The great hall is loud now, a hive of nervous energy, hysterical laughter, and the sharp, metallic click of swords being sharpened. But in the corner where the House Apophis years ones had gathered, there is a heavy, suffocating silence.
Seven of us sit in a circle of chairs.
Me. Lucian. Vihaan. Zaria. Niko. Dominic. Imara.
We are all here. We all bear the weight of a murder committed in the sand. We all passed the General's twisted little game of logic and brutality. Although murder was nothing for me or Lucian or Vihaan it is the first time most in this room had ever killed another human.
But there is an empty chair.
Rye.
She didn't make it.
The news came through Niko, who said the General told him as a way to try and get under his skin. he said the general said She couldn't do it. She couldn't bring herself to execute a bound man. She froze. She cried. She begged the him for another way.
There was no other way.
I stare at the empty chair, and I don't feel pity. I don't feel sadness for a friend left behind.
I feel a cold, simmering rage.
It starts in my gut and radiates outward, tightening my jaw. It is annoyance. It is the frustration of a craftsman who realizes one of his tools has snapped before the work has even begun.
Weak, the voices whisper, their tone dripping with disdain. The herd culls itself. She was soft meat. She would of gotten us killed.
I know they are right, and that makes me angrier.
Rye is the only student left in the entire Academy for House Apophis. Think about the absurdity of that. An entire House, one who is supposedly made up of future spellbreakers who those whos marks can be devolved into that power reduced to a single, weeping girl wandering empty halls while her classmates march to war.
It is an embarrassment.
"She's lucky," Zaria mutters, breaking the silence. She is staring at her boots, her face pale. "She gets to stay alive this way."
"She gets to live in shame," Vihaan corrects softly, spinning his karambit on his finger. "She gets to wonder, every day, why she wasn't strong enough. That is a slower death than anything the Federation can try and give us."
"She has a good heart," Imara says, clutching her pendant of Aren. "Perhaps too good for this world."
"Good hearts don't mean shit in this world," I snap. My voice comes out harsher than I intended, silencing the group.
Although i don't disagree I think, if I had the option i would of preferred to stay behind myself but war does not spare those who remain inactive it just delays their slaughter.
"She failed," I say, looking at them. "She is gone. We don't talk about her anymore. She is not part of this Cohort anymore she brings us shame with her weakness"
I look at the rank insignia pinned to my collar.
First Lieutenant.
I look at Lucian's collar. Second Lieutenant. I look at Zaria's. Second Lieutenant.
Everyone else—every Fourth Year, every Third Year, every member of my cohort—was granted the rank of Second Lieutenant.
After the last student came in and provided the letter to three proctors at the front they had came through and pinned ranks on us.
I skipped a rank.
I run my thumb over the silver bar. It feels heavy.
I darkly suspect this is the King's doing. It reeks of court politics. By elevating me above my peers—above students with three years more training and experience than me he once again isolates me from them. He makes me a target for resentment. He also binds me closer to him. If I am an officer of higher standing, I am more useful, more visible.
So not only is the rank an act of offense toward me socially ostracizing me even more then my three marks do it's also a shield of authority to protect me from others who would attempt to abuse or use me.
Rank is just borrowed power, I think bitterly. But I will borrow it.
The king knows I need some type of legitimacy so he gives just enough. I am stuck between a rock and a hard place. On one side, the King and the Military Elites want to use me as a weapon of mass destruction. On the other side, the Church is split down the middle. Half of them think I am a divine retribution sent by the Gods to scourge the wicked their child of light. The other half thinks I am an agent of Chaos, a Usurper who's existence challenges the King's Divine Right to rule.
If I had reminded behind from this war It would be way easier to kill me. Or if i'm assigned 2nd LT i will be way more easier to order into perilous positions.
But "First Lieutenant Daath"? A prodigy promoted by a General himself? A three mark bearer the first ever in human history who the King accepts as a sign. That is harder to kill.
