Simur Academy of War, Nafrat Asharim, Amram - Ikhael 11, 1717 A.N. - Morning

  The automobile's engine ticked as it cooled, settling into silence after the long journey from his father's estate. Mordekhai stepped out onto gravel that crunched under his boots—crushed limestone mixed with harder stone. He closed the door, the polished metal still warm, and breathed out.

  Olive blossoms. Morning dew on the grass that needed cutting. Stone warming in the early sunlight, smelling like baked earth before the heat set in. Spring had finally come to the northern reaches of Amram, and with it, the start of a new term at Simur Academy of War.

  The golden Simurgh blazed above the iron gates, a colossal queen of birds with wings spread wide in eternal flight and a serpentine neck arched in regal majesty. Morning light glinted off the metalwork, making it almost painful to look at. Mordekhai adjusted his pack’s strap, its weight increased by the extra manuals his father had insisted were essential.

  The courtyard churned with bodies. First-years gawked at everything, their uniforms still crisp and unmarked, whilst older students called out to friends across the chaos. The cobblestones hummed beneath Mordekhai’s boots with the restless energy of hundreds of feet—eager, harmless. An instructor at the center of the courtyard was trying to impose order on entropy itself.

  He straightened his jacket out of habit, fingers finding and correcting the alignment of buttons without conscious thought. His amber eyes swept the crowd, categorizing faces, discarding strangers. Too many unfamiliar faces, too much noise pressing in from all sides.

  “Mordy! About time you showed up!”

  There. West side, near the olive trees. Yonatan lounged against the trunk as if he owned it, somehow looking both elegant and dishevelled. That was a skill, really—how did someone maintain such precise carelessness? His ash-brown hair looked careless, his tie already askew despite the hour. Mordekhai glanced at the bell tower. The opening ceremony would not begin for another hour.

  A weight lifted from his chest. The faces were familiar, the voices friendly. It felt normal.

  He crossed the courtyard, weaving between clusters of students. Being tall helped in crowds like these. Being obviously different complicated things: bronze skin darker than most, black hair that refused to cooperate with any amount of oil, and these cursed amber eyes that drew stares.

  “You here, this early?” Mordekhai grasped Yonatan’s offered hand. Firm grip, easy smile. The same greeting they’d exchanged a hundred times.

  “Please. I arrived not long before you, which makes me fashionably early.” Yonatan’s grin sharpened. “So. Did you have fun over break, or did you train yourself into the ground?”

  Before Mordekhai could answer, a familiar voice cut in. “Oh, let me guess. He trained every single day, probably before sunrise, and is now going to say it was ‘recreational.’”

  A girl approached, her golden ponytail swaying as she walked. She looked at them like a teacher catching students in a lie, emerald eyes sharp with something that might have been amusement, and somehow, despite being shorter than both of them, he was the one being looked down upon. She had his mother’s trick—the one that made even his father straighten his uniform before speaking.

  “It was relaxing.” He said, “Some people enjoy discipline, Elisha.”

  “Some people are also tremendously boring,” she replied, and the teasing lost its edge. “Please tell me you at least went to one party.”

  Formal dining room. His father at the head of the table, distant family members questioning why he was eating with them whilst servants cleared courses in perfect silence. “I … attended a formal dinner.”

  Yonatan groaned as if Mordekhai had wounded him. “We’re fixing your social life this year.”

  “My social life is perfectly adequate—”

  “You have us,” Elisha interrupted, “and perhaps two or three other people you talk to.”

  Mordekhai mentally counted: Yonatan, Elisha, a third-year—now fourth-year—girl who sometimes sparred with him, and … He stopped counting. All right. Perhaps she had a point.

  They moved across the courtyard, everything falling into comfortable patterns. Yonatan complained about his boring break, and Elisha teased them both. Mordekhai hadn’t missed freedom during the break. He’d missed this.

  The thought barely had time to settle.

  Loud voices by the fountain disrupted his meeting. The wrong kind of noise. Mordekhai’s magical senses flared, his awareness extending through the cobblestones below. He felt the vibrations of countless boots on stone, a palpable tension rippling through the crowd as he turned toward the commotion.

  A small crowd had gathered. The wrong crowd, the watching kind that formed around accidents or fights or public humiliation.

  A haughty voice carried across the courtyard, the vowels shaped in a way that announced nobility louder than anything.

  His jaw tightened, brow furrowing. He recognized that brand of noble disdain.

  Through the gaps in the crowd, he could see two male cadets standing over a girl with violet eyes and chestnut-brown hair pulled back in a ponytail. The style that said function over fashion.

  “My acceptance to this academy stands regardless of my family’s current status,” the girl replied, her voice steady despite being outnumbered, despite the crowd watching. Her eyes blazed with defiance he’d seen before—the look of someone refusing to bend even when bending might be wiser. “I earned my entrance.”

