Wicked Games Academy

CHAPTER 1

I don't know how it began, how I began to stop occasionally in the hallways when he passed. I observed the face smiling serenely, maybe even mysteriously, before I turned to class or wherever I was going in disdain.

I knew it began around my first semester of my tenth year—my first year—at Graycott's Academy for Knights. It was unquestionably Goldenvale's best academy in the kingdom, and everyone here desired to be a knight.

The higher your rank is, as it should be after entering tenth year, we were allowed special gold or silver accessories such pins, necklaces, and even robes embellished with their coat of arms. All the boys who entered for their tenth year such as I were only given a black blazer, black pants, and you guessed it—black oxfords.

Maybe it's because of the way he sought me out, but I hated Clive the moment we met. He called me out familiarly, a hand up in a wave as I frowned.

"I don't recall making your acquaintance," I'd say.

"But we have the same classes," he would always reply before saying whatever he needed to.

Boys shied from me, as I was already the hope of this year's professors. My brothers were great students and knights now, and of course, it all began with my great-great-grandfather, and even my father now works with the King and his advisors.

We were known to be one of the families that loyally stayed by the Royal Family of Goldenvale, and I knew my surname stood out more.

My name was not Nathaniel Edgar. It was Nathaniel Edgar Rottings. Perfect family name for a knight.

Rottings.

It was common to have people laugh at me and imitate me speaking in a monotonous but high and mighty voice. I didn't really mind it and ignored what I could, and that included Clive, who was always laughing next to me with his perfect pink lips.

Clive was always welcome to talk and agreeable in most situations in the academy. He laughed when they said something, stood in the front like a leader, but he never disregarded his friends.

Boys called him Apollo, like the god. Clive was our sun and god of war.

He was not extremely muscular though, in our fighting classes we had to change out of our uniform and he was always skinny. Still, he maintained his boyish innocence and competed without mercy.

He was so skilled at fighting, in fact, both he and I (as well as four other boys in our grade) were upgraded to a different fighting class, now with physical combat rather than only fencing.

It was a rather draining physical class and I disliked it. First few times the eleventh years ganged up on us, especially me, and I realized knights, too, went as low as to hit our faces and kick one another to the ground.

Every activity we had the rules were lax. We had fist fights, kicking, and dodging, then that was the extent of what they called teaching. They wanted to see who had raw fighting power or talent and we were always trying to knock one another down. Another reason I don't make friends.

One time we learned how to swing a sword, and the rest of the time we tried dodging wooden swords of no avail.

"It's called Slums Fighting. That's how they do it in the slums," an older boy had laughed.

"Is that why you're so good at it, Clive?" another asked.

That was awful to say. Clive was an adopted refugee so he wasn't even from the slums.

Yet Clive maintained a civil face then smiled snidely.

"Is that why you suck at it, Chastings?"

The air was awkward until his friends ceased defeat. They clapped Clive on his shoulders.