Chapter 54

  Boot Camp II

  The thudding of polished boots against the wooden floor echoed louder than the usual clatter of the mess hall. Conversations dipped, forks paused mid-air, and heads turned as a tall Olenish man stormed through the rows of recruits. His fine attire—a tailored black vest over a high-collared, snow-white shirt—made him look as out of place as a peacock among crows. In his clenched fist, papers crumpled under the strain, the edges creased and slightly smudged.

  Mags watched as the man stomped directly toward their table, his sharp light colored eyes locked onto Szed with an intensity that rivaled the heat of the midday drills. The murmuring around them grew hushed, curiosity piqued by the man’s imperious stride and the tension radiating from his stiff shoulders.

  When he reached the table, he slammed his fist down with a dramatic flourish, flattening the crumpled papers before Szed. “Szed! This is unacceptable. Just unacceptable!”

  Szed didn’t flinch. He lifted his gaze from his book with the same serene indifference he’d shown during their confrontation in the Welcome Ceremony. Mags was beginning to understand that this was his default mood. She was impressed. Szed would probably have reacted to the Blackfire Company as though they were nothing more than a buzzing swarm of flies on a hot summer day.

  “What has befallen you now, Lord Bast?” Szed asked. He set his book down gently on the table.

  Bast let out an exasperated huff, his face flushed with frustration. He jabbed a finger at the paper, which revealed neat, meticulous handwriting now marred by the red ink scrawled boldly at the top: 67% circled with a hurried flourish.

  “A sixty-seven percent on my first paper in the Economics of Inter-Crown Trade! This just isn’t going to do!” Bast declared, his voice rising for all to hear. He turned his gaze towards the wider mess hall and the surrounding recruits conveniently found their meals more interesting than the lordling. “I will need you back at my side at the Royal Academy, as my trusted retainer. Without your wise guidance, I am clearly lost.”

  Szed sighed, picking up his book again with deliberate calm. “You know that is not wise. You or a retainer in your stead must attend Brightwash Military Academy, and because you are the second-born son, it makes sense for you to attend the Royal Academy.”

  Bast opened his mouth to argue, words stumbling over themselves before he exhaled in defeat. “You’re right,” he muttered, slumping into the seat beside Szed with the exaggerated weight of his supposed suffering. Without hesitation, he snatched Szed’s fork, spearing a bite of the mostly untouched food on his plate.

  He chewed once. His face contorted in horror. He forced the bite down with visible effort, dropping the fork as if it burned him. “This is what they feed you here?”

  Mags, mid-bite, raised an eyebrow. She found the food decent enough—hearty, filling, and best of all, free. After years of scraping together meals in Solstice and relying on her own talents to feed herself and the other orphans, she wasn’t about to complain. She swallowed her mouthful with a shrug.

  “Could be worse,” she said, stabbing another piece of roasted root vegetable with enthusiasm.

  Bast looked at her like she’d just confessed to enjoying gravel. He placed a long finger on the top of Szed’s book, gently pushing it down as he leaned forward to meet the Laanian man’s eyes. “And you’re sure you wouldn’t be happier back at the Royal Academy, at my side?”

  Szed, unbothered, placed his book back down, picked up his fork again and resumed eating with a rebellious bite of meat. “I am sure, my Lord. As much as it pains me.”

  Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit.

  Bast leaned back in his chair, his legs sprawling out carelessly as he dramatically threw a hand over his chest. “You wound me, Szed! Even though I know you suffer just as much as I do.”

  Mags just stared. This man is ridiculous. Are there any nobles who are normal?

  She took another bite of her dinner before waving her fork at the newcomer—Bast—before asking, around a mouthful of food, “And you’re a lord of some kind?”

  Bast looked towards Mags, as if only just realizing she had been there the entire time. He smiled politely and jabbed a finger towards himself. “Bast Lorenz, a petty lordling from Olendar,” he announced with a grin that could rival the sun for arrogance. “The pettiest lordling you’ll find, in fact!”