"It's politics," Niko says, noticing me looking at my rank. "Statistically, it makes no sense. Your combat metrics are high, yes and you're smart, but your command experience is zero. Giving you operational authority over Fourth Years is... disruptive."
"It's fucking funny though ," Lucian grins, though his eyes are serious. "Do you think he outranks all those year fives too?."
"Probably " I say. "Oh well If they have a problem, they can file a complaint with the General."
Finally Proctor Charles stands up shushing the room "Everyone formation outside time now"
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The courtyard is massive. It is a sprawling expanse of cobblestone and manicured grass and today, it is a parade ground for an army of children.
The sun is beginning to dip low in the sky, casting long, golden shadows across the stone. The air is crisp, carrying the scent of pine from the distant mountains and the metallic tang of polished armor.
Hundreds of students stand in formation.
The Fourth Years stand at the front, a solid block of discipline. Behind them, the Third Years. Then the Second Years.
And finally, the First Years. We fall into line. I take the point for my squad. Lucian is at my left followed by Vihaan and the others file in next to them.
I look around. Almost enough of us to count as a full battalion.
General Icepelt sweeps out of the building a few minutes later.
He doesn't walk; he stalks. He moves with the momentum of a landslide. His black cloak billows behind him, the silver wolf's head clasp catching the dying sunlight.
He is flanked by the Lieutenant Viges, the teleporter who looks nervous but determined. To his right is Cecilia, her black Inquisitor robes making her look like a shadow made flesh. To his left, Headmistress Voss, cold and regal, and Proctors Julius and Evanora.
They make their way to the back of the formation respectfully as the General reaches the front.
The General looks out over the sea of students.
A Fourth Year from House Luxor a tall boy with dark green steps forward from the front rank. He screams, his voice cracking with the strain of command.
"FORMATION! ATTENTION!"
The sound of hundreds boots slamming together is deafening. CRACK.
We stand rigid. Spines straight. Chins up.
"SALUTE!" the Fourth Year bellows.
In unison
"VIVE SICUT SERPENS!"
The motto roars across the courtyard, bouncing off the stone walls of the Academy. Live like a serpent.
General Icepelt stands there, absorbing the shout. He looks at us, and for a moment, the brutal mask slips. He looks... proud.
He snaps a salute back, crisp and perfect.
"At ease, Awakened," he says.
He doesn't shout, but his voice carries. It carried by sheer charisma. It rumbles in our chests.
We drop our hands, settling into a parade rest.
The General stalks to the edge of the formation. He looks directly at some of the Fourth Years, then lifts his gaze to scan the back ranks. He smiles.
He looks at us with genuine admiration.
And in that moment, looking at the massive figure of the General surrounded by the banners of the Empire, with the sun setting behind him... I feel it.
A spark.
It is a warm, golden feeling in my chest. Patriotism. Belonging.
I think, for a split second: I want to follow this man. I want to fight for him. I want to be part of this great machine that crushes chaos.
It is a seductive thought. It promises purpose. It promises that the blood I spilled today was meaningful.
Slave, the voices hiss instantly.
The spark is extinguished like a candle in a hurricane.
You serve no one, the voices growl. He is a man. You are a God waiting to be born. Never bow
I blink, shaking the feeling away. The voices are right. Patriotism is a drug. It makes you willing to die for lines on a map. I am not here to die for a map.
But I keep my face impassive. I keep my eyes locked on the General.
Icepelt takes a breath. He raises his hands.
And then he speaks.
His voice is loud. Clearer than any mortal man should be able to achieve. It resonates in the marrow of my bones.
"Arise!" he bellows. "Arise, you young Awakened of Elarion!"
He sweeps his arm across the horizon.
"Evil deeds are awake! Fire and slaughter! Swords shall be drawn, shields will be splintered! Days of blood are what await you!"
The words are violent. They are not the comforting lies of nobles. They are a promise of horror.
"But ALWAYS," he roars, pointing a gloved finger at the sky, "ALWAYS WILL the sun rise upon us!"
