Syril's head was pounding; that's all he could focus on as he stared hopelessly at the sheet of paper that sat answerless on his desk. He had spent all his previous night attempting to shove six thousand years' worth of dates, names, and places into his brain, and the only thing he could focus on now was this brain-splitting headache. This, of course, was a folly of his own making; he knew too well that zoning out, doodling, and daydreaming during the lectures was never going to make for an easy time in the exam. He rolled his eyes; Hindsight is 20/20, after all. He took a sip from his water bottle, hoping it would dull the pain threatening to overwhelm his head and spread to his eyes. Thankfully the water did bring him some momentary relief – unfortunately, it brought him no closer to answering the exam's last question.

He tugged at his collar, the button-up white dress shirt and accompanying red tie were beginning to feel less like a uniform and more like a straitjacket. His back was ripe with sweat, and he could feel the shirt stubbornly sticking to his chair; he rubbed his cramping leg, an unfortunate reaction to stress. On the bright side, focusing on these things afforded him the luxury of forgetting about his pounding headache. His hand came up to his short blonde hair, running its way down to the back of his neck before resting on his cheek; he could feel the prickling stubble around his cheeks, not surprising as he had overslept that morning and forgotten to shave.

Subtly, he looked up from his paper, feigning a stretch and casting his eyes around the lecture theatre, praying to see anything that could help him. He looked from the large blackboard that sat erased by the lecturer to the desk beside him that housed a male classmate who returned his gaze with an interrogating expression. Syril quickly looked away and hoped the classmate wouldn't query his stare. To make it appear that he was doing his work, he mumbled the question to himself, being sure to nod along to each word as if they provoked a deep and thoughtful answer.

"Describe the effects that early Elven expansion had on the development of other societies,"

Not for the first time that day, Syril cursed himself for not researching Elven expansion; instead, he had decided to trust his cultural memory, which was admittedly very dumb. He would mentally clock out when his grandparents were telling family stories, preferring to escape into daydreams about anything else. Nevertheless, his hindsight was more apparent than ever; Syril vowed to listen more when his grandpa rambled, knowing full well his ramblings would have likely contained the answer to this question. He took a deep breath; there was no need to panic; Syril was sure he could write a haphazard response before handing in his exam; he was confident in his ability to wring a pass from nothing.

He reread the question repeatedly, being sure to sound out each word as if to find a hidden answer within the letters. Finally, when no answer jumped out at him, he began to doodle on the margins of his paper, hoping the distraction would calm his spiking nerves. It was ok; he was sure he had time.

A deep gravelly voice boomed around the lecture theatre, "Ten minutes remaining, start finishing up."

Syril looked up, his thoughts scattered by the echoing voice tearing apart the silence. He stared at the voice's origin; professor Seabright sat at his desk, diligently finishing that day's crossword puzzle; his muscular frame caused the chair he was sitting in to bend dangerously.

Syril registered the meaning of Seabright's announcement, and white-hot panic shot down his spine. Why does he always do this, he spent too much time focused on a headache, and now the stress of finishing the exam was threatening to escalate it to a migraine. He looked back at the paper and willed his brain to remember something; he would be happy with any answer; words on a page were all he needed right now.

Syril took a deep breath, forcing himself to calm down; he knew panicking wouldn't help him. Reasoning that anything would be better than nothing, he listed everything he could remember about Elven expansion.

There were the basics; Elves expanded their influence through war and deception; they overthrew kingdoms as saviours to some and tyrants to others; one bloody uprising later and the same realms they subjugated overthrew them, and the Elven kingdoms fell into obscurity. Syril knew there was much more, but he put pencil to paper and began to write the words as they chaotically appeared in his head.

'The elven expansion brought medicine and technology to other races…' Syril was sure that starting by rewording the question wouldn't win him any points. Still, he was just happy to see words appearing beneath his pencil. He wrote frantically; words were misspelled, dates incorrect, and names jumbled, but Syril didn't care; he would be thankful for any grade on this question, and he just wanted this hell to be over.

