Building a faction added more strain to my already overflowing schedule, but I can’t say it was unbearable. Yet. Some aspects of it were even exhilarating, partly because I felt a calling to change the Isles future for the better. Partly, because it was like playing a dangerous game of chess, with the pieces living, breathing students and their influential parents. I carved out an hour before or after each class to loiter in the academy’s sun-dappled courtyards or the musty corners of the library. There, I drew classmates into hushed conversations about what was happening in the stewardship class and made mental notes of how each reacted, hoping to find supporters who would join me in the cause.
Ulf, the hulking white wolfkin I fought in the knight exam, slammed his massive paw-like fist into his palm when I told him about the Prince’s proposal. His red eyes blazed with a feral light that made nearby students edge away. It took nearly an hour of careful wordplay to calm his bristling hackles. And yes, his name is very on the nose for a wolfkin. I chuckled the first time I heard it, too. Ulf the Wolf.
Pretty much every single beastkin had a similar reaction to hearing what was being discussed in the royal courts of Somen and Veridia. But most of them had no power or influence to sway noble families. Unable to act directly, they hunched over rickety wooden desks in their dormitories by candlelight. They copied my carefully worded leaflets and bulletins until their paws cramped, eager to do what they could against that looming danger to their freedom.
The merchant kids proved receptive allies, too. Their eyes beaming with calculated interest as I explained how slavery would strangle the lifeblood of trade, which directly threatened their families’ businesses. Within days, crates of cream-colored parchment and bottles of midnight-black ink arrived at my door, tangible signs of their investment in protecting their livelihood.
The future members of the clergy, however, were a fractured lot. Some stared at me with blank, disinterested eyes, perhaps unsure how the issue fit with their religious obligations, while others deferred to the crown with downcast eyes and apprehensive glances, as if the royal family’s decisions carried divine weight. The idea of separation of state and religion wasn’t as clear-cut on Morne Isles as it was back on Earth. In fact, the balance of power between the two was constantly shifting, and it was pretty much up to the current king or queen in each kingdom. This uncertainty left many clergy students hesitant to take a stand.
Despite that, the faction roster had grown to three full pages of names, proof that many students believed it was necessary to act, no matter their background. It was a tapestry of allies from different backgrounds united by a common cause. It took almost a month, but my efforts were starting to gain momentum. Now that I had the resources, I was working on a new scheme. It needed to be theatrical enough to be remembered and provocative enough to spark conversation in every salon from here to three capitals.
The timing to launch something big was perfect. Soon, a surge of nobles and influential merchants would descend on Academy Town to settle their children in before the perilous winter crossings. Exams might be months off, but for many, like Luciana, an early arrival offered precious time with tutors and a safer journey. I knew the influx would create the ideal audience.
With this plan in mind, I now strode the sunlit streets of Academy Town to my next destination. The brass bell above the door rang as I stepped into Whimsy & Wonder, the familiar scent of fresh-cut pine, paint, and elusive magic instantly welcoming me among the shelves of colorful creations. Dust specks floated in golden afternoon light from the windows, signaling a new phase of my scheme.
“Well, look at you!” The toymaker emerged from behind a towering display of mechanical birds, his leather apron dusted with sawdust, spectacles perched on his bulbous nose. ”Zar, it has been a while! That Academy uniform suits you magnificently. Congratulations!”
“Thank you kindly, Master Marken.” I ran my fingers self-consciously along the embroidered crest on my lapel. “Apologies for not visiting sooner. The Academy has consumed every waking moment, endless lectures, midnight study sessions, and now I even dabble in politics. It has been an intense year.”
“I bet,” Master Marken said, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “Your toy designs have been selling quite well, by the way. Especially the reversi boards, but those yo-yos too. The merchant’s daughter from Veridia bought a whole crate of them just last week. Would you care for some tea? I just brewed a fresh pot.”
“I wouldn’t say no to that.”
We sat behind his polished oak counter, worn smooth by decades of transactions and conversations. Steam rose from the delicate porcelain cups as he poured the amber liquid, its spicy aroma mingling with the workshop's scents of sawdust and varnish. Once poured, I continued.
