They were awoken by yelling outside their door.  Dylan sat up in bed and glanced out the window to see faint orange glows in the distance—the glow of buildings on fire.  They let out a gasp and ran to the door just in time to let in a teacher.  The teacher was panting heavily as he slammed the door behind him and locked it.

“What’s going on?” Dylan asked.

“Rats.”

“Rats?”

Rats are setting things on fire?

“Not the animal.  The rebels.  They’re raiding us!”

Dylan knew there were rebels.  They’d heard the story from their mother for a couple of years.  But they didn’t know they had a name.

Suddenly there was thumping at the door.  The teacher went pale, shoving Dylan aside and rushing for the window before opening it.

“I’m not gonna stay and be slaughtered by a buncha traitors,” he snarled.  “Or the witch, for that matter.”

Witch?!

The teacher leapt from the window, landing outside.  Dylan watched as the man tried to run, only to be surrounded by a group of who they assumed to be rebels.  All wore olive-colored cloaks and carried different weapons.  But the teacher, a man who was infamous at the school for not even fearing the Unnamed Creator, shook in fear at one of the shorter rebels who carried not a blade or a crossbow but a carved staff.

“How dare you?!” the teacher yelled, trembling.  “I am a loyal subject of this kingdom and you’re committing treason!”

The one with a staff stepped forward and pulled back the hood to reveal a woman with a deep tan and black hair that contained a streak of orange.  She smiled and lifted her staff, chuckling as the teacher flinched.

“We know the processes of this school, Michael House,” she stated, her voice melodic and even.  “This is not a loyal institution.  You seek to brainwash noble sons as the capital sees fit to turn them into mindless drones.”

“Liar!”  In a moment of (misguided) bravery, Mr. House lunged forwards and went for the woman.  She flickered(?!) and reappeared behind him.  “Y-you!  You’re—”

Before he could finish his words, the woman raised her staff again and muttered something Dylan couldn’t hear from where they were.  Chains erupted from her sleeves and bound the so-called educator.  Her compatriots picked up the man and began to carry him away.  The woman (the witch?) turned and looked upwards, making eye contact with Dylan.  They slammed the window shut in panic and threw themselves under the bed.

She’s the witch.  Mom said the rebels had a dark magic user.  That must be her.

They covered their mouth, struggling to regain their breath and listening carefully.  After a few minutes there were footsteps in the hall, and then thumping against the door.  A voice, the witch’s voice, filtered through the air, though Dylan couldn’t quite make out her words.  Then there was a click and a creaking sound as the door opened and two sets of footsteps entered the room.

“This has to be the right one,” the woman stated.

“You sure, Milla?” a boy’s voice said in reply.  “You’re not exactly the most precise—”

“Phil, don’t sass me or I’ll sic Irene on you.”  Her feet came closer, clad in brown boots meant for travel.  Dylan squeezed their eyes shut, praying she wouldn’t find them.

It appeared the Unnamed Creator wasn’t listening, or that they had other plans.  Because in that moment, the bed was lifted up and set on its side by a boy who wasn’t much older than Dylan and there was the woman, smiling.  On her shoulder sat a small reddish-orange fox whose fur matched the streak in her hair.

“Hello there,” the woman greeted them.  “You must be one of the students.”

Dylan said nothing and trained their eyes on the fox.  The fox let out a yip and pressed its muzzle into the woman’s hair.

“He’s scared of you,” the boy told the woman with a taunting voice.  She swatted at him and he mockingly fell back.

They were so confused.  Who were these people?  And what did they want?

“Camilla!  Phil!”  Another boy ran into the room, panting heavily.  “Commander said we got what we needed.  We gotta go before the army gets here.”

“You’re coming with us,” the woman—Camilla—informed Dylan, lifting them to their feet.  “Sorry, kiddo.  Can’t let you stay.”

Dylan let out a scream as Phil, the first boy who bore a striking resemblance to Camilla, lifted them over his shoulder and leapt out the window.  From above, Dylan could hear Camilla let out a groan before she started yelling.

“PHIL, YOU COULD’VE USED THE DOOR!”