Disclaimer: Same as before. I'm too lazy to continue this at the top of every chapter, so this'll be the last.

Also, thanks to those who reviewed chapter one. In response to one of the reviews, the Huntsman is not 88 or 89, but I will say that these two will have a role in this story…other than being briefly mentioned before.

I'm in the middle of my final exams for the year too, so I might not update again until Tuesday or Wednesday. I might get in another chapter tomorrow, but if it's anything like this one, it'll take longer than a day.

Chapter Two: The Museum

I remember my first classes at the Academy. I was eleven, pale skinned with shoulder-length auburn-colored hair and dusky brown eyes. I wasn't the tallest in my class, but I wasn't the shortest either. I wore the standard uniform: dark green from top to bottom, black boots and protective shoulder padding, with holes cut out of my mask for my eyes. I was kind of just…normal, I suppose you could say. Because I wasn't yet thirteen, I was only put into the most basic classes along with other young students, usually around my age. We would study the types of magical creatures and what the best way to slay them was. These classes also worked towards diminishing our cynicism towards the Huntsclan motives by providing us with 'evidence' that magical creatures were disgusting, unnatural beings…in effect, an attempt at preventing another betrayal or rebellion.

I was just barely a novice then, #73, but I was a diligent student, and was soon able to show off my superior knowledge of slaying techniques to the class. I knew that brownies were eagerly coaxed into a fight, unicorns could not maneuver very well when running at high speeds and were best taken out then, and that dragons could be slain with a slash to their soft underbellies or a solid blow behind their left ears. Before a year had passed, I was placed in advanced technical classes where I was able to learn the basic uses of the stun staff that was assigned to all field hunters.

It was a bit awkward at first, learning to use the staff. My staff was taller than I was, which made it difficult to maneuver with it, and when I tried to fire the energy blasts, the kickback was nearly too much for me. The bulk of the weapon made it hard to carry for long distances or use in close combat. Eventually I got used to it, but not after some sharp reprimand. I was incessantly called 'the shame of the Huntsclan' by the masters; forced to hold back my stingy replies for fear of something worse than verbal reprimand, I merely bowed my head and said I would do better next time…if there was a next time.

And there would be a next time, of course. After all, I hadn't anywhere else to go and I didn't think even the Huntsclan would oust one of their youngest members into the world to fend for herself. I was naïve then, I admit. But what else could I have done? This was all I knew, so I just stuck with it, trying to keep my chin high and practice until I was more skilled than many of my elders…even some who had already been out in the field. By the time my twelfth birthday came around, I was all but ready to join the Huntsmaster out in the field…at least on short hunts for weaker creatures. I doubt that I would have lasted a minute against a dragon at that point, despite my training. Yet, I was still too young. I would have to wait in the novice classes for another year, listening to the professors give numerous lectures about dragon-slaying potions and the dangers of hand-to-claw combat. I went through the same exercises everyday: first the standard stretches, a mile-and-a-half run, and reflex training, and then either uniform group combat movements or the hated obstacle course.

The months passed slowly, with only brief moments of excitement. Occasionally a unicorn or something would be brought in to be slain in an assembly meant to teach us, since apparently a slaying technique is better seen from hundreds of feet away than from in a book. Another brilliant idea, you know. Besides that, I shared a room with two other novices, #72 and #74. #72 was younger than #74 and I, and she preferred to spend time in the recreation lounge of the Academy, so I didn't see much of her. But #74 and I were around enough to get to know each other better, and we became friends fairly quickly.

It turns out that both of his parents were of the Huntsclan, though he was already nine at the time the New Huntsclan was founded. He was made a novice at that age, and he rarely saw his parents in anything less than a professional encounter. It was sort of strange at first, hearing this. I didn't really feel much for my parents at the time, since I couldn't remember them. And besides, they died. But the way #74 talked about his parents seemed almost unreal; he saw them almost daily, but he felt more kinship towards the entire Clan than to them.

#74 was a cool person, though. He and I got up to all sorts of mischief in our time together, at one time mixing small amounts of pixie dust and shredded sprite wings into krylock venom, so that the next time it was used, the potions room would become engulfed in malodorous orange smoke. #74 always knew how to cheer me up, too. Whenever I was feeling down, he would do something, like sneak things out of the kitchen and have a 'romantic' dinner with me or bring me 'flowers' made of spare pieces of cloth and paper. His dry sense of humor also amused me; his satirical speech was usually able to get a chuckle out of me.

The day before my thirteenth birthday, and likewise my first night out in the field, he brought me to the Museum of Artifacts below the Academy. There were lots of interesting things there, from old paintings of mythical beings and battle scenes, to the three statues Adelmar, Aiolos, and Sophus. The two of us had a nice day browsing through the museum, and we were about to leave to go prepare for my ascension to the rank of Huntsclan apprentice, but #74 insisted that we go see the Old Huntsclan exhibit.