  “Earned?” The taller boy laughed, the sound ugly and performative, playing to the crowd. “Your family earned disgrace. And now you parade about as if you still belong amongst nobility.”

  Mordekhai’s hands clenched.

  The girl wasn’t backing down. They were feeding off each other’s aggression. And the crowd was growing, drawn by the spectacle like moths to a flame.

  “Oh, by the holy flames,” Elisha muttered beside him. “It’s the first day. Can’t they save the posturing for after the ceremony?”

  Yonatan sighed, the sound carrying genuine weariness. “Those are Kedron’s boys.”

  New nobility. Always so boisterous. Mordekhai had witnessed this before, having experienced it himself, though in different circumstances.

  The crowd grew denser, drawn by the promise of drama, their collective weight cramping them like a tightening noose. Mordekhai watched the girl; she held herself with striking dignity. Her uniform was immaculate, her posture impeccable, as if she were a noble of some sort. Her feet remained perfectly still, never once wavering.

  One boy cackled. “Look at her. Those eyes.” He made a warding gesture with two fingers. “Cursed. No wonder her house fell.”

  The crowd offered no argument; that’s what Mordekhai observed. People looked away, their gazes finding other places to rest. A few even shifted back a half-step, their weight settling differently on the cobblestones—a subtle posture he’d learned to interpret long before he could even name it.

  “You ought to go to whatever lesser academy will take fallen nobility,” the second boy sneered, stepping closer. Aggressive posture, attempting intimidation. “This institution maintains standards, not dark-marked pretenders.”

  “The only standard being violated here is common decency.” The girl didn’t give ground. Brave or foolish, though Mordekhai couldn’t tell which. "Though I'm afraid expecting that from those whose father purchased his title in a single battle, whilst presuming to lecture families who have bled for generations, is rather asking too much."

  The taller boy’s face flushed crimson.

  This wasn’t about to turn violent. Probably. The academy had strict rules about fighting, and these boys seemed like the type to care about consequences. But the scene was blocking the entire walkway, drawing more attention, creating the spectacle that could set the tone for the entire term.

  It was too early for drama.

  Mordekhai sighed, decided, then stepped into the circle.

  “Pardon me,” he said mildly. “You’re blocking the walkway.”

  The two boys turned to him, their expressions showing only confusion—who was this person interrupting their performance? Then recognition flickered. That look. The one Mordekhai knew too well. The one that said foreign, even though nobody spoke it aloud.

  “This doesn’t concern you,” the taller one said, his voice cracking slightly on ‘concern.’

  “Actually, it does,” Mordekhai replied, his tone maintaining the same pleasant reasonableness—calm, unruffled, and maddeningly polite. It was the tone his father adopted with difficult subordinates. “You see, the ceremony starts in thirty minutes, and you’re creating a bottleneck. Some of us would like to secure our room assignments before all the desirable ones are taken.”

  “Do you know who we are?” The second boy puffed up like an offended pigeon. Did they teach that posture somewhere?

  “An inconvenience.” Mordekhai said. “Look, whatever this concerns, perhaps save it for after we’ve all secured our schedules. The instructors become rather irritable when the registration queue backs up.”

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  Mordekhai had witnessed it last year. Cranky instructors meant extra assignments, which meant less free time.

  The girl gave him a sharp look. Her jaw remained tight, hands still clenched at her sides. Her shadow moved in waves.

  Before anyone could react, a familiar voice made Mordekhai stifle a groan.

  "By the Holy Flames." He recognized that cultivated drawl, the kind that made insults sound like observations.

  A boy glided into view as if he were entering society. Silver hair—impossible to miss—styled to absolute perfection. Despite the morning breeze, not a single hair was out of place. Pale blue eyes surveyed the scene like a theater critic watching amateur performers, looking both bored and amused.

  Exactly what this situation needed. More nobles with opinions.

  “The term hasn’t even started, and we’re already dealing with drama,” the boy sighed, as if reality’s poor timing was a personal inconvenience. “I suppose when the academy starts accepting anyone with a pulse, standards are bound to drop.”

  Mordekhai’s jaw tightened.

  “Ezra,” he said flatly.

  “Dodven.” Cousin. The familial term twisted into something cold, each letter enunciated with perfect disdain. “How delightful to see you playing peacemaker this time. Though perhaps your time would be better spent ensuring your own registration? I’d hate for there to be any … complications with your status.”

  There it was. The reminder, the implication hanging in the air like smoke: that Mordekhai’s position here had once been precarious, subject to “administrative review.” That certain people had questioned whether a foreign boy belonged at an Amric academy of war, regardless of his father’s endorsement.

  His hands wanted to clench. He kept them relaxed through sheer force of will.

