Nepenthe • Something that can make you forget grief or suffering.
Never feeling like they belonged was a feeling that Lissa Dragomir lived with, even with her family and life long best friend, although they aided in that feeling not being so strong...
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The car ride from the small regional airport wound through the misty countryside of Navarre — narrow roads flanked by evergreen slopes and the faint outline of the Pyrenees beyond. Snow dusted the stone walls that bordered the Academy's grounds, the sprawling campus of St. Jude's Academy half-hidden beneath the quiet winter fog.
By the time Dimitri stepped out of the car, the sun was setting behind the mountains — though here, that meant classes were just beginning. Students, Dhampir and Moroi alike, crossed the courtyard in thick coats, their breath visible in the cold air.
A tall man waited by the entrance to the main building, his salt-and-pepper hair combed neatly back, the insignia of the Academy stitched in gold on his dark jacket.
"Guardian Belikov," the man greeted in a formal Castilian accent. "Welcome to St. Jude. I'm Headmaster Esteban Rivas. We're honored to have you here."
Dimitri shook his hand firmly as he said. "Thank you, Headmaster Rivas. I appreciate you seeing me on such short notice."
The Headmaster smiled thinly. "When the Dominion calls, we listen." He gestured toward the arched doors. "Come. You must be cold — and I imagine you wish to see the boy."
The Headmaster's office was large and dimly lit, the walls lined with bookshelves and old portraits of Moroi donors. A single lamp cast a golden glow across a polished wooden desk, where a manila folder waited.
And all in all the St. Jude's Academy had the same layout at St. Vladimir's Academy and St. Basil's, which meant that Dimitri wasn't that lost walking around.
"Nikolai Belikov," Rivas said, opening the file with careful precision. "Age eight. Enrolled for the Kindergarten program at the age of three. Top of his class in language, mathematics, and combat drills. His instructors speak highly of his focus and composure — remarkable for his age."
Dimitri's dark eyes moved over the neat handwriting and the photographs clipped to the report — a serious little boy with sharp, intelligent features and clear blue eyes. The expression was solemn, almost guarded, and yet there was something painfully familiar in it. So much of his mother, but the stillness, the restraint — that was all Belikov. His chest tightened.
"He's better than I was," Dimitri murmured quietly. "At his age, I was still learning to steady my stance."
Rivas inclined his head. "Perhaps. But Nikolai doesn't have much of a choice. The children housed in the Dominion's orphanages follow a strict regimen — training, study, rest. No exceptions. Not even during the holidays. Sometimes it's worse than the Academies."
Dimitri's brow furrowed, disbelief flickering across his features. "You mean they don't get time off? Not even a few days to rest?"
Rivas gave a faint shrug, as though the question revealed naivety. "They are raised to serve. Discipline is their protection — their purpose. Idleness," he added coolly, "is a luxury they are not afforded, of course the Academies give them a bit more leniency, but as you well know Dhampir aren't afforded the same luxuries that the Moroi are."