“So the reason for my visit today is twofold. First, I am dropping off these.” I reached into my leather satchel and withdrew three leather-bound notebooks, pages rippling slightly where ink had dried unevenly. Each was filled with fairy tales from my world. For my first crack at it, I have decided to go with Beauty and the Beast, The Little Mermaid, and Puss in Boots. Obviously, I had to adjust some of them to fit the local culture, but I think they turned out quite nicely. “Please read them and let me know if any of them are of interest to you to purchase.”
Master Marken reached for his ledger. “But of course, do you want some kind of guarantee note while I check their content?”
“No need, I trust you.” I traced the worn edge of his counter with my fingertip. “Hence the reason I am here, you see, the payment I’m looking for is not actually gold, but your services as a craftsman.” I then gave him a rundown about the possibility of repealing the Lokertals Accords. As I spoke, the cheerful crinkles around his eyes smoothed out, his bushy eyebrows drawing together like angry clouds gathering. The workshop seemed to darken around us, the cheerful mechanical birds suddenly too bright, too frivolous.
“This is… dreadful.” His voice dropped to a whisper, his fingers clutching his teacup so tightly that his knuckles went white. “I would never have guessed I would live to see the day we would reintroduce slavery to the Isles. Disgusting.” He shook his head, sawdust falling from his graying hair. “But what can I do? I am a simple toymaker, not a lord.”
I leaned forward, the fragrance of cedar and varnish filling my nostrils as I grinned. "Oh, but you can certainly help. A group of students is planning something… a viral marketing campaign. We want to stir public opinion, and for that, we need some props. The goal is to visually and memorably protest the slavery proposal by making people talk about it."
His spectacles slid down his nose as he blinked in confusion. “A viral… what?”
I then explained my plan to him. First, his bushy eyebrows knitted together, his weathered face creasing into a frown. When I described the mock collars and chains, his mouth fell open, a small gasp escaping his lips. Then I talked about the special ‘doll’ I wanted him to make, the wrinkles around his eyes deepened not with worry but mischief, a sparkle igniting in those amber irises like a child plotting to raid the cookie jar.
“So, what do you think? Can you craft these things?” I asked, tapping my finger against the rough sketch I’d drawn.
“I certainly can.” He ran calloused fingers over the paper, tracing the outline of the life-sized wooden mannequin that would serve as our centerpiece. “What you propose… some might say it is tasteless, but it is nothing compared to the practice of slavery when it comes to that. How many do you need?”
“The mock chains and collars, at least three dozen sets, more the better as our membership grows. And if you have experience with their measurements, a couple adjusted for young horsekin would be ideal.” He nodded, his fingers already sketching dimensions on a scrap of parchment. “As for the dolls,” I added, watching his pencil move, “I imagine they will be expensive with all the magic crystals involved. Even one would suffice. We’ll move it around town, but in case someone tries to vandalize or steal it, which they might, it would be prudent to have a spare.”
The toymaker waved away my concerns with a weathered hand, “Don’t worry about the price, young master. This isn’t about profit. Some things matter more than coin.” His eyes crinkled at the corners, but there was steel beneath the warmth. “If someone does break it, bring me the pieces back. Even shattered, I might salvage the crystals, unless they’ve been pulverized or burned beyond recognition. Replacing other parts is easy.”
He ran calloused fingers over my sketch once more, his craftsman’s mind already solving the puzzle of its creation. “And you want to have them before open day at the Academy?” I nodded, watching as determination transformed his grandfatherly face. “Well then,” he said, pushing up his sleeves to reveal forearms corded with decades of woodworking, “I guess we have to get started now!”
Golden sunlight bathed the cobblestone streets of Academy Town on this final day of summer, warming my shoulders through my merchant’s coat as my daughter skipped beside me, her new leather boots clicking against the stones. The lively bustle around us signaled the season’s change and reminded me that new beginnings didn’t belong to students alone.
Maple trees lining the square had just begun to blush at their edges with hints of amber and crimson. I squeezed her small hand in mine, savoring these precious moments before I’d return to the capital’s crowded marketplaces and ledger books, counting coins while counting down days until I could afford another visit.
“Oh, look, Daddy, a pretty doll!” My daughter tugged at my sleeve, pointing at something.
In the center of the square stood a life-sized figure so finely crafted it made passersby halt mid-step. The doll, a young horsekin girl, had been painted with uncanny precision: chestnut skin with delicate dappling across her cheekbones, turquoise eyes that seemed to follow you, and a mane of dark curls that caught the breeze. She wore a simple linen dress the color of wheat, cinched at the waist with a frayed rope belt. At her feet, a brass plaque gleamed in the sunlight, engraved with the words: “Push the crystal to hear my story.”
