the instigator
No te amo como si fueras rosa de sal, topacio, o flecha de claveles que propagan el fuego. Te amo como se aman ciertas cosas oscuras. En secreto, entre la sombra y el alma. Te amo como la planta que nunca florece, pero lleva en sí la luz de las flores ocultas.—I do not love you as if you were a salt-rose, of topaz, or an arrow of carnations that propagate fire. I love you as certain dark things are to be loved. In secret, between the shadow and the soul. I love you as the plant that never blooms but carries in itself the light of hidden flowers —
She clung to the lines not as a declaration of love for another, but as a fierce, silent reminder to love herself, flaws and all, beyond the polished perfection expected of her. The words of Pablo Neruda’s "Soneto XVII" echoed softly in Princess Catalina’s mind, a rhythmic mantra she recited to herself in the quiet of her thoughts. The poem was her private rebellion.
Like nature's lullaby, the wind howled a lonely tune against the ancient stones of St. Donat’s Castle, a song as old as the sea that crashed relentlessly against the cliffs below. UWC Atlantic prep college was a place of dramatic, beautiful contradictions. Its walls, crenellated and thick with centuries of history, felt less like a school and more like a fortress plucked from a forgotten fairytale. Inside, however, the air buzzed not with medieval intrigue, but with the fervent, idealistic energy of the world’s brightest students, all here for a common purpose. They gathered here from 150 different countries. Yet, for Princess Catalina of Spain, it still felt sometimes like a gilded cage, a protected bubble where her every move was still under the relentless gaze of a global microscope. The paparazzi still tried to sneak snapshots of her.
She sat in the back row of the first English Literature class, her posture as straight as the spine of a new book. She was wearing a simple, high-quality dark navy cashmere sweater over a crisp white collared shirt, paired with tailored grey trousers. Her friend glanced back at her, smiling. Her look is polished and classic, to blend in while still being impeccably put together. Her dark, glossy hair was pulled into a neat, simple ponytail, and her face, often seen in solemn portraits and royal speeches, was currently a canvas of barely contained nerves. Catalina's royal training had taught her to project an aura of calm, but the reality was a frantic inner monologue, a rapid-fire succession of thoughts in her native Spanish. Don’t trip. Don’t stammer. What if they ask me something and I forget the English word? Her hands, clasped tightly in her lap, were a giveaway.
Beside her, her roommate and the only person she truly trusted here, Anika, gave her a reassuring nudge. Anika was from a small village in Ghana, with a laugh that could fill a room and a spirit as vibrant as the patterned dresses she wore. Today her dress had bold yellows, blues, and reds, and she stood out from the more muted tones of the other students. She was the grounding force in Catalina's life, a friend who saw past the title to the flustered girl beneath.
"It's fine, Cat. You’re going to be brilliant, as always," Anika whispered, her smile a steady anchor in the swirling sea of new faces.
The professor, Ellington, a kind faced man with a shock of grey hair, finished his introductions and turned to the class.
“Let’s go around the room. Share your name, where you’re from, and one thing you hope to gain from this course.”
The introductions were a blur of different accents, but they all blended into the tapestry of global ambition. Then, it was her turn. Catalina took a deep breath, her face lighting up with her characteristic, almost childlike excitement that she always tried to hide when nervous.
“I am Catalina de Borbón y Ortiz, and I am from Madrid, Spain,” she said, the words coming out in a rush, her ‘r’s trilling beautifully. “I hope to learn how to express myself more… poetically. To find my own voice.”
A few people smiled warmly. A few others leaned forward, their eyes widening, already recognizing her name.
But it was the next introduction that stopped the world from spinning.
A boy, sitting two rows ahead, stood with a kind of casual arrogance that was almost breathtaking. He had messy dark hair that fell perfectly across a brow that looked perpetually deep in thought. His clothes, though simple, were clearly expensive, a soft grey cashmere sweater that draped just right. He wasn't conventionally handsome, but his face had an intensity that was undeniably captivating. His eyes, a startlingly clear shade of British blue, seemed to hold a centuries old story, a mix of intelligence, boredom, and a hint of a challenge. When he spoke, his voice was low, with the distinct, clipped accent of old British money.