  “How thoughtful of you to worry,” he replied, matching Ezra’s dry tone. “I shall manage.”

  “Oh, I’m quite sure you will,” Ezra said, his perfect smile widening to reveal his teeth. “You’re remarkably adept at... managing.” His eyes swept over the assembled crowd. “Honestly, all this fuss over registration. When I joined the academy, we handled these matters with far more dignity.”

  “Everything was so much better,” he adjusted an imaginary wrinkle in his uniform, a gesture so theatrical it was painful to watch. “Before certain... elements were introduced.” His gaze settled on Mordekhai and the new girl.

  The girl with violet eyes stepped forward. Brave. Foolish but brave. “If you have something to say regarding my presence here, say it directly.”

  “My dear, I shouldn’t dream of it.” Ezra’s tone suggested he was addressing a child. “Though I do wonder—what precisely are the admission standards these days? They welcome a feral boy who thinks he can be like us, and now a branded fallen noble. One must ask what the institution is becoming.”

  His gaze drifted between them, slow and almost bored.

  “A collection of charity cases, it would seem.”

  The cobblestones shifted slightly under his boots, a brief pressure that wasn’t the wind. He pressed his heel down, and it stopped.

  A sharp whistle cut through the air. Mordekhai flinched along with several other students.

  “All right, break it up!” Two academy guards pushed through the crowd, their expressions carrying the weariness of people who’d dealt with this exact scenario a thousand times before. “Everyone move! Now!”

  The crowd dispersed with the guilty shuffle of students caught misbehaving. The two boys who’d started the confrontation slunk away, shooting dark looks over their shoulders. Cowards. All performance, no substance.

  Ezra lingered—of course he did—just long enough to deliver a parting shot. “Do enjoy the opening ceremony, everyone.” His smile turned razor-sharp, cruel in its precision.

  With that, he glided away, leaving an atmosphere of general irritation in his wake.

  “Charming as ever,” Yonatan muttered. “How are you related to him again?”

  They shared no familial connection, at least not a biological one.

  She turned to face them. The shadows at her feet had deepened—a subtle shift in density, unrelated to the sun’s angle. Chin high, shoulders back, every line of her embodied the very image of nobility.

  “I did not request your intervention,” she said. Her voice was steady.

  “And I did not offer it.” Mordekhai kept his tone neutral. “I simply want to pass.”

  She observed him briefly, her violet gaze keen and analytical. What was she looking for? Mockery? Pity? She gave a curt nod and walked away without another word.

  “Friendly,” Elisha said dryly.

  “Can you blame her?” Yonatan said. “First day and she’s already getting hassled.”

  Mordekhai felt a familiar distaste settle in his stomach like spoiled food. Being hassled

  They joined the stream of students filing into the ceremonial hall. Voices echoed off high walls decorated with frescoes of ancient heroes, battles Mordekhai had studied, campaigns he’d memorized, victories that felt distant and almost mythological.

  The vast space filled quickly. He’d always appreciated this hall’s grandeur: the soaring domed ceiling that made voices carry in strange ways, the banners bearing the academy’s golden Simurgh, the way sunlight streamed through tall windows to illuminate gathered students in columns of light. It felt like being part of something larger than himself, important. Something that mattered.

  Hundreds of bodies settling into seats, the murmur of feet finding places.

  They sat together on the left side, mid-hall, in the third-year area. Mordekhai took a seat at the end—it offered an easier exit, a better view of the stage, and less chance of being hemmed in if he needed to leave. He settled in as the faculty members, clad in their academic robes, processed onto the stage. He spotted several reporters positioned around the periphery, notebooks open and cameras ready. Apparently, the new headmaster was newsworthy enough to draw media attention.

  “Think he’ll give one of those inspiring ‘new era’ speeches?” Yonatan whispered.

  “Definitely,” Elisha whispered back. “Ten shamerim if he uses the word ‘excellence’ at least five times.”

  “You’re on. I’m betting on ‘tradition.’” Yonatan said back.

  Their muted wagering silenced as the headmaster took the stage.

  Yosef kah Asher was not what Mordekhai had expected. Previous headmasters had been scholarly types: soft hands, reading glasses, the kind of men who’d spent their careers in libraries and offices. Or political appointees who’d earned their positions through connections rather than competence.

  Kah Asher looked like he’d walked straight off a battlefield. Broad-shouldered and imposing, he had iron-grey hair cut military short—no style, no artistry, pure function. His face might have been carved from granite, all hard angles and weathered lines, and his dark eyes swept the assembled students with an intensity that silenced the cheerful chatter.

  Mordekhai felt his spine straighten. Military instinct. The recognition of a superior officer, even before any words were spoken.

  “Welcome.” A single word. Simple. But the way he said it carried a weight that made his hands clench in his lap.

