Dhampirica

I

AT THE QUIET HOUR of 4:00AM, she awoke. A pale grey ceiling greeted her, unmarked and uninteresting, not unlike the rest of the room. Her hands curled over cotton sheets, pulling them aside as she swung her legs out of bed. When she went to the bathroom, she went with unusual measured ease. She took her time to brush her teeth, she savored the warmth of her shower, and when she dressed, she was meticulous and slow.

Her clothes were all black and carried the crisp scent of newness. She could not help but admire the seriousness of the attire. It comprised a long-sleeved turtleneck top which carefully concealed her throat, form-fitting slacks, combat boots, gloves, and a sleek jacket to match. It was an outfit usually reserved for dhampiri out in the field which, as a student, she was not... but today was a special day.

She imagined it wasn't very comfortable to wear in the warmer seasons, but being a dhampirica, heat was only a minor irritant to her. In any case, the significance of the outfit lay in its functionality. As a vampire-human hybrid, it was important to not expose too much skin around vampires. There was little fear of being attacked by them when prey was so abundant, but dhampiri still thought it prudent to distance themselves as much as possible from humans. Dhampiri served a higher purpose than to be mere food. Their first and foremost responsibility was to protect nobility. Looking nice wasn't even a secondary concern. All thoughts of vanity had been drilled out of them as children.

And yet, when she sat down at her desk, she took out a small square mirror. The mirror was dusty, having seen little outside of the confines of her drawer since it was given to her. She met a pale face, black eyes, and black hair. She met a woman of few words and perhaps even fewer thoughts. It was jarring to look at the woman in the mirror, for she was someone who she rarely saw. It was like seeing a stranger you had encountered once long ago. You knew their name, but not their face. Their face was a distorted image in your mind, an image which had suddenly become clear.

Yvanna Cross. That was her name.

Yvanna captured the image of herself in her mind and put the mirror face down. She took out a comb from her drawer and, closing her eyes, she brushed her hair carefully into place. She pinned it into a tight bun and, without another glance at her reflection, she left the room.

When she opened the door, the silence of her dorm room was abruptly broken by the chaos outside. Crossgrave Academy was unusually busy today. Mentors scurried around, frantically scouring the grounds for a single speck of dirt out of place. Students zipped through the halls, fretting over their appearances. The Academy was boisterous and active with a type of fanfare reserved only for the one day a year that was today. And as she walked on with measured ease, it felt almost strange to be the only one not in a panic; like the calm in the eye of a storm. Patience was a virtue that Yvanna strived to maintain.

Suddenly falling into step beside her was West, her longtime peer at the Academy. He wore a lofty smile which brightened his caramel complexion. Like her, he was donned in all black from neck-to-toe. "Nervous?" he asked her. "Ah — who am I kidding? You weren't even scared on our first day of combat training.

She remembered that day. They were five years old, and everything seemed so much bigger than them. The mentors were especially intimidating, towering over them like the daunting structures of the Academy. A smaller West had been trembling in his boots from beside her, afraid of the inevitable future that stood before them.

"That's not true," she murmured, her eyes fixed straight ahead. "I've just never been very good at showing my emotions."

"But you're not afraid now," he pointed out astutely.

"Why should I be? Nerves will only get in my way. There's no room for hesitation — not today."

West snorted. "As expected from the pride of Crossgrave Academy."