Gerald tapped the board with the chalk still pinched between his gloved fingers, right beside the three distinct yet unmistakably significant numbers he had just written down: 874.

He spoke in the same measured tone as usual—not having to raise his voice even in a classroom full of students. “By 874, the Franciste dynasty was closer to collapse than at any other point in its early rule. At this point, the family has suffered through economic strains and push-back from the other two royal families.”

He turned to the students just around a dozen or so in this classroom. Some bored, others writing down into their notebooks. He could hear them scribbling as nobody said a word in between his pauses. 

“But the question is: why?” he continued confidently, “What happened that the once most powerful and influential royal family in all of New Baymort history became so unpopular, almost dethroned by their own people?” 

He aimed the question towards the youth, most avoiding his gaze. And yet Gerald would be  hypocritical if he were to judge, since he too avoided eye contact with the one most likely to comment.

But it seemed like he had nothing to say. 

Good. 

Gerald proceeded.

“Well, one of the inciting incidents came seventy years prior to those protests.” He wrote down another number on the chalkboard: “In 801, Raveck Krai’s revolution concluded with its absorption into New Baymort as the thirteenth region under Franciste protection.” 

He gestured toward the map beside the chalkboard, tapping the spot that marked Raveck Krai. Visual cues had always helped him learn back in his own student days, after all. He noticed students eyeing the map now, following his motion.

“At the time, the Francistes were revered for securing the deal of a distressed region.” He watched the map, leaning against his chair, before he turned back to the students. 

“But years later it would be revealed and later confirmed by the Franciste family themselves that they had direct involvement in provoking that unrest from the get-go.” He couldn’t help the light smirk on his face. “Their goal was, as you might assume: to secure the annexation of the divided region, or at least give the people of Raveck Krai a gentle push towards the outcome the royals wished for.” 

“That’s revisionist nonsense,” came the voice from the student at the front of the classroom.

There he is. 

Gerald exhaled and rested his elbows against his teachers’ chair. He threw an exasperated smile at the lean boy. His light blond hair, almost white, skin as fair as paper contrasted starkly with his black and blue uniform—accentuated by the fact he was the only student in the room representing that specific faction. 

Thalondor—the same one Gerald used to wear.

And those light blue eyes, jabbing at Gerald like he was planning his demise.

“Ah, Clairmont—I almost thought you were sleeping through my class.”

The students chuckled. 

Neville Clairmont, a fifth-year student: a strong, competent, and intelligent boy, Gerald had to admit that much, but his nationalistic pride got in the way of his own brilliance.

The most dangerous kind of person.  

“I would much rather sleep through your nonsensical ramblings, but then you would skate by without opposition,” he spoke, as biting as ever. 

Gerald’s nerves flared. This was why he didn’t enjoy teaching the fifth years in particular.

“And pray tell, which part of my lesson do you have issue with this time?” He motioned towards him, not without his confident smile breaking through. “So I can carefully and hopefully simply explain why you’re wrong?”

Gerald was needling him, and he was aware he sounded downright condescending. It wasn’t professional per say coming from a teacher. Some might even call it harassment of a young and impressionable student.

But this particular young man—truth be told, Gerald had it out for him ever since he started working here. And it was mutual between both parties.

Clairmont cleared his throat, no doubt waiting for this opportunity since the start of the class. 

“While the Francistes may have helped steer the region towards unrest—that is indeed, an undisputed fact—it would be laughable to ignore the Tsarnian puppet placed in Raveck Krai as the head of the state at the time. Frankly, the unrest was inevitable in the face of a blind dictatorship.” 

Clairmont motioned with his finger at the Franciste crest—mandatorily displayed in every classroom of the Spirit Academy. “And it is thanks to the Franciste family’s generosity that the people of Raveck Krai live peacefully in New Baymort today.”

Gerald nodded his head, listening to every word—mentally rolling his eyes at the bias.

“Clairmont—a Fleurinian academic. Quite on brand to defend the Francistes’ colonialism.” He couldn’t help the jab. 

Clairmont didn’t like it; the rest of the class didn’t even understand the reference. 

“But if you think it’s that simple, why do you presume the people of Raveck Krai, almost two hundred years after joining our nation, still struggle to assimilate and use the common tongue?”

Clairmont didn’t waste a second. “British has been the mandated language used in all schools across the nation for over a hundred years. Again—with your nonsense, Mr. Aldrick. Your refusal to accept that reality does not make it a policy failure.”

That earned him chuckles from the class—Gerald inhaled.

The way Clairmont just proved his point and nobody, seemingly even he, realized it. Gerald let it be and rephrased, “Do you think they speak british colloquially in Raveck Krai?”

Clairmont shook his head like the idea was inconsequential. “We speak fleurinian colloquially in my region—what does it matter? We have one common tongue in New Baymort, and that’s the point.”

Gerald mused, standing upright as he moved around his desk. He leaned against the surface, standing over Clairmont with his arms crossed. 

“The hundred year mark you speak of—do you know why that mandate was made at that specific timeframe?”

Clairmont didn’t know the answer—or if he did, he was too slow to respond. Frankly, he probably knew, but Gerald didn’t mind explaining. 

”It was in response to the Dragoviches joining the Four Royal Families. It was a clear boundary set by the Marelians, Chernwicks, and Francistes who felt threatened by their powerful new counterpart. It was both to reassert dominance over the spiriter powerhouse, and a thinly veiled discrimination tactic to stop the spread of the saric language family.”

“Family?” Clairmont bellowed, disgusted. “You would call the tsarnians ‘family’?”

And there it was. The discrimination showing in real time.