Professor Seabright's voice rang again through the silence, "Times up, pens down, leave the tests, and get out of my classroom."

Syril anxiously looked over his test again; he knew this was the best he could do, yet he felt no pride in the words on the page. He hastily threw his pencil, bottle, and runic dictionary into his bag, got up from his seat, and moulded into the line of students descending the theatre's stairs towards the door.

He looked around, studying his classmates' faces, desperately hoping to see a sign that they had found the test as brutal as he had. But, instead, no one spoke, no chatter, no laughter, and Syril felt better at the sound of it all; perhaps everyone also struggled, and maybe Seabright would be forced to curve the grades. Syril fantasised about the possibility.

He passed through the classroom door, happy to be leaving the lion's den and returning home; he felt a tap on his shoulder, "Question seven was a bit hard, ay?"

Syril's eyes widened; he recognised that sprightly voice; it was unmistakably Davion, his elder brother. However, what was peculiar was his brother neither attended this class nor school anymore, having chosen to enlist in the scouting forces at the end of his selection year. Syril snapped his head around at his brother, who greeted his astonished expression with a playful smirk, his emerald, green eyes mimicking his sly expression.

"Davion!" Syril delightedly screamed as he pulled his brother into a hug, forcing his classmates to take evasive action to avoid collision with the conjoined pair, triggering many annoyed looks. Syril shot apologetic glances and guided his brother towards space in the corner of the hallway.

Finally, having a chance to look at this brother, he was shocked at his incredible transformation. Davion was always the brawn of the pair, but now he looked like he could lift Professor Seabright with little more than a grunt. His face was lean; his usually long messy blonde hair was tied in a neat ponytail. Syril noted that he was wearing his usual red flannel shirt and blue jeans, only they looked two sizes too small.

"Did your clothes shrink in the wash or something?" Syril teased.

"It was either this or my uniform, and my uniform actually is in the wash," Davion glowered, "plus, wouldn't you describe this as more slimming anyway?"

"I'd describe it as a lot of things," Syril said, containing his sarcasm, "tight for one and inappropriate for another. Your shirt looks like it'll break open at any moment".

He wondered how the students and faculty would react to a shirtless man on campus; he was sure the city guard wouldn't be impressed.

Syril glanced back up at Davion, "What are you doing here anyway? Weren't you sent to help with the riots in the Wigston mines?"

His brother let out a cough, "Well, it got sorted out pretty quickly, so they offered me a few weeks of leave."

For a moment, it had appeared Davion's delighted expression didn't reach his eyes; but it had happened so fast Syril wasn't even sure he saw anything.

Davion looked at him interrogatingly, "What? Aren't you happy to see me?" he put his hand to his forehead and faked a sob, "My brother, already sick of me, the horror, the audacity OH the agony."

Syril rolled his eyes and gave his brother a light kick in the shins, "Still dramatic, I see."

Davion chuckled, bending down to rub the spot Syril kicked him, "Still a bit short-tempered, I see."

Syril scoffed, "you were the short-tempered one, Davion; remember when you chased me around the house with a bat, screaming that I stole your favourite pen?" Syril glowered at him, "because it's been hard to forget that one, Uncle still looks at me funny when things go missing."

His brother looked at him, shame burning in his eyes, "You're going to find this hilarious; I found it under my bed that night; it must have rolled out of my bag when I got home from school or something." Davion made a half-hearted attempt at a smile and laugh.

Syril stared at him, mouth open, speechless; the injustice dawning on him, "Uncle grounded me for weeks! I missed Riz's birthday party; she didn't talk to me for months afterwards!".

"Hey, don't blame me…."

"Well, I'm going to," Syril interrupted

"…he was just stressed, Sy; you know what happens to thieves in this town…."

Syril, exasperated beyond words, threw his hands into the air.

His brother sighed, "I'm sorry. Are you happy now?"

Syril kicked him again, "Yeah. Sure.".

