Slouching against the cool glass of the school bus, Aaron closed his eyes, still exhausted from a restless night.
He was in his usual spot, two rows behind the driver, enjoying the rare window seat on the morning bus ride because he had boarded the bus before the fellow student who usually sat with him.
That convenience was always reversed on the way home, but for now, he was happy to rest.
As the bus continued along its designated route, stopping frequently to pick up more and more students, Rykker was mentally pacing the perimeter of Aaron’s consciousness like a caged lion.
“Aaron!
My mind reels!
Tell me, what invisible force pulls this yellow carriage?
No, do not speak of ‘engines’—by what power does it move, for I feel no magic in it?
And why, in the name of the ancients, does it roar with such deafening rage?
Are these carriages possessed, that they make such unnatural, grinding sounds?”
Aaron groaned in frustration.
He thought about Rykker’s perception and opinions of his world.
Where Rykker came from, the nights were lit by glowing beast crystals and the hum of ambient magic.
Here, in Aaron’s world, the air buzzed with electricity, smog, and the cold, relentless click of machines.
Aaron tried to imagine the terror—or perhaps the wonder—of swapping a world of living energy for one of cold steel, but he couldn’t, not really anyway.
Rykker didn’t wait for answers, instead he continued to spout out more questions.
“To where does our travels lead?
I behold the initiates all clad in matching vestments; do we march toward the sparring fields to sharpen our steel?
Or perchance, is it sacred lore we seek, journeying to some great academy of wisdom or a Master’s guild?
These apprentices are a clamorous lot—have they no fear of drawing the gaze of dangerous beasts?”
“I know you have questions, General.
But I can’t answer them all.
Some things have to be experienced, not heard.
Just…
watch and learn,” Aaron muttered, staring intensely at the vinyl seat in front of him.
The boy next to him—a sophomore with earbuds in his ears—slowly slid to the edge of the seat, eyeing Aaron like he was a crazy person.
Aaron didn’t blame him.
He felt crazy because inside his head, a magical, battle-hardened General was demanding to know why the “iron carriage” could move without beasts or beast crystals and what the strange material the seats were made out of.
His fellow seat-mate quickly looked down at the center aisle as if the floor of the bus was suddenly the most interesting thing in the world, avoiding eye contact.
Aaron grimaced.
Talking to himself?
Mentioning a nonexistent General?
Check.
Describing a bus like a carriage pulled by oxen?
Check.
Verdict: Definitely insane.
***
Rykker silenced himself, opting to observe rather than overwhelm Aaron with questions.
The ride to school was pleasantly animated for about six minutes after Rykker chose to remain silent—six minutes of amiable chatter of other students and the soft scuff of sneakers on the bus floor.
Sunlight slanted through the dusty glass, catching the swirling motes of lint that danced in the stagnant air.
Then, the peace shattered.
He felt the gaze before he saw it—a heavy, oily weight pressing against the back of his neck.
Turning slowly, he met the glare of Tank Pritchard.
Tank didn’t just sit; he loomed, claiming three times the space he needed in the vinyl seat several rows back.
His hair was normally black, but recently Tank dyed it a jarring, artificial blond, styled with the kind of precision that spoke of vanity and unearned confidence.
But it was his eyes—a piercing, icy blue that seemed devoid of empathy, like a predator tracking its next move, that unnerved him the most.
In that stare lived the dark history of the school’s hallway whispers: the “accident” in the locker room that left a freshman sidelined for a season, and the long list of confrontations that always seemed to vanish from the official record.
Tank was more than just a bully; he was an institution.
As the principal’s golden child and the star running back whose name was synonymous with the school’s athletic pride, he existed in a sphere of total impunity.
The air around him seemed to thicken with the threat of physical force, a coiled tension in his broad shoulders that suggested he wasn’t just watching—he was looking for an excuse to strike.
Tank didn’t just speak; he spat, his voice dense with a dangerous, quiet malice.
“Who’re you talking to, Freak?”
Aaron shrank deep, melting further into his seat, quickly turning his focus to the scenery outside the bus.
He kept his eyes locked on the blurred trees rushing past the window, terrified that even a flicker of eye contact would escalate the situation.
He knew this game: Tank wanted a reaction, and he was starving for it.
Inside his mind, Aaron whispered, “General, tell me, you can still hear me.”
“I am here, Sir Aaron,” came the mental reply, cool and detached.
“So…
who is this youth?” The General’s mental voice resonated with a measured, ancient cadence.
“He carries a heavy grudge.
Do you wish to speak on it?”
“I do not particularly wish to discuss it, no, but I will explain the situation so that you might understand better.” Aaron spent about five minutes explaining who Tank was and why he behaved that way.
“Indeed, boy.
Tank is a scroll-worthy example,” the General countered, his mental image sharp and imposing.
“He wields dominance to mask his own ineptitude.
He carries the crushing weight of being the academy’s champion chained to the legacy of a rigid, tyrannical hold, with a sire who rules over this place like a cruel despot1.
For Tank, humiliating others was no mere act of cruelty—it was a fleeting, reckless and impulsive surge of power.
His behavior was a meager attempt to seize control over a life that was, contrarily1, totally enslaved by another.”
***
Rykker took a breath, on Bartuii, it was true that there were many factions riddled with infighting, bullying and intimidating grabs for power, but in Rykker’s faction, there was none of that.
Within the halls of the Arcanian Brotherhood, life was a composed symphony of social hierarchy; you knew your place, you respected your betters, and you certainly didn’t shatter the peace just to vent frustrations.
A “legitimate grievance” was the only currency for conflict, not raw, unbridled aggression.
He’d never seen such barbarism—at least, not within his own civilized walls.
Did bullying exist in the other factions?
Yes.
In fact, bullying was likely a crude symptom of their inferior politics, something his wife would undoubtedly be able to confirm with a tedious lecture on inter-faction sociology.
Serana.
Oh, how he missed his wife.
What he wouldn’t give to hold her in his arms right now.
***
The bus carrying Aaron ground to a shuddering halt, adding its rumble to the chaotic chorus of city horns and sirens.
It was part of a noisy, bustling morning ritual, falling in line with other similar-looking buses in the high-traffic drop-off zone.
They had arrived at Birch Branch High School, a run-down, stained-brick school; a structure that felt cramped and densely packed against the graying, smog-choked street.
With the air thick with exhaust and the weathered building looming over the narrow sidewalk, the entire scene felt claustrophobic.
Surrounded by faded graffiti and overflowing trash cans, the school looked neglected and deeply uninviting.
Although situated in a gritty, urban-suburban pocket deeper within the city, the school was a stark contrast to where Aaron and Amanda lived.
Their home was on the “uglier” side of town, quite a distance away, yet this school sat at a midpoint between their neighborhood and the city’s more lavish districts.
Because of this, the school’s population was a jarring mix, hosting everyone from local derelicts to the city’s hoity-toity elite.
When the engines finally cut out, a boisterous tide of teenagers spilled from the buses, instantly congesting the sidewalk with noise and aimless energy.
Aaron remained anchored to his seat, watching the animated migration of frayed denim and oversized hoodies from the safety of his seat.
To him, these social circles weren’t just groups; they were high-stakes negotiations with an entry fee he couldn’t afford.
Joining in meant navigating a minefield of unspoken debts—nodding at the right jokes or maintaining the specific brand of indifference required to fit in.
Since he lacked the social currency to buy his way into the fold, he chose a different path; the outsider.
By staying behind, he remained invisible in the machinery: silent, unburdened, and safely beyond the reach of the crowd’s exhausting social norms.
tyrantreversed; oppositely