The Devoured Sons: Book One: Echoes of The Solemn Veil

Chapter Three - The Solemn Veil

Returning to our narrative, I had just left Dorian behind, seeking my first class. I charged through The Academy's East Wing, my eyes darting left to "Integrated Futures - Professor Brown." No, not it. A glance to the right: "Societal Dynamics - Professor Marsden." Another miss. All doors were closed, and all students had disappeared. Accompanied only by the mechanical echoes of my shoes striking the stone floor, I galloped the entire length of the corridor—a wild but shod steed—until, at last, there it was: "Intelligent Design - Professor Algernon."

A mammoth oak door twice my height stood between me and my class. I grasped the iron handle and pushed, aiming for a quiet entrance. However, the heavy door creaked ominously, and its latch clanged with resounding disapproval as if it were designed specifically for that purpose. The Professor paused his lecture mid-sentence. Every head in the theater swiveled and stared at me. Some were annoyed; others were wide-eyed like they might have just stumbled into a public execution.

I struggled to move, not only because of nervousness but because the atmospheric change was equally jarring. The Academy's exterior was an architectural wonder, teeming with artistic stone and metal works. The lecture theater abandoned those pretensions, confusing me with its minimalist core. Dark, cold metal seats extended in tiered semi-circles, painfully mirroring the sterile glare of overhead light. Like the walls, the ceiling panels were a uniform plane of untouched white. There was no art, carvings, or flourishes whatsoever. It was as if beauty itself might corrupt our learning and should be avoided at all costs.

On the stage below, Professor Algernon had fixed his stern yet charismatic eyes upon me. "Tardy on the first day, are we?"

I nodded. "Yes, sir. My apologies."

"A rather dubious start, wouldn't you agree, Mr—?" his voice trailed off, inviting me to fill the void.

"Slevin, sir," I replied.

"Mr. Slevin," he echoed. "Regrettably, you've missed the introduction. As the sign outside and the nameplate on my desk indicate, I am Professor Algernon. These," he gestured toward the rows of students with open arms, "are your peers."

Following a single stroke of his short goatee, he continued. "Now that we know each other, Mr. Slevin, I must admit, curiosity gets the better of me. You hold the dishonorable distinction of being the only one ever late for the first day of my class. What's your excuse? Ignorance or disrespect?"

Though he showed no indication of it, I had an odd feeling that the scene was merely an act—a smile and a wink behind his furrowed brow—and I was the ill-equipped actor who had stepped into the wrong play. Searching for my lost lines, I improvised. "Neither, sir. I was with another student and lost track of time."

"Ah, so disrespect it is," he concluded.

Flustered, I defended myself. "Well, no, it's just that—"

"It's just that you were so engrossed in a conversation," he said, "that you personified Einstein's Theory of Relativity. Is that correct, Mr. Slevin? Did you experience time differently than the rest of us this morning? Fascinating! An excuse so terribly contrived that it could only be truth. Mr. Slevin, do tell, who was this mesmerizing conversationalist that took you on that swift and enlightening journey?"

I didn't want to blame my new friend, but considering the potential consequences, self-preservation won the day. "His name is Dorian, sir."

Before the Professor could reply, the second-year students broke out into waves of muffled laughter. Like me, the new students shrugged, searching for the punchline.

Professor Algernon let out an exasperated sigh. "Of course it's Dorian. Who else would it be?" He shook a dismissive hand and casually sat on the edge of his desk. With amused resignation, the Professor granted my one wish. "Well, Mr. Slevin, don't just stand there. Find yourself a seat. If it suits you, I'd like to continue my lecture."