The two instructors stood at the front of the class, creating a visual contrast so jarring it made Kael's eyes hurt.
It was like staring at the sun and the moon simultaneously, if the moon had a drinking problem and the sun had consumed twelve espressos.
On the left was Rheya Vos.
She was radiant.
Her robes were immaculate, pressed to a razor's edge. Her curls bounced with every movement, and she radiated an aura of boundless, terrifying positivity. She looked like the kind of person who volunteered at three different charities and ran marathons for fun.
On the right was Garren Thorne.
He was a disaster.
His coat was a topographical map of stains—coffee, alcohol, maybe some blood. His beard was a thicket of unkempt hair that hid most of his face, and his eyes were bloodshot and baggy. He leaned against the podium as if it were the only thing tethering him to the earth's gravitational pull.
