mastery of their ultimate ability. The Tournament is a tradition, one that dates back for centuries, to symbolize the transition into students' true, God-Weapon selves.”
Yuumi’s voice grew stern, raising her chin high. “Of course, that leads me to my second point of order. Durandal’s participation in the Academy Tournament in the last few years has… left much to be desired. But fear not! I truly believe that this time we can-”
“Please, Yuumi. I’ll elaborate.” Camille spoke coldly, rising from her seat to address the room. If the feline was miffed at the curt address, she didn’t show it.
“I speak for the majority of parents when I say that the standards for their children's education should reflect perfection - for our reputation's sake. The recent performances of Durandal in the Tournament is nothing short of pathetic. Inattention to detail produces shoddy work, and I will not have us seen as an academy for weaklings. The topic of improving academic performance, especially in trials of combat, will arise again in future meetings.”
Graves didn’t mean to scoff quite as loud as he did. Honestly.
The table went silent, and everyone turned their heads towards Graves as he slouched in his lonely seat. Camille glowered in his direction, creasing her normally porcelain-smooth forehead.
“Professor Graves, was there something you wished to add?”
For a moment, the room was still. Graves had garnered a reputation for being outspoken - maybe a little too resolute in his beliefs. Camille was one of the few who ranked high enough to avoid his ‘rudeness,’ as she called it. Not much he can say to a woman who was always itching to add to his disciplinary folder.
“It ain’t the method of teaching that's off, it's the students. Saw the new lot this morning, and let's just say, I wasn’t very impressed. I highly doubt any one of them will come close to winning their trials at the Tournament.”
“What early issues did you take notice of?” Yuumi chirped. “Any places for improvement?” A pencil hovered in the air next to the cat, ready to take notes.
“No discipline! Back in my day, soldiers came to the academy ready to take orders and train hard. The life of a recruit isn’t meant to be pampered, it's meant to be brutal. The reality we are supposed to be preparing them for outside of these walls is cutthroat as all hell. Believe me, I know.” Graves leaned forward in his chair as he spoke, pressing his finger on the table to emphasize his point. Things were getting a little soft around here, and it’s about time someone mentioned it. He opened his mouth to continue, when a hand raised from across the room.
“They aren’t soldiers.”
Graves paused, slowly turning to stare incredulously at the man who had the gall to stop him. Fucking stupid-bowtie himself. Other staff members merely watched with wide eyes as the two burned holes in each other’s heads in silence. Damn, those irises made his skin crawl. The long-haired man shifted in his seat, not seeming to care that he broke the universal unspoken rule of ‘don’t fucking interrupt Graves when he’s talking.’
“Excuse the interruption, but I have to interject. They aren’t soldiers, they’re students. It’s important to keep that distinction in mind. Many of them aren’t in-tune with their God-Weapon abilities yet, or don’t know the extent of their powers. Without being trained in the procedures of a militia, it would be unrealistic to treat them as such and expect positive results.”
Graves narrowed his eyes, increasingly pissed at this arrogant newbie. “You’re not excused. Who the hell even are you?”
Yuumi awkwardly cleared her throat, breaking the tension before a real argument ensued. “We will have plenty of time to discuss class specifics later. Thank you for the reminder, however. Each new year brings new members to our team. Please join me in welcoming Twisted Fate to our faculty! He will be substituting for Professor Ryze in Magic Studies courses while the former mage is on sabbatical to promote the most recent edition of his spellbook. Professor Fate, would you like to say a few words?”
“Just ‘Fate’ is fine, Principal. Thank you all for the warm welcome.” The man sent him a sideways glance with that last part. It’s possible the handle of Graves’ empty coffee mug might crumble based on how tightly he was squeezing it. “Although I am new to a formal classroom setting, I have privately tutored numerous Magics courses across Runeterra for years. I am more than happy to provide my services for the Academy whilst I am needed.”
Hopefully, that won’t be long , Graves thought to himself. It's a small mercy this asshole isn’t a full-time staff member. What kind of glittery name was ‘Twisted Fate’ anyways? That sounded like a stage name for a singer. Or a stripper.
“What forms of magic do you specialize in?” Camille bristled, hands folded mechanically in front of her. “Ryze’s rune skills were powerful, but lacked a sense of grace. Academy progress should never be kept waiting behind the inadequacy of talent. ”
“Oh, I’ve dabbled in runes, illusions, oneiric theory, incantational magic, really a bit of everything. You pick up a lot as a traveling tutor by meeting so many diverse mages. My magic isn’t easily defined or labeled, it just… is.”
Oh great, a braggart too. Graves saw most of Runeterra as a soldier, but you don’t find him shoving it in other peoples faces. Those days were behind him. Now, he’s trapped in the same university for the rest of his professional life, teaching the same classes every year… It's hardly fair. The tutor's passion only made the bitterness his chest fester.
