Blackridge Institute (wlw)

Chapter 2

It happened like this:

Solomon Maria had found herself called to the gathering hall, but her siblings had not. They had jeered at her, wagging fingers in mockery. She had grit her teeth the whole way to there, already knowing what was to come.

Sol had been created over two decades ago, and she was at the age where she was supposed to be established within human society, either working to gather energy or entice humans to expand her household. Instead she went to university and went straight back home after she got her degrees.

Greathouse Scylpetaire, her beloved House, was a respected clan. They called themselves a greathouse, because they were many and strong, but in recent years, energy intake had been dwindling. Ren said it was because human behavior patterns were changing and they haven't adapted yet.

In the hall, most of the previous generations were there, staring down at her from balconies, which was new. Sometimes the House changed on its own whims.

"Elders," she said, with a weak, winsome smile. "I like the style. Very theatrical, like an opera house."

"Solomon," said Ren, who was one of the more respected elders. "Do you understand why you are here?"

Sol did, but they didn't let her speak. Someone else said, "We are dying."

"Not dying," Ren rebuked. "Not yet. We are weakening. The edges of our House have become cold. We need fuel, Solomon, and your help. Do you know why you are here, and not any of your siblings?"

"Because I am born of the fire." Solomon Maria was special in a way that burdened her. The House Hearth had gone dark and cold, its fire now in Solomon. It was a sign of great weakening.

"We are sending you to Blackridge," said the elders in unison. Sol often found this an absolute kick—the chanting in sync—but not when she was the recipient of the verdict.

"No—" She began, but Ren spoke over her.

"Greathouse Scylpetaire would be shamed for having no representative, and at any rate we believe you would make the best candidate." The silent disapproval was clear, the unspoken because you have never proven yourself rang in her ears. "Pack your things."

It happened like this:

Solomon Maria was late, so she went to dinner with all of her luggage still with her. After that, the first thing she had to do was put them away, which was why she rushed into her assigned dorm room without knocking.

Someone was already there.

The person started in the direction of the door. Sol noted short hair the color of wet dirt, the broad nose, and dark skin within human range. The clothes—a tweed jacket and linen pants rivaling the best of human tailors—were clearly manifested on. Sol also noted the unconcealed alarm that twisted the face.

It was gone as soon as it came. Some variant of a sneer replaced it, as eyes—shifting colors like oil spill—scanned her from horn to toe. She was glad she tucked her tail along a trouser leg, keeping it out of sight.

Sol clenched her hand around her luggage handle, impulsively. The person watched this, and on their unmarred face a third eye flickered open, just beneath the original left one. The mouth quirked up at the corners, the hourglass pupil dilated in glee and closed just as quick. The seam melted into the skin as soon as they saw that she saw it.

She was dealing with an angel. May the Hearth claim her now.

Nonetheless, Solomon was raised with manners. She dropped her bags and held out a hand. "Solomon Maria, Scylpetaire greathouse."