“Aidan Sterling. I’m from London, and I hope to find a worthy opponent to spar with.”
“You mean you want to hook up? I'm Finn from Ireland and Poppy, I hear you're in a band. I play the drums.”
Poppy across from him waved her hand at him in excitement while he smiled with dimples. Everyone laughed about his straight forwardness.
Aidan shot a slow, knowing glance directly at Catalina. The air in the room, already thick with the weight of her presence, seemed to hum with an entirely new kind of energy. Her breath caught in her throat. His friend, a girl with striking red hair and a smirk, let out a soft snort of amusement beside him, as if she were in on a private joke.
She stood up with a smirk. She had on a band t-shirt, a slightly oversized black hoodie, and distressed black jeans, giving her a confident and slightly rebellious look.
"I'm British too, and the name's Poppy," she said brightly. "I'm in a band called The Velvet Vipers. I'm hoping to learn how to write better lyrics here because mine are absolutely terrible, I swear." She rolled her eyes dramatically, but the smile on her face was genuine. A few students chuckled.
Jorma stood up, tall, with the lean build of a Dutch athlete. His light brown hair was windswept, giving him a look of reserved, intellectual intensity.
He wore a pristine, pale blue button-down shirt and simple, dark jeans, his style a stark, austere contrast to Aidan’s energetic look.
"Goeiemorgen," Jorma said, his accent precise and calm. He pushed his glasses up his nose, his eyes scanning the room, settling on Catalina with a small, formal nod. "I am Jorma from the Netherlands. I'm the lead guitarist in Velvet Vipers so I'm with Poppy. I am not good at drama, only notes."
Anika beamed at Catalina and Jorma while Almudena, her father close with the Crown, seated in the back, gave Jorma a single, dismissive glance. He was not royal.
Before the professor could call on the next student, a small, sudden wave of sound rippled through the back of the room. It was Jingze. He was huddled over his laptop, his focus absolute, fingers flying across the keys in a way that suggested he was editing code rather than poetry. Jingze was impeccably neat in a fresh button down shirt, a sharp contrast to his intense, slightly unkempt concentration.
The professor cleared his throat. "Mr. Tao? Is there a problem?"
Jingze blinked, slowly looking up, his expression going from deep intellectual immersion to wide eyed panic. The class waited. He rarely spoke unless directly called upon, and when he did, his voice was usually quiet and careful, a result of the pressure cooker of his home life.
Today, translation, his deepest passion, had sucked him in. He’d started an obsessive, poetic translation of a complex Chinese metal song he adored into his own style of English lyrics, posting under his secret forum name, RoyalFanatic, where he could finally be loud.
He stammered, then suddenly gave in to the moment of pure, unguarded expression that his anonymity usually afforded him. He didn’t just speak; he practically declared, reciting his most recent draft with a speed that left his careful English accent scrambling to keep up.
"The song I'm working on is about breaking free from the past! I just wrote this: 'The Great Wall becomes a whisper on the wind, a chain of jade shattered by the thunder of a thousand drums! We shed the skin of silk and shame, for the new dynasty is mine!'"
He slammed his laptop shut, chest heaving slightly, the dramatic fervor of the "RoyalFanatic" momentarily overriding the sensible, obedient Jingze. He looked utterly terrified, as if the thunder he just described was about to strike him down.
A beat of stunned silence held the classroom then it exploded.
Finn was the first. He sprang to his feet, hands clapping so hard. "What a bloody lyric! The new dynasty is mine! That’s pure fire, mate! Absolute banger!"
Poppy followed immediately, jumping up with equal enthusiasm, her black hoodie swaying. "Yes! That’s not terrible, that's epic! Standing ovation, seriously, my dude! You’re definitely writing the Vipers’ next song!"
Finn and Poppy were yelling and clapping for him alone, creating a loud, boisterous, two person standing ovation in the formal classroom.
Jingze’s face went a brilliant, distressed red. The praise, the loudness, and attention, was what his parents trained him to fear. He snatched up his laptop as if it were burning, muttered a hasty, panicked, "I'm sorry, I have to go," and bolted for the door.