As I walked into the room next to #74, a sudden feeling of anguish passed over me. I halted in my steps and my eyes swept the room. All that was there were pieces of old weaponry, a tattered cape, and a few fragments of what seemed to be a dragon's skull. I could hear #74's voice, like he was trying to explain something to me, but it was distant, as if he were a mile away. After a few moments, the room faded away and I found myself on a rooftop, staring at the same cape and dragon skull I had just seen, but now worn by a man that was even larger than the Huntsmaster.

For a while, all I could do was stare. His cold eyes seemed to be gazing right at me, but if he could see me, he didn't show it by even a muscle's twitch. A girl was standing next to him, and as she took off her mask, I recognized her as the Huntsgirl from long ago, known now as The Betrayer. Her eyes seemed fixed on a spiky-haired boy a few feet in front of her, gleaming with a mixture of regret and grim determination. I knew what she was thinking, and I knew that she had thought hard about it…very, very hard.

All of a sudden, battle broke loose. There were dragons…more than I wished to count. Where did they all come from? One was scarlet-colored; it had the same green-tinted spiky black hair as the boy from before, so I guessed that it was the dragon that The Betrayer had fallen in love with. But…she was battling with it. Probably to feign loyalty to the Huntsclan, at that point, really. As I watched, horror-stricken from the edge of the building, one of the dragons flew right at me. It was an elder dragon, long-bodied and slender, and I was certain that it had seen me and was coming to attack. Without a weapon, I raised my arms to defend myself, bracing for the impact, but it never came. I spun around to see the dragon pinned down by several Huntsclan members, none of which seemed to pay any attention to me. That was fine, really; I was confused as it is.

Just as quickly as the battle started, it was over. The Betrayer was standing over the American Dragon and the Huntsman was walking away from her, the thirteenth Aztec Skull in his hands. My eyes narrowed in confusion; everything seemed fine, so what had gone wrong?

"Well done…Huntsgirl," the Huntsman said, still walking away.

The Betrayer hesitated, casting a last glance back at the dragon before following the Huntsman. I noticed her grip her staff more tightly; the look of regret in her eyes was now lost, and all that was left was pure determination. I longed to move forward and warn the Huntsman of what was about to happen, but I knew it would never help. What had happened…had happened. History couldn't be changed. I could only watch helplessly as the scene unfolded.

The Huntsman raised the thirteenth Skull over his head and called out, "By the Pantheon of Aztec Skulls, I hereby wish for the destruction of all…"

And then it happened. The Betrayer raised her staff, took aim, and fired a single shot at the Huntsman, striking him squarely in the back. He fell, leaving the Skull suspended in the air. Time seemed to slow at that moment. The Betrayer dropped her staff, which was still crackling with energy from the last blow it had dealt, and stepped forward, reaching to take the Skull. I was almost willing something to happen, and for the Skull to fall to the ground and break. If it had, maybe things would have been different. The Betrayer's wish would have never been granted, the Huntsclan would never have been destroyed, and…

"The destruction of all Huntsclan!"

If time had been slow before, it had all but stopped now. Each member of the Huntsclan had their eyes trained on The Betrayer, looks of anger, fear, and defeat visible on their faces. None moved; they were too shocked to move. The person they had known as Huntsgirl, a comrade, had turned on them, and their lives, spent in service to the Huntsclan, now meant nothing.

I found myself just as still as the rest, suddenly unable to move. My mind swirled with confusion and anger. Why was I seeing this? Wasn't it enough that this very day loomed over the minds and darkened the thoughts of all Huntsclan members, from the weakest novices to the strongest masters, to this day? It was all like a dream, but as horrible as a nightmare.

Something touched my shoulder, and as I turned to see what it was, I found myself face to face with #74…back in the museum, and back in reality.

"73, are you okay? You look a little shaken," he said. His hand was still on my shoulder, and I was grateful for it. I was more than just 'a little shaken' and was reassured by his presence.

"Oh, I'm fine. What was it that you were saying?" I replied, trying to hide my weariness. I didn't want to worry him. After tonight, I would be going out into the field, which meant I could be going anywhere. #74 and I might never see each other again, and if we did, it wouldn't be the in same relationship we had now.

"Well, I was…ah, don't worry about it. Tomorrow's your big day and you're probably just stressed out. Let's get back to our room," he said. He turned around and headed back for the stairs up to the dormitories. When I didn't follow, he looked back at me curiously. After a moment, I followed him, though I moved with a dreamlike slowness. I couldn't help feeling that I had seen the final moments of the Old Huntsclan for a reason, though I couldn't figure out why. They weren't my memories. In fact, I would have barely been born at the time it had happened. If there was some deep, philosophical reason that I saw the scene, it escaped me. All I had learned was that The Betrayer had done something irreversibly horrible, and that a filthy, disgusting dragon was at the center of all this. I already knew this, and the vision just left me with a sense of anger that I knew would never be quelled until every vile magical creature was wiped from the face of the earth.