If Stratagor Ziras doesn't kill me, my training program will!
Every day I wake up and go through the motions, but they've figured out that I'm not a Knight. I can't ride, I can't fight, I can't do magic, and worst of all, I can't see whatever it is...
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I wish I was brave enough to tell someone that I need a break, but I'm a passive little doormat who does whatever I'm told. I can't change who I am, so I should stop berating myself for wordlessly walking to Kyrbast's laboratory instead of taking a nap like I need to.
The clicking of my heels against the stone steps of the spiral staircase slows as I get closer to the door that's hung on the wall like a picture frame. I've had a long day already, and I'm not up for a magic lesson. Frankly, I don't want to be in Cromsmead anymore. I'm just not cut out for all this learning and training.
I'm more miserable here than I ever was on Earth. At least on Earth I was invisible; here I'm pointed at and whispered about. I've spent my entire life being different, but in Cromsmead I'm really different. I'm surrounded by petite, pointy elves who speak in a language I can't understand no matter how hard I try. It's lonely. There's nobody my own age around, and while I have a handful of adults to talk with, they're so busy imparting their wisdom that there isn't much time for conversation.
I try to rationalize that I only knew Jonah for like a month and Dathid for less than that, and we became friends even though they were so much older than me. So it stands to reason that I can make new friends, maybe even ones my own age, but it's been over two weeks since they left and I still can't shake my depression.
I haul myself up through the oddly-placed doorframe. I find stepping up from the lower stair easier than the higher one because I can grab the doorframe and pull myself up to the threshold. Honestly, I don't know how Kyrbast gets his old bones through this door every day. Although I don't think he went to his room last night because he's in the same spot I left him in yesterday: at his table, with his nose in a book. He must have slept in his chair because his hair is flat on the left and a fuzzy white cloud on the right.
He doesn't acknowledge me, so I take the opportunity to gather the haphazardly stacked books off various tables and jam them back into the overstuffed shelves. I have to rush through it because the cloud of dust that blows in my face with each shove makes my eyes itch. Then I add a log to the fire and regret getting so close to the cauldron because it smells like he's boiling old socks.
I've done everything I'm allowed to do and he still hasn't looked up. I poke at the collection of dead creatures that are housed in neat jars of varying sizes and floating in a clear liquid. The giant hairy spider-thing with moth wings is particularly gross. I'm trying to determine if those are fangs or more legs when it leaps at me.
I jump back with a yell, my heart pounding in my ears.
"I'm sorry. That wasn't very nice of me, but I couldn't resist," Kyrbast laughs from behind me.
The spider is peacefully floating in his jar again, but I watch it for a second to make sure it's actually dead. Satisfied that it won't make any more moves, I turn to glare at Kyrbast. On another day, I would've found his prank funny, but today I don't want to be happy.