He made it exactly three steps into the hallway before stopping. He paused, took a deep, shuddering breath, and the panic seemed to drain away, replaced by the giddiness of his own ridiculousness.
He slowly backed into the classroom, his hands raised in mock surrender, a small, genuine smile finally breaking through his nervousness.
“Okay, okay, I’m Jingze and I'm back,” Jingze conceded in a normal, quiet voice. “The new dynasty must wait for the bell, I suppose.”
The laughter this time was widespread and relieved, breaking the tension created by the earlier, sharp exchange between Aidan and Catalina.
Aidan Sterling did not laugh. He watched Jingze with that same cool, assessing British blue gaze, but a flicker of interest crossed his face. Jingze was staring at Poppy, not Catalina.
“Smokin! Careful looks like two guys might compete for you with songs. I wish somebody would do that for me!” Anika nudged Poppy, smiling.
"Welcome back, Jingze," the professor said, shaking his head with a weary smile. "Perhaps we can channel that... intensity... into poems later."
The introductions continued, but a seismic shift had occurred. A rivalry had been born.
Later in the class, the professor moved on to their first exercise, analyzing a classic poem. The poem, a dense, complex piece, was projected onto the screen.
“I’d like for someone to volunteer a brief analysis of the poem’s theme,” the professor said.
Catalina, seeing a chance to prove her academic worth beyond her title, raised her hand.
“The poem is a poignant reflection on the fleeting nature of time and the futility of chasing worldly desires. The author uses the metaphor of the sea to represent the unceasing march of history.”
Her voice was clear and confident, a stark contrast to her earlier nerves. She felt a sense of pride, a small victory in her quest for normalcy.
Aidan, without raising his hand, spoke from his seat. “I disagree. The princess’s reading is technically correct, but she’s missed the point entirely. The poem isn’t about history or futility. It's about love.”
A collective gasp rippled through the room. Catalina’s cheeks flushed a fiery red. Her poised calm shattered, replaced by her tell-tale Spanish excited expressions—her eyes wide, a slight parting of her lips as if she were about to launch a flurry of furious words. She could feel the world watching, the invisible media circus of the online forums already writing the headlines. She took a deep breath.
"With all due respect," she began, her voice quivering slightly, "the symbolism of the 'crashing waves' and the 'hollowed stone' clearly points to the eternal… struggle…”
Aidan cut her off, a slow, predatory smile spreading across his lips. He rose from his seat, and with a confidence that bordered on unhinged, began to walk towards her. The entire class was silent, their eyes tracking his every move. He stopped directly in front of her desk, his imposing frame blocking her view of the board. The scent of his expensive cologne, a clean and woody scent, filled the air. He looked at her, his captivating blue eyes holding hers, a challenge and a promise all at once.
Then, he began to recite the poem, not to the class, but to her.
"The tide will rise, and the tide will fall, but the sea remembers you, and only you, above it all…"
He circled her slowly making her very aware of him. His voice, low and resonant, filled the room, making the words a new, intimate language. He wasn’t just reading a poem; he was performing an act of intellectual and emotional seduction, a masterful display of power disguised as a poetry reading. Her heart hammered a frantic rhythm that had nothing to do with her nerves and everything to do with the intense, spicy tension crackling between them.
He finished the stanza and leaned in, his mouth close to her ear. She could feel shivers from his closeness and this crisp Autumn smell from him being outside with his cologne. The room held its breath. He whispered, just for her, a final line from the poem.
“…And I will watch the waves recede, until they bring you back to me.”
He pulled back, his gaze never leaving hers. Catalina was a frozen statue, a flustered mess of Spanish indignation and something far more dangerous. He had proven her wrong, not just with his words, but with a deeply personal, public performance that had left her speechless, breathless, and utterly, completely unsettled.
He was an instigator, a genius, and a boy who had just bought the entire room, and her, with nothing more than a poem. Not forgetting her training, she held her Spanish tongue with a quiet fury and dignity, flashing him a glare. He just smirked back at her, leaning back satisfied. Class was heating up this October term.