  Szed didn’t even look up from his plate. “This petty lordling is heir to the Olenish throne. One step away from being one of the sixteen most powerful people in all of the Thirteen Crowns not named Emperor Archaemeneus.”

  Mags nearly choked on her food, coughing into her fist as the words settled over her like an ill-fitting cloak. How many heirs to thrones could be packed into the same school? She swallowed, forcing down both the bite of dinner and her incredulity.

  Instead of voicing the dozen questions piling in her mind, she managed, “And you’re not in the Military Academy for a particular reason?”

  Bast’s cheekbones darkened with a faint flush, though his grin didn’t falter. “That’s a little rude, don’t you think? Shouldn’t you at least take me to a nice dinner, maybe a few bottle of fine Ravaelian wine, before asking those kinds of questions?”

  Szed sighed, his patience stretched thin but intact. “The first-born son in the royal line of succession to Olendar does not enter into military service. Nor does he inherit the family’s Sheyd contracts. Those obligations fall to the second son. It was a result of a power struggle and near coup by the Olenish nobles generations ago, meant to separate the powers of the crown.”

  Mags frowned, recalling dusty lessons with Libicocco, vague memories of political intrigue woven into dry history texts. Bast, noticing the flicker of recognition in her eyes, pointed at her with sudden enthusiasm.

  “You should know that, being clearly Olenish yourself.”

  Now it was Mags’ turn to flush, the heat rising uninvited to her face. Her grip tightened around her fork, but before words could escape, Szed interjected smoothly.

  “Not everyone is interested in the affairs of nobility, Bast. In fact, most people aren’t.”

  Bast huffed, clearly not used to being dismissed so easily. But rather than pressing the issue, he shifted gears with practiced ease.

  “Anyway,” he drawled, pushing the crumpled, bleeding paper closer to Szed, “you’re going to help me fix this, Szed? I can’t very well go into the exam looking like an absolute idiot.”

  Szed nodded, sliding the paper closer with the same resigned acceptance one might show a persistent stray cat.

  The two leaned in, their heads close over the scribbled notes and red-circled numbers, leaving Mags to observe, her meal forgotten as she watched the peculiar dance of royalty, retainer, and the strange web of connections she’d somehow stepped into.

  The mess hall’s low hum of voices rose and fell like the tide, punctuated by the occasional clatter of cutlery on tin trays. Mags sat opposite Bast and Szed, her tray now half-empty, while the two poured over Bast’s crumpled paper, debating the finer points of inter-crown trade economics.

  The doors to the mess hall creaked open, and in stumbled Galiel, his uniform rumpled, hair plastered to his forehead with sweat. Edvard trailed behind, looking slightly more composed but equally exhausted. Galiel’s face lit up with mock betrayal as he spotted Mags.

  “Well, well, well,” Galiel said, dramatically collapsing into the seat beside Bast without waiting for an invitation. “Looks like Mags has upgraded her friends while we were being murdered on the Training Field.”

  Edvard slipped quietly into the seat beside Mags, his usual reserved demeanor intact. He only shrugged in response to Galiel’s complaint, reaching for the cup of water Mags had refilled earlier.

  “I wouldn’t call it an upgrade,” Mags replied dryly, glancing at Bast with a half-smirk. “More like an unfortunate coincidence.”

  Bast raised an eyebrow, unfazed. “Charmed, I’m sure.”

  Galiel leaned forward, grinning. “Galiel Cantor, at your service. And this is Edvard of Manneregio.”

  “Bast Lorenz,” Bast replied, his mouth twisting into a crooked smile, “a petty lordling from Olendar.”

  Szed didn’t even glance up from the paper.

  Galiel, unsurprisingly, was unphased and easily transitioned into conversation, asking what Bast and Szed were busy poring over. As they delved into Bast’s academic woes, the conversation flowed more easily, bridging gaps between recruits and royalty, commoners and heirs alike. Mags interjected every one in a while, but largely just soaked in the warm buzz that surrounded the table.

  Officially halfway through boot camp, and she was pleased with how things were going. I thought this place was going to push me, try and break me. She didn’t let the feeling of comfort and confidence settle into her body too deeply.