Davion smiled at him, a smile that Syril stubbornly did not return. He placed a hand on Syril's shoulder and pulled him in for another hug, "I have missed you, Sy."

Syril looked up at his brother; he'd be lying if he said he hadn't missed him too; they had been inseparable after all. Despite their age difference, they had looked so similar telling them apart was near impossible, hence why Syril would keep his hair short, and Davion grew his out. They were brothers, but more than that, they were friends, each entrusted with the secrets and wishes of the other. Syril was happy to be with his brother again; the hug shrouded him in a warm glow; it felt like a piece of himself had returned, something he would never admit to Davion.

Syril pulled away, aware that people were staring at the two of them, "Ok, seriously, what brought you to school? I don't need you to pick me up; It's only a ten-minute walk home."

Davion sighed, looking back at the door to the classroom he had just left, "I needed to talk to Seabright, and I figured I could catch you at the end of your exam and say hi."

Confused, Syril looked back at the door, half expecting, half dreading to see Seabright walk through it, "What do you need to talk about? Have I done something wrong?".

It didn't make sense to him, it was too soon for it to be about his exam, and he knew he had at least passed his other assessments in Seabright's class. Unless Seabright preemptively arranged a meeting about this exam…

Could he do that? Why would he do that?

"Not everything is about you, Sy." Davion chuckled, "and it's not interesting, don't stress about it."

Syril opened his mouth to argue, but he was interrupted by a loud cough beside him.

"Mr Elmdew, if I had known you'd be dawdling outside my classroom for half our meeting, I would've gone and gotten a tea,"

Professor Seabright had seemingly materialised beside them; Syril hadn't a clue how he had managed it; the professor was the textbook definition of an orc. He towered over them both, which was impressive because Davion was six feet tall on a bad day; his back was as broad as the classroom door, and his neck was as wide as a tree trunk. Syril looked into the professor's brown eyes and tried his hardest not to stare at the large tusks extending out from his lower gums. Despite being a professor for the past year at Renria academy, Seabright was still as intimidating as the first day he walked into the classroom.

Davion raised his hand towards Seabright, "I'm sorry, professor, I just saw Sy, and we started catching up…",

"My time is just as important as your own, Mr Elmdew; please remember that.", Seabright stated as he clasped Davion's much smaller hand in his own, giving the image of an adult's hand holding a baby's.

Davion nodded in agreement, "Sorry, Sir, I will next time, I promise."

Seabright's lips pursed, obviously content with the response, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a golden timepiece, "Come along then, Mr Elmdew; if you make this quick, I can still make my shows."

Davion turned to Syril, mouthed, "I'm sorry," and followed the professor back into his classroom, closing the door behind him. Syril turned, content with walking home alone, yet his feet would not move. He stood alone; the hallway was now empty, the sun on the horizon, its warm glow only serving as a reminder of the quickly fading time. Syril needed to get home; his uncle had organised a runic tutor for him and given him the express instructions not to be late.

Yet he did not move; it was as if an overwhelming force was demanding he stay. Every nerve in his body was screaming; every instinct he's ever experienced told him something was wrong. He couldn't understand it; Seabright had only started at the school this year; how did Davion know who he was?

Davion's words tumbled around Syril's head, "Not everything is about you…", despite being rather rude, it raised more questions; what other reason would there be to meet with his professor behind closed doors?

He rubbed his temples, the headache returning, the pain pulsating through his eyes like liquid fire. Syril wasn't sure if he was crazy with curiosity or maybe just plain crazy, but he resolved both warranted the same answer; he needed to know what was happening in that room.

Syril turned on his heel, casting his eyes over the wooden classroom door. How was he supposed to get in? He tried the handle, sure to only subtly move it so as not to cue in the victims of his eavesdropping.

Yep, the door was locked.

He tried it again, a little harder; still just as locked. So instead, he opted to inspect the handle itself; maybe he could pick the door. Granted, Syril didn't know the first thing about picking locks, but he didn't see any harm in trying. He knelt and began to inspect the door's handle, quickly becoming sure of two things; one, it was a handle for a door, and two, it was silver. He groaned; what was he doing? He didn't know how to pick locks, and he didn't see any other way of getting in short of breaking down the door.