My daughter’s eyes widened like a pair of full moons. “Wow, is it enchanted?" She circled the figure, her small fingers wavering near the doll’s intricately carved shape. “And it just stays here, in the middle of the square? Must be something the Academy wizards did, huh.” Her voice trembled with the particular reverence children reserve for magic.
I scanned the square, noting the Academy students lounging on nearby benches, the golden threads in their lilac vests catching the afternoon light. “No doubt, and I am certain someone is keeping a careful eye on it,” I replied, stroking her silky hair. “If it truly holds enchantment, the crystals alone would cost quite a fortune, little one.”
“But the brass plaque says I can push the crystal,” she pleaded, bouncing on her toes, her braids swinging. “See? Right there! Can I, pleeeease?”
I knelt close to her, my merchant’s coat pooling around my knees. “Of course you can, daughter,” I whispered, brushing a stray curl from her eager face. “Anything for you.”
The doll’s eyes brightened with an uncanny ethereal glow as my daughter pressed the crystal. The wooden joints creaked softly, the painted lips parting to reveal pearlescent teeth. A beautiful voice, melodic yet laden with sorrow, emanated from somewhere deep within the hollow torso, reverberating softly against the cobblestones.
“My name is Elaea, and this is my story,” the voice began, each word carrying the weight of remembered pain. “My mother and father loved me very much. We lived in a small cottage with a thatched roof on the outskirts of the Valley, where wildflowers grew tall enough to tickle my knees. My father was a peddling merchant, his cart wheels always caked with mud from distant roads, his face weathered but proud as he brought needles and spices to villages too small to appear on maps.”
“Oh, her father was just like you, Daddy!” My daughter’s eyes sparkled with recognition, her small fingers still hovering near the glowing crystal.
“Tss,” I whispered, placing a gentle finger against her lips, “let’s listen.”
“One day, however, he didn’t return home. For seven nights, my mother and I waited, lighting the oil lamp in our window until the wick burned low, her fingers trembling as she braided my mane before bed. On the eighth day, we couldn’t bear it anymore, so we traveled to Riverstone Market. There, a merchant we knew whispered that slavers had raided the northern road. They’d taken my father, his wrists bound with iron that bit into his flesh, a rope around his neck like a common beast. He wasn’t a criminal. He owed no man a copper. They took him because they could. They took him because his strong back would fetch a handful of gold pieces at the auction blocks. And now we were next.”
My daughter’s face paled. “But slavery is banned in the kingdoms!”
“It is, this must be a very old tale.”
“My mother and I were dragged to the auction block at dawn, our wrists bound with hemp rope that left angry red welts. The air there reeked of unwashed bodies and fear-sweat as strange men with liquor on their breath pried our jaws open with their dirty fingers. They prodded our gums and inspected our teeth like we were prized mares, not people. When I flinched from a particularly rough examination, a leather whip cracked against my shoulder blades, leaving a stinging welt that burned for days.”
My daughter’s face crumpled like parchment in a fire, her eyes welling with tears that trembled but didn’t fall. “Nooo…” she whimpered, her small fingers clutching at the hem of my merchant’s coat. The doll’s glowing eyes reflected in her own wide ones, twin pools of horror and fascination.
“Maybe this is too much for you,” I whispered, bending down to shield her from the wooden figure’s unblinking gaze. “There’s a puppet show by the fountain. Shall we go there instead?”
“I want to hear what happens,” my daughter insisted, her voice steadier than her trembling chin. She squared her narrow shoulders beneath her woolen dress, her jaw set with the stubborn determination of someone we both cherished so much.
“My mother had the most beautiful face. She drew hungry stares from the crowd. The bidding for her rose frantically, gold coins flashing in the morning sun. I watched her disappear into a gilded carriage, her shoulders shivering as she fought back tears. For me, a single reluctant bid from a man with a pockmarked face and yellowed teeth. Three years have passed, and I still search every crowd for her face.”
