2. Red Stockings

Red Stockings

D o you know what's interesting about Chronicles of Arcane History class? Absolutely fucking nothing.

That's the first thing I think as I slump into my seat, shooting a look at Sam beside me. She's already halfway through doodling in the margins of her notebook, and I can't blame her. This class is notorious for being as exciting as watching paint dry. If paint was ancient, magical, and mostly irrelevant to our daily lives.

The room itself is one of the larger lecture halls, with tiered seating and walls covered in tapestries depicting great magical battles and treaties between different species—like we're supposed to be inspired or something. Honestly, all it does is remind me how long these classes feel. In front of us, Professor Elowen glides in like a breeze, her long flowing robes sweeping behind her. She's tall and elegant, with silver-streaked hair and a no-nonsense vibe that commands attention. Think Galadriel, but with a glare that could turn you to stone.

"Elowen's looking cheery today," I mutter to Sam as I drop my bag next to my desk.

Sam stifles a giggle. "Maybe today she'll surprise us with something exciting."

I raise an eyebrow. "In this class? Doubt it." Just as I finish whispering, Kyla strolls in, looking like she just stepped out of some perfect witch fashion magazine. Her hair is flawless, every strand in place, and her clothes? Not a wrinkle in sight. She takes her usual spot at the front, casting a casual glance back at me, like she's already planning her next move.

"Morning, Zaria," she says, with that fake sweetness that always makes my skin crawl. "I see you've chosen your usual spot in the back. Keeps expectations low, right?"

I give her a thin smile. "Well, someone's gotta watch your back. Don't want anyone to stab it before I get a chance to." The class bursts into quiet laughter, a few people exchanging amused glances. Even Sam snickers beside me. Kyla's smile falters for just a second before she smooths it over, clearly unamused but too proud to let it show.

Professor Elowen steps to the front, her cool voice slicing through the laughter. "Settle down, everyone. We're here to learn, not trade insults." Her gaze lingers on me and Kyla for a moment, and I can tell she's warning me not to push it. Fine. For now.

Kyla sits up straighter, flicking her hair over her shoulder like she's some kind of royal in a court full of peasants. "Speaking of learning," she says, voice dripping with condescension, "I'm just so eager to see what new knowledge we'll be absorbing today. Aren't you, Zaria?"

I don't miss a beat. "Oh, definitely. Can't wait to learn something that isn't just ‘how to be insufferably perfect in public.' You'll have to teach me that sometime, Kyla." The class roars again, and even Elowen, though trying to keep a straight face, can't hide the slight twitch of amusement on her lips. Kyla, however, narrows her eyes at me. This isn't over. But for now, I've got the upper hand.

"Alright, enough," Professor Elowen calls out, her voice firm. "Let's focus, shall we?"

I lean back in my seat, grinning to myself as the room settles. Sam gives me a nudge. "You really need to stop poking the bear."

"Where's the fun in that? Besides, she started it." I say, my grin widening.

Elowen continues her lecture, diving into the history of the Fae Wars, but my attention drifts. Kyla's little digs don't usually bother me—I'm quick enough to shut her down before she gets too far—but lately, she's been trying harder to one-up me, especially since we're both witches. It's like she thinks I'm competition. Which, in fairness, I probably am, but that's her problem, not mine.

Next to me, Sam's focus seems to be split between scribbling down notes and trying not to fall asleep. "What's your grimoire looking like, by the way?" I whisper.

"Better than it did this morning, thanks to your promise to help me after dinner," Sam whispers back. "I swear, if I don't finish it by tomorrow, I'll scream."

I chuckle. "We'll get it done. Don't worry."

Kyla raises her hand suddenly, and Elowen calls on her, of course. "Professor," Kyla begins in her smooth, overly-polished tone, "don't you think it's important to acknowledge the impact of witches on the Arcane War, particularly our role in the eventual peace?"

She's clearly showing off, and Elowen seems impressed. Typical.

I mutter under my breath, "Oh sure, Kyla, why don't we just dedicate a whole class to how great witches are. Starting with you."

Sam snorts, and I shoot her a grin. But of course, Kyla catches the whisper and shoots me a sharp look. She's probably planning her next move, but I'm ready for it. Always am.

The class drags on, but I find myself strangely entertained by my own snarky commentary, mostly aimed at Kyla's holier-than-thou attitude. Elowen's lecture continues, detailing some ancient treaty between vampires and werewolves, but all I can think about is whether I'm going to survive the next hour without another jab from Kyla.

Honestly? Probably not. But at least I'll have fun with it.

The cafeteria is exactly what you'd expect at a school filled with magical creatures—chaos. There's no such thing as "calm" in this place. The noise alone could drive a banshee insane. The space is large, with rows of long tables filled with students, each one more colorful than the last. The walls are lined with murals of enchanted forests and shimmering lakes, but honestly, no one's paying attention to the decor. The real show is the students themselves.

Dryads cluster around the potted trees by the entrance, their skin shimmering like bark under sunlight, branches swaying with every word they speak. They're always whispering, as if nature itself is sharing its secrets with them. Over by the windows, a group of fae sit on the ledge, their wings flickering like dragonfly wings, eyes gleaming with mischief as they plot their next prank—innocence never suits them. And then there are the gargoyles, hunched over their own table, their stone-gray skin cracked and weathered. They're surprisingly chatty, their deep voices booming like thunder, though they seem to take breaks every few minutes to pose dramatically. Everyone's got their group, their clique, their species-specific circle of friends. It's like any other high school, but with fangs, fur, and wings.