He put his ear to the door, hoping to hear what was said, but the pair was either too quiet or too far away. He sat down and rubbed his temples; his head felt full of lead; his eyes began to brim with tears, and his mouth tasted metallic. Something was wrong; he'd never felt pain like this. Syril squeezed his eyes shut to stay the tears; a sharp pain filled his gut.

He looked down; a dagger was protruding from his stomach. He looked up; his brother's emerald eyes bore lifeless into his own, devoid of emotion. Confused, he looked around, expecting to see the long, empty hallway; instead, he leaned against a mahogany desk in the lecture hall's centre. He brought his hand up from his stomach, blood soaking his green sausage-like fingers. He staggered away from his brother, scattering exam papers as he did so. he opened his mouth to speak but could only grunt. Blood, so much blood; he lost his balance, it was becoming harder to stay upright, and he felt a jolt as his head hit the floor.

He coughed, desperately trying to empty blood from his struggling lungs. He was about to die; he knew he would die, yet his body remained frozen. He clutched his golden pocket watch tightly in his hand and used the pain to focus his dying brain. He must keep Davion away from it; for whatever reason, Davion wanted it, and he could not be allowed to have it. So he focused all his energy on the watch, willed it to do his bidding, willed it to aide him. The man before him wasn't Davion; this couldn't be his brother.

He gripped the watch harder, willing it, begging it, to follow his bidding. It could help him. By the love of the Gods, please help him.

He watched as the figure resembling his brother stepped closer towards his cowering fetal body, kneeling to pull the knife out, his green eyes devoid of emotion. The figure spoke, but Syril did not hear, his ears rang, and blackness overcame his vision. He again appealed to the watch, begged it. But it remained cold in his hand, the faint ticking becoming a metronome in his head, each beat lulling him into an endless sleep.

Tik

Tok

Tik

Tok

And then silence.

In some deep corner of his mind, Syril became aware that he was no longer holding the watch; a wave of exhaustive panic blew through his body. Where had it gone? Did Davion have it? Had Seabright failed in securing the watch's safety?

He watched as the figure knelt, now just a black shape through his fading vision, reaching towards the hand that once clung to the watch.

The figure stopped, and through his ringing ears, he could distantly hear the figure scream with rage.

Seabright smiled, the watch was gone, but Davion did not have it. As his mind's fog grew thicker, he felt the burden of the watch lifted, and peace overcame Darek Seabright as he blinked away his last moments of life.

Syril screamed. His eyes flew open as he threw up over the floor. He looked around; twilight overwhelmed the sky in the hallway, and he was only vaguely aware of the crowd around him.

"Sir, I think he's awake."

"Yes, thank you, I can see that" Syril looked up into the face of someone he knew but could not remember, "Son, are you ok? I think we need to get you to an apothecary".

Syril was confused; his head was still pounding, and his hand felt like it was on fire…

Oh gods

He wrenched, but he had nothing left inside of him.

"Son, you need to come with me right now."

No, he wouldn't; he couldn't. The force was back again, pulling him towards the door.

Hands grabbed him, fruitlessly trying to pull him up and away from the door. He fought; he needed to get in; he needed to know it was not real.

He turned, clawing at the door's silver handle, distantly aware that the door was now unlocked. He threw it open, stumbling into the room; his head was on fire, his hand wet with blood, and his eyes filled with tears.

There, in the centre of the room, in a puddle of his still wet blood, Cold and lifeless, sat Professor Seabright.

Someone screamed.

Movement all around him.

He fell to his knees, and a circular object fell out of his bloodied hand. It hit the floor with an audible clang.

His heart skipped a beat; his stomach turned inside out. Syril knew it before he looked down; there, on the floor, sat a golden pocket watch; through all the chaos unfolding around him, he heard a metronome that hammered his head.

Tik

Tok…