Chapter 53

  Boot Camp I

  The meal was simple but warm, and Mags appreciated the quiet after the chaos of the day. The mess hall, still open but mostly empty, offered little in the way of variety: a thick wheat-based porridge topped with a boar meat and lentil stew. There were also pitchers of water and beer, which Mags understood to be similar to ale. She ladled herself a generous portion and grabbed a cup of water from a pitcher. Edvard did the same, moving with quiet precision. Galiel, true to his exuberant nature, grabbed a cup of beer. He took a long sip, then grimaced, sticking out his tongue like a child.

  “This isn’t beer,” he declared, shaking his cup and glaring at the liquid. “This is what you’d get if you left barley and hops in a rain barrel for a week. Awful.”

  “Yet you’re still drinking it,” Mags noted, raising an eyebrow as she spooned some of her stew.

  “Can’t let it go to waste, can I?” Galiel said with a grin, lifting his cup in mock toast.

  The three found a quiet corner to sit in, the long wooden table cool beneath Mags’ elbows as they settled in. For a time, the only sound was the scraping of spoons against bowls and the occasional clink of a cup against the table.

  “So,” Galiel began, breaking the silence. “Why don’t we share a little about ourselves. I’ll start! I’m from a little merchant town in Ravaelia. Not that exciting, I know, but my parents managed to save enough to get me a tutor. Studied day and night for those admissions exams.” He puffed out his chest with mock pride. “And now, here I am. Brightwash, in all its terrifying glory. I love a good steamed meat bun, and also enjoy a nice long stroll, when it strikes my fancy.” He paused for a moment before pointing his spoon at the direction of the shy young man sitting by Mags’ side.

  Edvard glanced up from his bowl. “I . . . didn’t have a tutor,” he said softly. “And didn’t live in a city or town, or anywhere with a name, really. Just the house, with all of my siblings. A lot of brothers and sisters.” He looked at Galiel. “I’m the youngest, and that was difficult. Felt like I got lost in the shuffle.”

  Galiel snorted. “Too many siblings? Yeah, that sounds like chaos. How many are we talking?”

  Edvard shrugged. “Seven. Eight, maybe.”

  “Maybe?” Galiel leaned forward, his sharp teeth flashing in a grin. “You lose count?”

  Ed’s cheeks reddened, and he mumbled something into his bowl.

  Galiel turned to Mags, his curiosity shifting. “What about you, Mags? What was it like growing up in Solstice?”

  The question hit her like a punch to the stomach. Memories of bloodied streets, screams, and the oppressive smoke from burning homes threatened to surface. She tightened her grip on her spoon, forcing her voice to stay steady.

  “It was… quiet,” she said, keeping her answer short. “Not much to tell.” Then, eager to shift the focus, she added, “But enough about me. What landmarks do I need to know around here? I missed the chance to get a formal tour of the campus. You seem like the type to have the whole campus memorized.”

  Galiel caught the bait, his grin widening. “You’re in luck! I happen to be the greatest tour guide this side of the central yard. Finish up, and I’ll show you.”

  After they finished their meal, they took a detour through the campus on their way back to Fleming Hall. Galiel walked backward for much of it, arms spread wide as he gestured to each location they passed, spinning stories and quips.

  “This,” he said with theatrical flair, stopping in front of a tall, circular stone building, “is the Bell Tower. Legend has it that if you climb all the way to the top you have to do it in a single go, without stopping, or you’ll be cursed with endless bad luck.”

  “That’s ridiculous,” Mags said, crossing her arms.

  “Maybe. But I won’t be finding out. I just don’t want to climb that many stairs,” Galiel shot back with a wink.

  And so, the tour continued in this fashion until the three of them successfully circumnavigated the school’s central campus, ending up where their evening started. By the time they reached Fleming Hall, Mags felt lighter, even with the day’s events and the beginning of boot camp still lingering in her mind. As Galiel held the door open for her, she found herself smiling nevertheless.

  The next morning began with the sharp blare of a trumpet echoing through the halls of Fleming Hall. Mags groaned, the sound pulling her from a restless sleep, but there was no time to linger. Rue had already rolled out of bed, tying her hair back with practiced efficiency before throwing a glance at Mags.

  “You’ll get used to wake up call,” Rue said simply, her voice flat but laced with the faintest edge of sympathy. “After boot camp, it will be much easier.” The mention of boot camp made the second-year student shudder.

  Mags quickly went to the baths at the end of the hall, attended to her business, before nearly sprinting back to their dorm. By the time she was back, Rue was gone. She dressed quickly, pulling on her uniform, and joined the throng of recruits marching toward the Training Yard. Galiel and Edvard joined her at her side, doing double-time to catch up to her.

  Reading on Amazon or a pirate site? This novel is from Royal Road. Support the author by reading it there.

  The yard had been thoroughly prepared, rows of obstacle courses and drill areas stretching as far as she could see. Instructors in crimson and navy uniforms barked orders at clusters of recruits, their voices sharp and unyielding.

  Boot camp was grueling, but not in the ways Mags expected. The physical conditioning—long-distance runs, obstacle climbing, and weapon drills—came naturally to her after the intense training she’d undergone at Bijel Garden. While some recruits gasped for breath or faltered under the weight of heavy packs, Mags found herself at the front of the line, her body moving with practiced precision.

  What she didn’t anticipate, however, was the rigid discipline. Standing at attention for what felt like hours, perfectly still, with her hands at her sides and her eyes locked forward, made her stomach churn. The constant salutes, the barking of “Yes, sir!” and “No, ma’am!”—it all felt wrong.