Me? I'm with Sam and Derek, seated at one of the central tables, which is prime real estate for people-watching and occasionally dodging magical mishaps. Derek's practically inhaling a plate of something that smells vaguely of meat, while Sam pokes at her salad, clearly more interested in her grimoire than her food. Meanwhile, I've got a half-eaten sandwich in front of me that I'm pretending to care about.

"You know," I say, lazily swirling my straw in my drink, "if I have to listen to one more siren laugh like she's auditioning for some supernatural version of The Voice , I might just hex myself."

Sam grins, still scribbling notes in her grimoire. "You've survived worse, Z. Remember that time in Cauldron Concoctions when Hank almost set your hair on fire?"

I roll my eyes. "Ugh, don't remind me. I still smell burnt lavender every time I walk into that class."

Derek chuckles, his mouth half-full. "You mean when he tried to fix it with an anti-flame spell and accidentally turned your cauldron into a geyser?"

I shoot him a mock glare. "Yes, Derek, I remember. Very vividly, thanks."

He smirks and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. "Still, you've got to admit, it was hilarious watching you dodge boiling potion."

Before I can retort, I feel the familiar prickle at the back of my neck—like someone's watching me. And not in the "I'm crushing on you" way. Nope, this feels more like "I'm planning something, and it's going to be awful."

I glance over my shoulder and—yep, there she is. Kyla. Sitting with her perfectly poised, perfectly annoying group of friends. Witches and half-vampires, all looking like they've stepped out of a supernatural magazine. Kyla catches my eye, and the corner of her mouth lifts in that smug little smirk she's perfected over the years.

Great.

"Z, don't engage," Sam says without even looking up from her grimoire. She knows me too well.

"I'm not engaging," I say, turning back around and taking a sip of my drink. "I'm just... aware."

Derek snorts. "Yeah, right. You two have been circling each other for weeks. It's only a matter of time before one of you snaps."

"I'm not going to snap," I say, more to myself than anyone else. "I'm going to be mature and take the high road."

Derek raises an eyebrow. "Sure you are." Before I can argue, I feel a sudden tug on my leg—more specifically, on my stocking. I glance down, and my eyes widen in horror. A thread. A loose thread. And it's unraveling fast.

"Oh, you've got to be kidding me," I mutter, reaching down to stop the thread from pulling any further.

It doesn't take a genius to figure out who's behind this. I glance up, and sure enough, Kyla's got her wand discreetly pointed in my direction, her smile widening as the thread keeps unraveling. My perfect red stockings, coming apart at the seams.

My blood boils, but I force myself to stay calm. I could hex her. I could. But no. That's what she wants. I'm better than that. Instead, I take a deep breath, stand up, and walk—no, strut —over to her table, making sure to put a little extra swing in my step, like I don't have a care in the world.

"Kyla," I say sweetly, leaning on the edge of her table, "I couldn't help but notice my stockings suddenly started unraveling. Any idea how that happened?"

Kyla feigns innocence, batting her eyelashes. "Oh, Zaria, I have no idea what you're talking about. Maybe they were just cheap?"

Cheap. My stockings. My vintage red stockings.

I force a smile, though I can feel my teeth grinding. "Cheap? That's rich, coming from someone who spends more on lip gloss than I do on an entire outfit." Her friends snicker, but I keep my focus on Kyla. She knows what she did, and she knows I know.

Kyla shrugs, twirling a strand of her perfectly curled hair. "Maybe you just don't take care of your things. I mean, not everyone has the luxury of being perfect , right?"

"Perfect?" I tilt my head, giving her the most saccharine smile I can muster. "Oh, Kyla, honey. If perfection was measured in self-obsession, you'd be queen. But I guess I'm just content being, you know, a real person." The cafeteria erupts in laughter. Even a few of Kyla's friends chuckle before quickly covering it up with coughs. Kyla's smile falters, and I know I've hit a nerve.

She straightens, her voice dripping with venom. "Careful, Zaria. You wouldn't want that real person of yours to get hurt. You know how fragile you can be."

My fists clench at my sides, but I stay rooted in place, refusing to give her the satisfaction of seeing me lose my cool. "Fragile? Sweetie, the only thing fragile around here is your ego." The laughter around us gets louder, and even Sam and Derek are grinning from ear to ear. Kyla's face is a mix of rage and humiliation, and for a second, I think she might actually hex me.

But then, like the universe's timing couldn't be worse, my stocking gives one final tug and tears, right across the knee. I glare down at it, my blood boiling.

"Oh, Kyla," I say, my voice calm but laced with poison. "You know the only thing I hate more than dealing with your pathetic little power plays? Ruined stockings." Kyla's smirk returns, but before she can say anything, I take a step back and give her a mock bow. "But don't worry, I won't stoop to your level. Some of us have standards."

And with that, I turn on my heel and walk back to my table, head held high, even though I can feel the tear in my stocking like a neon sign.

When I sit down, Sam's practically beaming. "That was epic ."

Derek leans back in his chair, giving me an approving nod. "You really know how to cut deep."

I grin, though my eye twitches as I look down at my stocking. "She's lucky that's the only thing getting cut today."