He looked at me and everyone else with an anger so clear in his eyes you would think he enjoyed being mad at the entire world. But that anger faded within seconds, replaced by a perfectly practiced smile. He walked straight to the front row and took his seat.
Mr Wiston began the lesson as usual. And as if the heavens were either on my side or completely against me, he said, "Class, today in history we will be studying a thousand-year-old Valerian poem written by a palace servant. It is titled The Dye of a Mad Woman. A copy should already be on your desks."
He cleared his throat. "The first lines are quite striking. Before we analyze them, let us discuss the setting. The poem was written during the Dinosaurian Period, long after dinosaurs were believed to be extinct. As we know, they disappeared sixty-five million years ago. Yet the King of Valeria shocked the world by taking both a dinosaur and a dragon to war, defeating the kingdom of Alexia. Three thousand captives were brought back to Valeria to serve the royal family as slaves."
He paced slowly across the front of the class.
"The servant who wrote this poem was the son of one of those captives. He was a gifted healer, but he was never allowed to join the Valerian Healing Centre because only true citizens and nobles could become healers. So instead, he wrote this poem."
Mr Wiston gestured for us to read.
Stanza Three and Four
"The sun sets in the blue sky, even the lion is awake
Practicing the skill given to him by God.
Every being is blessed with a gift,
Even the mad woman hides away material to form her dye.
She lacks sense, yet never forgets her skill,
For it is a blessing from the great ones.
But we mortals, and the great among us,
Have stripped the lowly of their gifts,
Believing talent belongs only to the class of the chosen.
Wish is free; I shall weep and wait for my dearest
Until the moon is full."
Mr Wiston turned to the class. "So. What are your perspectives on this poem?"
And of course, the full definition of arrogance raised his hand. Mr Wiston bowed slightly and said, "Your Majesty, you may speak."
The prince leaned back in his chair. "First of all, I would say this so-called poem does not deserve to be called a poem. It is nothing but stupidity written by a low life. And that is why people of their class will never rise to a higher rank. Their mentality is as low as the slums they come from."
A loud wave of laughter erupted from the elites. Eyes turned to us, the scholarship students, as if we were stray dogs who had wandered into a palace.
My anger boiled over.
Before I could stop myself, I stood and spoke. The room fell silent. No one had ever dared talk back to the almighty Crown Prince Kaelith Altherion.
I met his eyes and said, "Talent isn't defined by the family you're born into. It is about what you can do. A gift is a blessing from God, and class does not decide it. So yes, The Dye of a Mad Woman is a masterpiece. And someone like you would never understand it, because your ability to understand anything beyond your rank is blocked by arrogance, pride, and prejudice."
His face changed instantly. He stood, lifted his right hand, and three guards marched in and grabbed me.