Professor Teemo piped up cheerily, sitting on a stack of books to be seen overtop the edge of the table. “So the card tricks, is that all enchanted? Wowzers! Very cool!”
Fate grinned, flashing an impossibly charming smile, spinning the card even faster. It glowed blue, then yellow, then red, illuminating his angled cheekbones. “Well, not quite. That’s just a little something I've picked up over the years. Without being born with God-Weapon powers, I only have the skillset of a normal mage. I found a way to infuse runes into the deck, creating a multifaceted, unexpected weapon. Plus…” He tucked the card away, seemingly into thin air. “...easily portable and unidentifiable.”
The staff lightly applaud Fate’s tricks, happily chattering amongst themselves.
“Too bad you can’t take out an army with a little piece of paper,” Graves grumbled under his breath, but no one seemed to have heard him.
Yuumi swished her tail, drifting over to talk to Fate face-to-face. “Thank you for the introduction, Twisted Fate! I believe I speak for everyone when I say how happy we are to have you here.”
Yeah, right. I’m over-fucking-joyed.
“I’m sure that you’ll get used to the new classroom setting very soon, don’t let those students scare you!”
As if that was even a possibility.
“After all, Professor Graves will be acting as your mentor, ensuring that the transition into teaching is a smooth one. He will answer any questions you have about the job.”
“WHAT?”
Yuumi ignored the outburst, turning to address the group.
“I believe that just about covers the brief agenda for today. Professors, please keep an eye on your inboxes for information regarding the first Tournament festivities. Meeting adjourned, have a wonderful rest of your afternoon.”
With that, the sound of scraping chairs filled the air as the teachers exited the conference room. Graves usually is the first one out of that gods-forsaken place, but this time he sat glued to his seat, frozen in disbelief. Maybe he misheard the feline. There is no way in hell he’s stuck with the substitute.
“Professor Graves, a word if you don’t mind.” Principal Yuumi gestured over to the head of the table. Graves groaned internally, but pulled himself to his feet and trudged over, an argument brewing on the tip of his tongue. At least Twisted Fate seemed to have left the room already.
“As a mentor, I want you to attend Professor Fate’s classes at least once per week. Provide a written report detailing his progress as an instructor. I expect you to be able and willing to communicate with him regarding any issues that might arise during the first couple months.
“Yuumi, why me? Why do I gotta be the one to deal with training? I am the least qualified professor in the Academy to handle this. I know jack-shit about magic! I can barely change the settings on my own phone!”
“You are perfectly qualified for this type of assignment. I wouldn’t have chosen you if I didn’t believe that.”
“I babysit a whole class of kids all day, I have no time to babysit a tutor.”
The principal critically examined him over the rim of her circular, silver glasses. “You wanted to transfer your position as head of the Battle Club to a different instructor, am I remembering that correctly? Well, congratulations! Transfer accepted. I’ll re-assign it to Professor Teemo, I believe he is available. Without managing a club on your plate, you’ll have plenty of time to advise our new professor.”
Graves gawped, opening and closing his mouth like a beached fish. “That hardly matters!” He slammed the empty mug down on the table, hard enough for the base to crack. Tiny rivulets of cold espresso leaked from the split, seeping onto the table. “I will not spend a minute longer than I have to around that flashy, preening fuck!”
Yuumi’s tail puffed, hackles raised. “I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that last part, so I don’t have to add any more pages to your disciplinary folder, because it already looks like a novel! I’m getting rather tired of your sour mood, Professor. You are one of the oldest, most experienced faculty that Durandal has to offer. I expect you to act as such.”
Old? He’s not that old. Sure, there might be a couple lighter-than-usual strands of hair mixing with his red beard, but that couldn't be from age. It’s gotta be from stress. He might go gray by the time this term is over.
The principal licked her paw nonchalantly. “Who knows? Maybe you’ll even learn a thing or two from Twisted Fate.”
“What could I possibly learn from that man? Card tricks?”
“That need not concern me, as long as the report is on my desk precisely by Friday evenings. That’s my final word.”
“But-”
“Dismissed.”
Huffing, Graves turned away from the feline, shaking his head in disbelief and abandoning the broken mug. How could he be saddled with this shit? It's ridiculous! Some deity must have it out for him. Just when he thought this year couldn’t get any worse.
Graves allowed the wooden doors to slam behind him, itching for a cigar or a pint of something strong. Seeing how hard liquor was in rather short supply within this part of the Academy, he opted for the next best thing, reaching inside his jacket lining.
As soon as he placed the fresh cigar between his lips, a man's voice rang out behind him.
“It was Graves, wasn’t it?”
Whenever he started to lose control of his temper, Graves counted down from 100 until he stopped seeing red. He got to the grand total of 97 before he had to restart, breathing heavily as Twisted Fate spoke in a bright voice, leaning against the wall.
