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Weakness
On the last night of June, Z was sitting in the far corner of the Noble's Quarter's second floor. Her ash gray hair was disheveled, her hands pulling its strand every now and then. Lines were creasing her forehead as she stared down at the pile of parchment messily placed on the study table.
Yawning, she rubbed her stinging eyes and cursed her teachers for giving too many tasks. Apparently, her one-week rest did not guarantee a sound preceding days, because the moment she’s been back, she was asked about her health.
Knowing full well Granny’s capability, she told everyone who cared to ask that she’s perfectly fine, which she regretted afterward. The teachers thought it unwise to have a Noble left behind, so she’d been given the tasks she’s unable to accomplish while fighting death's rotting hand.
She glared at Mr. Porche's back-to-back essay, as though by doing so, it’d finish itself. It’s about the importance of training. It’s been over an hour,
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