Wingmaster Thorrin lands atop the platform in a rush of wind. Seeing the gryphon outside does nothing to diminish his size. He towers over the children and their partners like the great predator he is, noble and savage all wrapped up in one. A small, stocky woman slides off his back and strips off her gloves, tucking them into a back pocket.

"Good morning, students," she says.

"Good morning," humans and gryphons alike chorus. It's rather quaint, like how schoolrooms are described in dime-store novels.

The woman peers over their heads and spies Pol and I in the back. "I see that our new students have arrived. Please, come forward and introduce yourselves."

Might as well rip the bandage off and get this over with, I think. Lifting my chin, I walk up to the platform and stand next to the instructor. She's a few inches shorter than me, plain of countenance with dark green eyes like smoky emeralds, a slightly crooked nose, and an oval face. Her grey-streaked brown hair is caught up in a high horse's tail; a few strands hang over the front of her ears, fluttering in the breeze. There are a few lines at the corners of her eyes, but otherwise, her tanned skin is clear.

"Go on," she says, gesturing towards the students.

I have been making introductions since I was younger than these children, but never in such a crude environment. "Herleva Montrose." I start to curtsey, then remember I am neither in a ballroom nor am I wearing skirts. I cannot be expected to shake all their hands, then?

Silence reigns on the training grounds. I watch as a girl with short, dirty blonde hair scratches her nose, and then picks at her nails. A dark brown and red gryphon yawns, blinking pale-yellow eyes.

"Tell them more about yourself," the professor prompts.

That is the last thing I wish to do. "There is not much to tell," I reply shortly.

The professor looks up at me, thin eyebrows knitting together. I prepare to deflect, but she shrugs. "Very well." She turns to Pol. The red gryphon stands at the edge of the platform, looking everywhere but at the students and their partners. "Now, how about you?"

"Pol Ronninsson," he mutters, studying the boards of the platform.

The professor exchanges a look with Thorrin. "I'd say they're well-matched," she tells the big male.

Thorrin grunts, wingtips fluttering against his sides. "Well, with that out of the way, class, I want you to follow me. Herleva and Pol will remain here with Professor de Beaumont."

Chatter once again rises from the students and gryphons as they get to their feet. The Wingmaster steps off the platform and begins walking towards a series of poles with platforms nailed atop them.

Professor de Beaumont watches them go, then turns to us. "We have a lot to catch up on," she says, crossing the platform to where a large box sits. "I've never had a pair start so late, but hopefully we can get you up to speed with your age-mates." She flips open the lid of the box and begins pulling out items that look vaguely like tack for horses. There's a saddle, a breastband, and a pair of eye protectors. "Come here, both of you."

I move closer to the professor and stare at the tooled leather objects. Pol's claws click on the scarred wooden platform, but he hangs back, tail tip flicking against his hindlegs.

Professor de Beaumont looks up. "Are you two allergic to each other? Get over here."

Pol sighs begrudgingly and closes the gap between us. He sits down, ear tufts angled sideways.

"This equipment is just as important as your bond," the professor begins, bending down to pick up the saddle. "Now, this isn't your official gear—I'll be taking measurements to send to the tack maker—but it'll do for now. Herleva, you'll be responsible for its maintenance. If it's torn, you sew it; if it's broken, you find a way to fix it. If it's damaged beyond repair, a charge will be added to your school debt for its replacement." Professor de Beaumont taps the rounded and padded saddle horn. "Proper maintenance of this gear is key to your survival." She fixes Pol and I with those smokey emerald eyes. "I don't think I have to stress how important that is to you, do I?"

A flutter of nausea blooms in my belly as I take in her words. "No, Professor," I murmur. If I thought this job was dangerous before, its complexity blossomed tenfold. Not only am I entrusting my safety to the gryphon, but I'm putting my life in my own hands every time I climb into that saddle. At least I know how to work a needle and thread—somewhat. I doubt my fine embroidery skills will be useful in stitching leather together, but I'm certain I can make it work.

"You must also be forthcoming with Herleva, too, Pol," Professor de Beaumont continues, looking at the red gryphon.

Pol flicks his ear tufts forward and blinks. "Huh?"

The professor sighs and tucks a strand of brown-grey hair behind one ear. "If something doesn't feel or look right, you need to tell her."

"Sure, sure," Pol tells her, his gaze drifting off to where Thorrin and the students are practicing.

I watch as the professor's jaw tightens. "Pol Ronninsson!" she snaps suddenly.

The red gryphon's head whips around and his foreclaws clutch at the scarred platform. There's genuine shock in his blue eyes.

"Why are you here?" Professor de Beaumont continues, folding her arms. "Most gryphons apply to the academy seeking adventure, family pride, or to prove themselves. Tell me, then, what was your motivation?"

Pol's startled expression swiftly changes to one of irritability. "You know why," he mutters, dragging a foreclaw across the wood. His gaze slides to me, then to the ground.

"Maybe I do," the professor replies lightly, "but she does not. Tell her why you're here." She gestures with a thumb in my direction.

I flinch as the gryphon's predatory gaze locks onto me. The nausea in my belly flees as my heart rate jumps. A sound like two rocks rubbing together punctuates the tense atmosphere as Pol grinds his beak, claws digging into the platform. Long strips of wood peel away from the boards beneath his talons.

Professor de Beaumont sighs and runs a hand through her high horse's tail. "One of the lessons you will learn in my class is that there can be no secrets between partners," she says, looking at me. "Your hopes and dreams, fears and nightmares—only when absolute trust is achieved can you be successful. With that in mind, Herleva, why are you here?"

I had a sinking feeling this line of questioning would be directed towards me. But whatever secrets the gryphon is harboring will not get between me and my goal. "My family is broke," I tell Professor de Beaumont, staring straight at her. "My father lost everything due to poor decision-making and I'm here to set things right."

"So, you're in it for the money," Professor de Beaumont replies matter-of-factly.

I've tried not to put my situation in such base terms, but ... "Yes," I say.

The professor shrugs. "Fair enough. A lot of students come here for the same reason. It's a fairly lucrative business."

But that's only after repaying the outrageous loan.

"See?" Professor de Beaumont says to the red gryphon. "That wasn't so hard. Now, why are you here Pol?"

The gryphon tenses, his expressive avian face twisting in irritation. His beak opens and his blue eyes shift around as if seeking something among the open terrain and poles. "Because my father thinks I'm an arrogant prick who needs to learn humility," he spits out, slamming a fisted forepaw on the platform. "There. Are you happy, now?"

I stare at the professor, but she is remarkably unperturbed by this show of aggression. I suppose she's used to it.

"Do you think that is a fair assessment?" Professor de Beaumont asks casually as if this were a night at a salon.

Her question seems to take Pol aback. He rears up, feathers fluffing. "Of course not! I'm the son of a clan leader! How else am I supposed to act?"

It is then I realize why all the other gryphons were acting strangely when they saw Pol. He came from a position of privilege and was now cast among the working class ...

Like me.

I blink. Dear saints. We are alike.

My breath hitches slightly, drawing the professor's attention. "Are you all right, Herleva?"

"Y-yes," I manage to reply as my mind swirls with the revelation.

The little squint Professor de Beaumont aims at me tells me that she knows there is far more to it than I'm letting on. "Well," she says instead, dusting off her hands. "Congratulations on passing lesson one. Let's move on to lesson two, shall we?"