“Professor Graves, to you.”
“Listen, I think we might have gotten off on the wrong foot. I really didn’t mean for the whole hallway incident to be my first impression. Would you consider accepting this as a peace offering, and an apology?”
The man held a new mug of steaming, creamy liquid out to him, a delightful caffeinated aroma with a touch of nutmeg and cloves wafting in the air. There was no way in hell this bastard managed to squeeze this out of the decrepit coffee maker in the break room.
Graves begrudgingly took the cup, only because he didn’t trust the other man with hot liquid considering their history. From this proximity, he noticed small, etched tattoos on the mage’s knuckles, runes trailing up until they disappeared into the shadows of his sleeves. Curious.
“What do you want?”
“Well, seeing as we will be spending some time together in the coming weeks, I wanted to create an environment for positivity.”
Graves scoffed, rolling his eyes. That might be the cheesiest thing he’s ever heard.
“Yeah, ok. Let me know how that works out for you, sunshine.” Graves dug around in his pocket for his silver lighter, but recalled a second later that he left it sitting on his desk. Fucking fantastic.
“Here, allow me.” Twisted Fate whipped out a card, and before Graves had a chance to back away, the man held it up to the end of his cigar. Warmth glowed against his face, the paper alit and flickering in the mage’s hands.
The first drag makes the tutor a little more tolerable.
“Can we exchange phone numbers?”
Scratch that. What the fuck?
A puff of smoke caught in his throat, causing him to slightly choke. “Why the hell do you need that? I’m an academy professor, not some dewy-eyed schoolgirl. Send an email if for some reason you have to contact me.”
Twisted Fate rolled his eyes. “You want me to fax it too? Maybe a carrier pigeon?”
“Excuse me?”
“Well, most of us have exited the stone age by now. Text is the most efficient way of receiving quick responses that won’t interrupt lessons. Some questions might need a reply sooner than a fortnight.”
The beginnings of a headache are forming in the center of his forehead, the ache nearly as unbearable as this conversation was. Graves rubbed the bridge of his nose, sighing deeply, then reluctantly dug in his pocket for his cellphone. Opening the contacts app, he thrusted it into Fate’s hands.
“Whatever. But if you message me after office hours, I’ll block you.”
Humming, satisfied, Fate inputted his contact, sending a test text from Graves’ phone to his own with a ding. Graves can only puff his cigar viciously, yanking the device out of the tutor’s hands once he finished.
“You know… you really shouldn’t smoke on campus.”
“Oh? That so?” Graves faced the other man, leaning into his space. From this distance, he could pinpoint little flecks of gold in those piercing blue irises, like sparks of embers imbedded in ice. With a long exhale, he blew a cloud of smoke in Fate’s face, satisfied with the small cough earned in response. “You should fuck off and mind your own damn business.”
Turning away, Graves cheekily straightened his tie. He prided himself at setting the bar high, in order to show who's in charge around here. That smarmy little shit isnt going to get under his skin. Maybe Graves can get him to resign early...
A soft fizzle crackled near his face, almost too faint to be heard over the sound of his footsteps. Graves tried to go for another inhale, but stopped short when cold, wet air sucked into his mouth. What the hell…
He pulled the cigar from his lips, only to realize that the tip was damp, totally extinguished, as if someone had dunked the end in water!
Graves turned on the balls of his heel, sending a seething look over his shoulder. Fate stared back defiantly, the corner of his mouth upturned in a knowing grin. He innocently gestured with his hands.
“You know what they say. The mage giveth, the mage taketh away. See you around, Graves.”
With that, the substitute flourished his long cloak, walking down the opposite hallway with sharp clacks of his slightly-heeled dress shoes.
“It’s Professor Graves,” he gritted out, but the man was too far gone to hear him.
100, 99, 98, 97, 96…
For a moment, he stood still in the empty hallway, hands slightly trembling as he clutched the new mug of steaming coffee in one hand, and his phone in the other. The absolute nerve of some people!
Stomping over to the closest water fountain, he dumped the liquid down the drain. Sick satisfaction curled in his gut as he watched the creamy brew swirl and disappear into the pipe. Graves isn’t going to accept any more favors from that man, no matter how big of a smile he had on his face!
Glancing down at his phone, Twisted Fate’s contact information still glowed on the screen, nothing but a blank picture and a set of numbers. Immediately, he promised himself that under no circumstances would he text this man of his own volition.
With clumsy fingers (Graves was never much of a texter - the keyboard is much too small for his hands), he renamed the contact, smashing the ‘save’ button. It wasn’t much - maybe slightly childish on his part - but it made him feel a bit better.
(1:18 PM) - Contact Name Updated: ‘dumb asschanter’
It's going to be a long fucking year.