He leans forward, his eyes alight with passion.
"Now! Today! We will travel to Verion, a place under direct siege by the forces of Chaos! We travel to the mud and the blood and the dark! And we shall not let those godless vermin win!"
"Tonight," he says, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial growl that echoes in every ear, "you are no longer students. You are no longer children. Tonight, you are part of the greatest Army in the world!"
A ripple of energy goes through the crowd. I see backs straighten. I see chins lift higher.
"You were born to be Awakened," the General continues, his red eyes burning. "Every one of you! Each personally chosen by the Gods! You were meant to be here, before me, today. This is not an accident. This is destiny. This is your time!"
He laughs, a short, sharp bark.
"You know, by the Gods, I actually pity those poor bastards we're going up against. Those creature s deluded by Chaos."
He shakes his head, a look of mock sympathy on his face.
"By the Gods, I do. Because they think they are fighting soldiers. They think they are fighting men."
He grins.
"But we have a divine duty! And we're not just going to kill the bastards. We're going to cut out their living guts and use them to grease the rails of our trains!"
The imagery is visceral. Disgusting.
Beside me, Vihaan lets out a soft, shuddering breath of ecstasy.
"We're going to murder those vile bastards by the hundreds!" the General shouts. "By the thousands!"
He pauses, scanning the faces of the terrified First Years scattered among the ranks.
"Now, some of you young Awakened, I know, are wondering whether or not you'll chicken-out under the pressure. Whether you'll freeze when the fighting starts when it's kill or be killed."
He waves a hand dismissively.
"Don't worry about it. I can assure you that you will all do your duty. The Federation is the enemy. They are the antithesis of Order of Good. So Wade into them! Spill their blood!"
He leans in close again, his voice intimate, heavy.
"And when you put your hand into a bunch of goo that a moment before was your best friend's body... you'll know what to do."
A chill runs down my spine.
"You will kill the thing that did it," he whispers, but the passion in his voices carries the whisper like a shout.
"Now, there's another thing I want you to remember," he says, straightening up, his voice returning to a command pitch. "I don't want to get any messages saying that we are 'holding our position.' We're not holding anything!"
He slams his fist into his palm.
"We are advancing constantly! We are not interested in holding onto anything except the enemy's throat! And when we find the enemy, WE WILL KILL THEM!" They launch on attack into our Empire and kill our people. We will not stop once we take Verion back from them! We will continue North and end this war and unite the entire continent under the Gods!
He throws his arms wide, encompassing the entire courtyard, the entire Academy, the entire Empire.
"WE ARE THE AWAKENED OF ELARION!"
The shout shakes the ground.
"Our ancestors walked upon the Dark Continent! They fell upon demons of Chaos and came out victorious! We are the stars in the night sky! We are the blades in the twilight! We are the Gods! The Glory!"
He draws his sword and points it at the sky.
"WE ARE ELITE!" "Dieu et Mon Droit"
For a second, there is silence. The word hangs in the air, vibrating.
And then, the dam breaks.
It starts with the Fourth Years. A roar. A primal, guttural scream of release.
"HOORAH!"
Then the Third Years join in. Then the Seconds.
And finally, caught up in the madness, the First Years scream too.
"Dieu et Mon Droit"
The sound is deafening. It washes over me like a physical wave. I look at Vihaan. He is screaming, his eyes wide and manic. I look at Lucian. He is cheering, caught up in the momentum. Even Zaria and Imaram Niko and Dominic, are shouting, their faces flushed.
I don't scream.
I stand there, silent in the cacophony.
I look at the General.
He stands before them, bathed in the dying light. He looks proud. His energy is electric. His red eyes are alight with the thrill of his speech and the upcoming battle. He is a conductor, and this is his orchestra of violence.
Around me, the cheering reaches a crescendo. The sun dips below the mountains, plunging the courtyard into shadow.
The days of blood are almost here.