DIVENIRE // tsfgae oc

𝙏𝙝𝙚 𝙒𝙞𝙩𝙘𝙝, 𝙏𝙝𝙚 𝙋𝙧𝙞𝙣𝙘𝙚, 𝙖𝙣𝙙 𝙏𝙝𝙚 𝙀𝙡𝙛

Agathokakological:
(adj.) composed of both good and evil.

Each school had its own entrance to the Theater of Tales, which was split into two halves right down the center. The west doors opened into the side for the Good students, decorated with pink and blue pews, crystal friezes, and glittering bouquets of glass flowers. The east doors opened into the side for Evil students, with warped wooden benches, carvings of murder and torture, and deadly stalactites dangling from the burnt ceiling. As students herded into their halves for the Welcoming, fairies and wolves guarded the silver marble aisle between them.

Agatha had disappeared the second the crowd was thick enough.

Josephine sunk down in their seat, twisting the charms of their silver bracelet absentmindedly. It had been a parting gift from their father, an enchanted bracelet meant to save them whenever the need may arise. Whatever that meant.

One issue, though— they didn't know exactly how it would save them. And it wasn't like they were going to need saving in the first place. This was a school, wasn't it? Schools were supposed to be safe.

Or so they had been told. They had never actually... been to a school like this. 

Schools also were supposed to have more than 180 students, by the looks of it. A majority of Evil's side was full of students, throwing things at each other and already bickering over God knows what. Good, on the other hand, was half-deserted.

Josephine hoped whatever rumbling was coming down the hall was the other half. The sound made most of the girls bolt upright, as if they had been waiting for the thunder of boots their entire lives. From the hall, the echo of laughter, the clash of steel—

They sat up.

The west doors flew open to sixty gorgeous boys in sword-fight.

Greaaat.

Sun-kissed skin peeked through light blue sleeves and stiff collars; tall navy boots matched high-cut waistcoats and knotted slim ties, each embroidered with a single gold initial. As the boys playfully crossed blades, their shirts came untucked from tight beige britches, revealing slender waists and flashes of muscle.

Fifteen- to sixteen-year-old boys could be insufferable, especially when they were raised royal.
Sweat glistened on glowing faces as they jabbed at each other down the aisle, boots cracking on marble, until swiftly the sword-fight climaxed, boys pinning boys on pews. In a last chorus of movement, they drew roses from their shirts and with a shout of "Milady!" threw them to the girl who most caught their eye. 

Josephine was whacked by three aimed for Beatix. With an annoyed grimace, they flicked petals off their lap and crushed them beneath their heel. 

Beatrix had enough roses to plant a garden.

In the decayed pews, the villains booed the princes, brandished banners with "NEVERS RULE" and "EVERS STINK!" like some kind of shabby protest. With a bow, the princes blew kissed to villains and prepared to take their seats when the west doors suddenly slammed open again—
And one more walked in.

Hair a halo of gorgeous bronze, eyes as blue as a cloudless sky, skin the color of hot desert sand, he glistened with a noble sheen, as if his blood ran purer than the rest. Either that, or he was coated in glitter. Both seemed like valid descriptions. The stranger took one look at the frowning, sword-armed boys, pulled his own sword... and grinned. 

Josephine gagged on their own breath. His sword was hideous.

Forty boys came at him at once, but he disarmed each with lightning speed. The swords of his classmates piled up beneath his feet as his flicked them away with inflicting so much as a scratch. Jo half-hoped he would impale himself.