  Around him, the hall had gone absolutely still. Even the reporters had stopped rustling their notebooks.

  When Asher spoke, his voice carried with no shouting—the commanding presence that made silence itself feel like an order.

  “For nearly a decade, Simur has been a finishing school for aristocrats. A place where wealthy families send their children to acquire officer commissions through attendance rather than merit.”

  The shock radiated through the hall. Nobody spoke to the nobility like this. Nobody criticized the academy’s benefactors openly.

  Several faculty members shifted in their seats behind him. Uncomfortable.

  Elisha went rigid beside Mordekhai. On his other side, Yonatan’s perpetual smirk disappeared.

  “That ends today.” He paused. Heavy, absolute. “This academy was founded to produce people capable of defending this nation. Not officers or aristocrats playing at military service.”

  The headmaster’s hands rested on the podium, his posture radiating calm certainty. “Some of you are here because your families arranged it. Because your name opened doors and wealth purchased opportunities.” He paused. “None of that matters anymore. Noble or commoner, wealthy or poor—you are all cadets. You will all be judged by the same measure: your capability as soldiers.”

  Mordekhai's jaw tightened. The words felt like a direct jab aimed at him—the foreign boy adopted into nobility.

  The students exchanged worried glances as the comfortable certainty of their positions suddenly became uncertain.

  “For those returning,” Asher’s gaze found the second, third, and fourth-year sections, “things are different now. Your family connections will not protect you from failure. You will prove yourselves worthy, or you will be dismissed. There are no exceptions.”

  The silence had become suffocating.

  “For those who joined us this year,” Asher’s attention shifted to the first-years, “understand what you have entered. You will be pushed beyond what you believe are your limits. You will learn what it means to be in the military—not the romanticized version, the reality. Some of you will discover you are not suited for service. Better to learn it here than on a battlefield where lives depend on your competence.”

  Mordekhai’s nails dug into his palms.

  “You’ll learn to both take orders and give them, how to perform under pressure, and how to make tough calls when there are no simple answers,” Asher’s gaze swept across them.

  The hall grew colder. A desperate urge to scream something, anything, welled up inside Mordekhai, but he couldn’t quite grasp what it was. Was it anxiety? Doubt? Fear?

  “This nation needs defenders who are competent, disciplined, and committed to something larger than themselves. Whether you become those defenders depends entirely on your ability to meet the standards required. Your family name cannot do it for you. Your wealth cannot purchase it.”

  The headmaster straightened, his hands leaving the podium. Absolute stillness in his stance. Not relaxed—controlled.

  “Rise to meet these standards and become what this nation needs, or fail. There is no middle ground. Either you are capable, or you are not.”

  Absolute. No room for anything in between.

  He paused, and a thin, cold smile flickered across his face.

  “I expect many of you will leave, either by choice or by failure. Better a smaller number of capable soldiers than a large number of incompetent officers.”

  The silence stretched. No one moved.

  “Welcome, newcomers, to Simur Academy,” Asher stated, his tone carrying a hint of wry amusement beneath its stern surface. “And to those who have returned … welcome back. Training begins tomorrow at dawn. I suggest you rest well tonight. You will need it.”

  He stepped back from the podium.

  There were no inspiring closing remarks. No stirring call to unity or reassurance that they’d get through this together. Just the cold certainty of new standards they might not meet.

  The faculty began filing off the stage. Slowly, like waking from a nightmare, the students stirred. Whispers started, low and uncertain. The eager chatter from before the ceremony had vanished completely. Camera flashes popped. But the noise washed over Mordekhai like waves he couldn’t quite hear through the ringing in his ears.

  The headmaster’s words lingered, each a palpable weight, settling into place like pieces of armor strapped on, plate by plate, until breathing became difficult.

  The cheerful academy morning, the reunion, the banter, the comfortable familiarity, suddenly felt very far away.

  As they filed out with the other students, the atmosphere had changed. Where before there’d been eager chatter about classes and dormitories and who was rooming with whom, now students walked in small, muted groups. Expressions thoughtful and troubled, like moths who’d just seen the candle snuffed, still trying to process what had gone dark.

  They emerged into sunlight that seemed too bright. Harsh after the ceremony, the halls filtered dimness.

  “Did anyone else know he was a Darnor?” Elisha squinted against the glare.

  “I heard the rumors,” Yonatan admitted. “But I figured it was just … noise. Didn’t think he’d turn out to be an actual Regional High Command officer.”

  Mordekhai stopped and looked up at the academy’s emblem—the golden Simurgh fluttering on its flag above them. “This year will differ from anything we’re used to.”

  The morning air was still perfumed with olive blossoms, though the sweetness had become almost overwhelming. Spring had arrived at Simur Academy, bringing with it the certainty that everything was about to change.