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Ironically, the winds were always howling when wars began.
They were the recurring reminder of the forces who lost so long ago that no one remembered what they were fighting over; the tome Legentia spoke of a great war between evil and good, led by Antis, of the shadow essence, against Luna, the moon. It was referred to as the Eternal War, and probably must have seemed that way—the Lunaris Academia stated that it spanned seven thousand years. The malevolent Antis lost, and its allies perished under the weight of the war, paving the path to prosperity today.
If you could call it that. Too often you had shadows of doubt dancing about in the back of your mind, asking if it was really for the better. Sometimes you felt like the theories and facts were too complicated; every now and then it crept into your mind that—
“Kalemnor, are you listening?”
The instructor sighed helplessly, as the seventeen year-old spun to attention, reflexively asserting a “Yes, sir.”
“Really, you shouldn’t keep fluxing out of lecture like that. It isn’t exactly model behavior, and I’m beginning to fear that it’s having an effect on the youngers.”
No response. The benevolent man looked at him in a mix of disappointment and worry, incapable of being stern; the Luna were renowned for their altruism, and the instructors weren’t any exception. His eyes surmised the surroundings, the wind tossing his robes from side to side. The child had always come out here, where he claimed to have seen a dream, when something was on his mind; the winds were always the strongest here, as if he was drawn to them.
“I know that class is boring for you, and that you don’t care for Legentia, or speculation, as you call it, but for the rest of the class, could you at least pretend to be interested?”
It was like talking to a tree stump; sighing again, he stepped closer, reaching out to put his hand on his pupil. “I know you’re unhappy that Learil got to be prefect, but the class voted on it, and it’s only correct to follow the decisions of the majority…”
“It’s not that.”
The instructor’s hand faltered a hair from the youth’s shoulder. Turning, the winds seemed to swirl eagerly about his figure, and those odd, distracted emerald eyes steadied themselves upon the elder. They weren’t smiling—he almost never was, and if Syle Kalemnor had been, he left no witnesses. A breeze swept his bangs apart, revealing his features fully.
“I see you’ve taken off the headband, Syle.” The instructor commented, a touch of relief waxing across his face. At least he was talking again. “All the girls would feel faint upon sight of you. Why do you hide your features from them?”
Averting, a wry smile pulled at the pupil’s lips, remarking coolly, “ ’Juves cost money.”
Both sides chuckled softly; though he wore one of those “look-and-forget” faces, the one time a classmate had pulled the ragged cloth from his head out of curiosity, she was out cold for a week. It had taken a pricey rejuvenation, called ‘juves by the current generation, to bring her back to the realm of the living. Nobody quite knew why; Syle’s expressions were a perpetual blend of thoughtfulness and platitude, and others often joked that he was “in his own dimension.” Despite his rather slim physique, he was usually respectfully avoided in the halls—he was a Fulgor, and those of the lightning essence could knock their opponents flat on their backs faster than they could blink. In fact, Fulgors were the lightest, fastest, and only psychically talented of the four known remaining Diadem; the Aquas of versatility, the Ignis of power, the Luna of knowledge, and the Fulgor, of speed. Rumors about psy-wielding Aquas appearing had begun to spread, however, and the diviners of the Lunaris Academia had been hard-pressed to find a logical explanation for the casters of water and ice now throwing lightning bolts and accurately predicting the the local lottery numbers.
“Half-bloods…” Syle muttered to himself dubiously, smirking lightly at the ludicrous reason for the Aquas to have Fulgor attributes, re-tying his brother’s memento about his forehead. As usual, the scenery had changed while his thoughts were elsewhere, effectively killing all that time he might have had to spend keeping a conversation going. Not that he wasn’t friendly; he just never found anyone interesting to talk to, and no one seemed to find him interesting either. The door rattled somewhat as he stepped in, the instructor behind him. A few murmurs and giggles passed through the room, but as Syle turned to glance at the class, a hush fell over them rapidly and he took his seat. His seatmates shifted away from him instinctively, and Syle ignored them—like he always did.
The Instructor, his job done, resumed his lecture. “As I was speaking, and I hope you’ve been reading—like I requested as I left the room,” he added, though with a knowing tone of resign, “the Aquarian faction who identified themselves as the Unda seceded from the Lympha in sixteen-twenty. Eric,” he asked, stepping towards the pupil, who came to unite—“

“Eric!”

Eric Razel woke with a start, mumbling. “Sixteen-twenty.” Shaking off his drowsiness, he shot a “please-don’t-hurt-me” look at his teacher, and she sighed, rolling her eyes.
The woman, in her mid-thirties, narrowed her eyes at him sternly, but somehow the anger dissolved, and she turned slowly, sighing. “Eric, just because you can answer my questions mid-snore doesn’t mean you get the right to hibernate through history. I don’t know how the other teachers put up with it—“
“They don’t, Ma’am. I usually wake up in the principle’s…” His head tilted to one side as the class broke out in laughter. The word, principle, resounded oddly in his head, like ‘essence’ and ‘diadem’ had immediately after his other... 'incidents'. He looked around, remembering where he was. His history teacher trudged back to the podium, continuing her lesson on the exodus of the Puritan Pilgrims to the Promised Land. Ciel gave him a friendly wave, and he did his best to form a smile on his half-awake face; his classmate giggled, and turned back quickly before the teacher could shoot her glare across the classroom; Mrs. Hart (ironically) was often called “Lady-Cyclops,” and no one in school was particularly keen on winning her unwanted attention.
Ciel. Ciel….Essenis. No, that wasn’t her name. Her name was Crystal; Crystal Latheris. He kept getting her name mixed up with that bungle of vowels and consonants that he couldn’t even remember the origins of. Three blocks down, 9100 Elm drive, 6431. Cheery, springy, and an inveterate talker. The kind of girl everyone thought was cute but nobody could really think of as a potential partner. There was something about her he was forgetting; was she from a dissonant background, maybe divorced parents? Or was she physically challenged in some way? His eyelids lowered in thought, only to jump open as a pair of delicate hands thumped loudly against his desk.
Oh yeah. Refuses to leave me alone.