My daughter’s wail pierced the square like shattered glass, her small body convulsing with sobs that seemed too powerful for her tiny frame. Tears carved glistening paths down her flushed cheeks, dripping from her trembling chin onto her new woolen dress. I gathered her against my chest, her heartbeat fluttering like a trapped bird against mine, only to discover my own cheeks were wet with silent tears. The hollow ache of her mother's absence expanded between us, a shared wound still raw after all these years.
The doll kept telling her story, but we couldn’t listen anymore. As I whispered soothing nonsense into my daughter’s hair, movement caught my eye. The Academy students had risen from their benches and now approached us with purposeful strides. Each wore an identical iron collar around their neck, dull metal bands that seemed to absorb rather than reflect the golden afternoon light.
A young wolfkin led them, his russet fur rippling in the breeze, blue eyes intense beneath a scholarly brow. Beside him walked a human girl with hair like spun gold cascading down her shoulders, her bearing regal despite the collar that marked her as property. Her slender hand extended toward me, offering a neatly etched brochure with an official-looking seal.
“Ask your lord what he thinks about the repeal of the Lokertals Accords,” she said, her voice cultured yet urgent. “Here is all the information you need.”
I accepted the parchment with trembling fingers, scanning the first few lines as ice-cold dread pooled in my stomach. “Huh, they want to repeal the Lokertals Accords? This is madness, I haven’t heard of this.”
“I am Second Princess Luciana de Chastel of Veridia. I can very much confirm that the kingdoms of Sonem and Veridia are seriously considering it this very moment.”
My breath caught in my throat. The iron collar encircled her swan-like neck, its dull metal an obscene contrast against her porcelain skin and the delicate gold embroidery of her academy vest. She must care so deeply for her people to endure such a degradation, to wear the symbol of servitude while royal blood still flows in her veins.
My daughter tugged at my sleeve, her tear-stained face upturned with desperate hope. “Daddy, can you do something? Aren’t you friends with the Lord?”
“Your Royal Highness,” I stammered, my voice faltering in my throat as I addressed actual royalty, “I might not belong to the big five merchant houses, but I swear by the heavenly family that I will argue against this madness at every opportunity when I return to the capital. Your actions…” I gestured helplessly at the iron collar that marred her elegant neck, “You’re nothing short of a saint.”
“I am not what matters here. Do what you can. Thank you.” She inclined her head, a gesture so graceful and measured it could only have been learned in royal courts, toward me, a simple wool merchant with road dust still clinging to my boots. I bent nearly double in response, then gathered my still-sniffling daughter against my side. As we hurried away through the crowded market square, my mind raced with plans and petitions. My daughter was about the same age as the princess. How blessed she would be to study alongside such nobility at the Academy next year.
I rubbed the pointed tip of my ear until the fur there flattened, a nervous habit that always betrayed my discomfort. “I feel like a villain.”
Luciana tilted her head, the fake iron collar catching the afternoon light. It was actually made from wood and painted with metallic paint, designed to be much more comfortable than the real thing. She studied me with those perceptive eyes that seemed to miss nothing these days. “Why?”
“I think by the time we are done,” I said, watching another child’s face crumple in the distance as they encountered our doll’s tale, “I am going to traumatize an entire generation of children who will grow up having nightmares about auction blocks and iron collars.”
“This is a history lesson. The Academy is the place of learning,” she patted me on the shoulder. “Our bodies suffer during knight training, muscles tearing and reforming stronger, and our minds suffer during more intellectual pursuits, stretching until they nearly break. In the end, this is how we get stronger and become adults.”
“Well, regardless,” I said, watching a mother hurry her sobbing child away from us, “we need to tweak the story. I’ll also ask Professor Irleophiss if we can project someone’s voice through the doll next time. Imagine the faces when it suddenly starts answering their questions.”
“Oh, that’s brilliant!” Luciana’s dark eyes lit up. “And it sounds like fun! I want to be the voice.”
“Fun? You have an evil streak in you, Princess.” My tail swished involuntarily, but her reaction put a smile on my face.
Luciana just shrugged, her golden hair cascading over her shoulders as we joined the other students hefting the heavy wooden doll. The next one that was almost done was of a rabbitfolk boy, and it should be easier to move around. The doll’s eyes seemed to follow us accusingly as we carried it through the cobblestone streets toward the eastern quarter, where another crowd of unsuspecting visitors awaited their history lesson.
Should vol.2 be set at the Academy, or should we timeskip to when Zar graduate?
