This Isn't About Reya

Chapter One R

(November 2, 1886 RV)

A bleeding high note signalled the beginning of class for the students of the ICAE on the rim of the Lower Ward Wall at the junction of the military and education sectors of the city of Dragotsennost'. Students in the thirteenth-year history lecture hall took longer than usual to find their ways to their seats. As their professor for the day called the room full of sixteen and seventeen year-olds to order, a small girl with dark hair took her usual spot in the very back row of the sloping room. She watched with hazel eyes as the rest of the students reluctantly found their own seats, laughing above the orders of the professor and summoning glimmering hardlight sheets into existence on the desks in front of them.

A group of unruly boys, school uniforms in disarray and hair in ungroomed mops that was the fashion of the time, took the row of seats in front of her and made themselves comfortable. They propped their feet on the backs of the chairs in front of them and talked loudly as the professor began his lecture. The dark-haired girl lowered her face close to the hardlight sheet in front of her and pretended to read over her notes from last week, which she had not taken.

After a few minutes, the professor took notice of the boys and threatened to kick them out of the classroom if they didn't shut up. The boy at the end of the row gladly stood to comply, but was tugged back into his seat by his friend sitting next to him. A giggle rippled through the lecture hall, and the professor switched from lecturing about the NSU's military conquests to the blatant lack of respect of the students in the room. As the professor droned on, failing to intimidate any of the students from his short stature and flop of wispy, silver hair, the boys resumed their discussions in mildly quieted tones.

"Psst, Reya," one of them hissed, turning in his seat to stare at the girl who sat alone in the row behind them.

Reya Chernykh did not look up from her notes, and instead crossed her ankles and pulled her backpack nearer to her legs.

The boy, however, persisted. "What's it feel like, huh?" His group of friends snorted around him, stifling laughter as the professor resumed his talk on Union warfare. "We're just curious, trying to get some extra studying in before the exam." The hood on his coat was pulled up over the back half of his head, curly white-blonde hair puffing out of the front of it.

Reya continued to ignore them and tried to listen to the professor's far-away voice over the boys in front of her.

"We're just wondering, y'know?" the boy next to him prodded. His hair was straight and red, indicating that his genetic line was not as developed as the purified, highborn Russians. "What's it like knowing your people fought a hundred-year war just to fail in the end?"

The boys around him chuckled again. "Your ancestors were probably in Russian death camps," the blonde boy told her. "Beaten and starved. No wonder your people all look so ugly."

Reya felt her face burning and gripped her pen a little tighter as the boys howled at their own insults. The professor, his head swiveling around on hunched shoulders, took notice again and called to the back of the room.

"Mr. Zaitsyoff," he barked in a dusty voice, "Since you seem to be paying such close attention, could you inform the class of the Tsar's strategy for uprooting the Icelandics from their defenses?"

"Eat dirt, Vulture," the blonde-haired boy muttered.

"A little louder, please," the professor ordered. "And stand up when you address the class."

The boy rose to his feet begrudgingly. "He was going to lase them from orbit," he said loudly, shoving his hands into his pockets.

"Not even close," the professor replied flatly. He tapped the floor of the room with the butt of his metal staff and sighed. "Do you even know the name of the Tsar at the time?"