  An imperial dog, she thought bitterly, swallowing her resentment as she forced her spine to remain straight. But that’s what she felt like.

  Marching drills were another headache. Mags struggled to keep in step with the others, her timing slightly off as she tried to match the rhythm of dozens of synchronized boots. She quickly learned that any deviation from perfection earned a sharp reprimand, and though she adapted, it was the kind of mindless uniformity that grated against her every instinct.

  Still, she endured. By the end of each day, she collapsed onto her bunk, muscles aching and nerves frayed, but pride intact. She wasn’t going to let herself be broken.

  A week into boot camp, the Training Yard was noticeably emptier. The instructors had made it clear from the start: failure to meet the Academy’s rigorous standards meant an unceremonious dismissal. Unlike students eliminated during the Entrance Trials, who were sent to the Front as grunts beginning their mandatory service to the Crown Coalition, boot camp dropouts weren’t even considered fit for the military. They were sent home, stripped of their uniforms and their dignity.

  Mags watched as another group of recruits left the yard that morning, heads hanging low as they marched through the gates. Their absence didn’t lighten the workload for the rest of them. If anything, the remaining recruits just had more of the instructors’ undivided attention. The instructors seemed harsher, barking orders with an even sharper edge, as though eager to weed out more failures.

  She glanced at Galiel during a break, who wiped sweat from his brow and gave her a lopsided grin. “Still standing?” he asked, his voice light but his eyes weary. His legs wobbled.

  “Barely,” she replied, taking a long sip of water from her canteen.

  Nearby, Edvard was stretching, his quiet presence a steadying force in the chaos. He didn’t say much, but Mags had noticed that he rarely made mistakes and didn’t look like he’d even broken a sweat. He wasn’t the fastest or the strongest, but he moved with a quiet efficiency. If Mags noticed, she was sure the instructors did as well.

  “Well, wish us luck,” Galiel said over his shoulder, about to jog back to his station.

  “Ed doesn’t need my luck,” Mags said. “But to you, I’ll say good luck.”

  Galiel chuckled at that.

  Mags’ group was eventually dismissed for the day. That meant it was time for dinner, and Mags was starving.

  The mess hall buzzed with the low hum of conversation, forks clinking against plates, and boots scuffing against the worn wooden floor. Mags hefted her tray, laden with a mountain of food: a slab of roasted meat, a heaping mound of root vegetables, and enough bread rolls to make her tray wobble precariously. The boot camp’s brutal physical regimens left her famished, her body demanding every calorie she could shovel down before the next grueling session.

  Her usual table with Galiel and Ed was empty. The two were likely still stuck finishing the day’s exercises. Mags scanned the room, her eyes darting past clusters of recruits laughing, arguing, or slouching in exhaustion. Maybe I should just sit alone, then? That’s when she spotted Szed.

  The Laanian young man was seated alone at the far edge of the hall, his plate half-eaten and his focus entirely on the slim book in his hands. He turned a page with the same calm precision he’d displayed during their fight, his narrow bronze eyes occasionally flicking to his food for a polite bite. Around him, tables buzzed with whispers, heads tilted together conspiratorially. Eyes darted toward him, watching but never quite meeting his gaze.

  Mags knew the feeling. The stares, the murmurs. Being one of the Specially Recommended recruits was enough to draw attention, but for Szed, who’d crushed both Dermot and herself (as she had heard plenty of students recount) in the Welcome Ceremony, it was like having a target painted on his back.

  Balancing her tray, she crossed the hall toward his table, clearing her throat as she approached. “Hey, Szed.”

  His bronze eyes lifted from the book, calm and polite, as if he were entirely unaware—or entirely indifferent—to the room’s scrutiny. “Magdalena,” he said softly, inclining his head in greeting.

  “Mind if I sit?”

  “Of course not.” He gestured to the seat across from him, then returned to his book, his focus unwavering.

  Mags slid onto the bench and immediately began tearing into her meal, pausing only long enough to exhale a satisfied sigh. Szed continued to read, his movements precise, his posture perfect. She watched him out of the corner of her eye. He seemed perfectly content, unaffected by the low din of gossip around them. And perhaps she had simply grown accustomed to meals accompanied by the near constant yapping of Galiel, but the silence between the two seemed a little awkward.

  “So,” Mags ventured, swallowing a mouthful of bread, “what are you reading?”

  “A treatise on aether-imbued alloys,” he replied without looking up.

  “Sounds riveting,” she said dryly.

  “It is,” he said simply, flipping another page. “Not many have had Gifts similar to mine and have written about it. Brightwash’s libraries offer a wealth of rare knowledge.”

  She smirked, taking another bite. She was sure Libicocco and Rubicante would have both loved to have access to those. “People are staring at you, you know.”

  “They often do,” he replied, tone flat, and went back to his book.

  Mags let the silence stretch, focusing on her food. She didn’t mind Szed’s quiet, but she was starting to wonder if she’d made a mistake sitting here. Just as she was about to excuse herself, a voice boomed across the mess hall.

  “Szed!”

  The voice cut through the clamor, silencing the room. Mags glanced up, startled, to see a towering Olenish man striding toward their table, his face twisted with fury. Like most Olenish men, he was tall with broad shoulders. His long locs were braided into an intricate fashion. Unlike everyone else in the mess hall, he was not in a uniform, but a fine three piece suit crafted from an obviously expensive black material.

  Szed’s gaze flicked upward, calm as ever, as he carefully closed his book and set it on the table. Mags felt the tension in the air shift as the man stomped towards their table, face twisted in anger. “Szed!”